As that dusty old knight in the third Indiana Jones movie said…”He chose, poorly.”

Sinking into the quagmire you will see not one, but both of my tennis shoes, shoelaces deep in the finest loam Illinois has to offer.

It all started with what I deemed a pretty simple task, photographing a retention pond in Sterling. The pond, located between the back side of the Northland Mall and Lynn Boulevard, wasn’t accessible from the Lynn side. Parking in the back lot of the mall, I concluded I could make my way through a small bank of trees for a clear view of the pond.

Getting through the thicket mostly unscathed, I came upon a meandering creek. Now a young photographer could have leapt over this obstacle with nary a problem but, since there wasn’t one around, I chose to simply traverse the waterway with the hope I could remove my foot with lightning quick reflexes so as to minimize mud and or water damage.

Scrambling up the other bank, I had one very muddy shoe but it was at least still firmly attached to my foot.

The show must go on, so I got my shots and decided a different route back might be in order. I found what seemed to me a much more gradual slope down to the creek and back up the other side.

Now anyone who has watched cartoons as much as Gen X did as kids has been preparing their whole life for the inevitable sinking into quicksand (we are also well aware that anvils routinely fall from the sky and gravity only exists a moment after you realize you have stepped off a cliff).

After planting foot one and sinking up to my ankle, I planted foot two. After I wrenched my first foot out I had left behind the all-important sneaker. “Fudge,” I probably said.

But the worst is ov…..ugh. Yeah, shoe two yanked off my foot like it was starting a lawnmower, and dang near disappeared into the muck. In stocking feet (of course I was wearing white socks this day) I continue my odyssey through the muddy thicket, hoping to not step on broken glass or chunks of concrete that would send me to tetanus town.

I emerged - shoeless, dirty, lugging two cameras and a pair of mud-covered Mizunos, with burrs on my pants, white socks dyed a natural brown and a reflection of the last 20 minutes.

“He chose, poorly.”