For many years, I have been fascinated by trails on the mud flats. The paths made by those who go digging for worms and clams always caught my eye.

In our early days on Barter's Island, we'd watch our neighbor Abbie head off during low tide with her basket to go periwinklin' along the edges of the shore.

Sometimes we'd see her, and others, gracefully searching a little beyond the rocks for mussels and maybe a clam or two.

That's when I began to notice the patterns left on the flats.

Once, in a rush of curiosity, I thought I'd give digging a try.

It could be a way to gather a little free food from the ocean without the help of a boat. It seemed like a good idea.

With a pair of oversized, hand-me-down, slip-on rubber boots and a cast off laundry basket, I headed for an area where I'd seen folks digging.

It was within walking distance of the house, so I could cut through the woods and down old roads without anyone seeing me.

I imagined our neighbors, the Burnhams and Barters, having quite a good laugh at the sight of me trudging along with a steel toothed garden rake over my shoulder heading into the woods. Mitchell's lost it … again!

I got five steps out onto the mud, walked right out of my boots and fell over.

Sometimes what appears to be quite simple is not.

We did without a much-anticipated harvest from the sea as I tried to recover from my less than stellar attempt at digging for our dinner.

The trails out onto the mud flats still fascinate me, as long as they are made by the professionals and not me.