My Take Tuesday: Salt Grass and Alkali

I was raised on a farm in the small town of Castle Dale, Utah.

Summers were filled with the busiest of days… days marked by the near-constant changing of water. These long, sunburned afternoons were spent tending alfalfa fields and pastures just south of town. The rhythm was simple: set a tarp dam in the main ditch to turn the water, open each furrow by hand, watch until the flow ran true and even… then move on and do it again. There was a quiet satisfaction in it… watching water find its path, knowing you had a hand in it.

On this day, I finished a water change and found myself in a hurry to get home. I don’t remember why. Maybe it was dinner. Maybe it was nothing at all. But I remember the feeling… that urgency that convinces you shortcuts are smarter than patience.

That field stretched wide… a full square mile… and right through the middle of it ran a drainage ditch. Now, anyone who has spent time in Emery County knows what that means. Alkali. Salt grass. The kind of ground that looks solid…but it isn’t.

The wise path was to walk the perimeter.

But wisdom wasn’t what I chose that day.

Instead, with a shovel slung over my shoulder and a confidence far greater than my experience, I stepped straight toward the swamp.

I had a bit of an arrogant swagger about me. It was, after all, just a few yards of marshland. I’d seen worse. I’d handled more.

Or so I thought.

I took two steps.

Just two.

And in that instant, the land reminded me who was in charge.

The mud swallowed my boots like they had never belonged to me. The brine was thick, black, and foul-smelling…. alive with mosquitoes and deerflies that rose in clouds as if they had been waiting just for me. I tried to shift my weight, to pull free, but every movement sank me deeper.

Panic has a way of arriving quickly.

I drove my shovel into the mud, searching for something… anything… solid to push against. But there was no bottom. The shovel disappeared just as quickly as my confidence had.

That’s when instinct took over.

I pulled my feet free from my boots just as the muck began to pour over the top. I didn’t save the boots. I saved myself.

I emerged from that swamp covered in mud, bitten, soaked, and more humbled than I had been in a long time.

And then came the walk.

A long, quiet, barefoot walk in nothing but wet socks… each step squishing with a reminder of the decision I had just made. Everything was completely silent. Just the rhythmic sound of my wet feet… and time enough to think.

I made it back to my truck. I felt dejected, embarrassed… and very grateful to be out of that mud.

That same summer, a cow wandered into that very swamp.

She didn’t make it out.

And that has never left me.

Because what felt like a harmless shortcut to me… was something far more dangerous than I had understood.

There are moments in life where the lesson is immediate, uncomfortable, and unforgettable. This was one of them.

Every choice we make… no matter how small it seems… carries weight.

Some choices simply cost us a pair of boots and a little pride.

Others cost far more.

The truth is consequences are not optional. They are not negotiable. They follow every decision we make… faithfully and without exception.

That day in a swamp in Emery County, I learned something I have carried with me ever since:

The path around the perimeter may be longer… but it is often safer.

And shortcuts… especially the ones fueled by impatience or pride… have a way of teaching lessons we don’t soon forget.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM