Through a sea of mud to dry land

The road not taken -- I've been seeing lots of references lately to the great Robert Frost poem. The funny thing is, it's a road, an experience we never know, but can only wonder about. The only roads we know are the ones we've taken.
Ah, don't worry, I'm not going to go all philosophical and mushy on you. But I can't help wonder whether I'd have ended up with drier, cleaner feet the other day had I taken a different path. That's about as deep as I'm willing to go.
We'd changed our hiking habits, our dog and me, since Sam started developing welts around his eyes. The first one, a big, shiny, reddish-looking bump, came out on his upper eyelid. It didn't seem to bother him, but the rest of us were fretting over it.
He and I are ordinarily out on mountain trails every day, and I've been finding the horse flies, or deer flies or whatever, are out in full force this year. They dive-bomb my head. I wear a cap, but still, one will eventually light on the back of my head and try to burrow under the hair to take a chunk out of me.
So when Sam's bump receded, then right away he got another one, I realized it was the flies getting him. It was like that: one after another, some bad, some not so bad.
Again, it didn't seem to bother him the way it bothered us. "The poor guy," I remarked to Tessa and Shunda one day, "he looks like he's been abused."
I decided we would stay away from the trails for a week or two and take our walks in the open fields and back roads. Usually there's enough breeze to challenge the average fly.
Over hill and dale, it was pleasant-enough going. Then where a border of trees and thickets lay between two sections of meadow, I tried to spy the best way through. Rather than go through the thicker brush, I crouched beneath the lower limbs of some spruce trees to get to the other side.
What was hidden to me: this back end of the field wasn't the pleasant lea I'd expected. I waded into a forest of tall grass and rather swampy ground, a stark contrast a bit like stepping through the looking glass. I tried to peer over the tassels to the more solid, drier earth with grass and clover. Hard to tell, but it couldn't be far, so I trucked on.
The grass was taller than me. It was no problem for Sam, who leapt about and found just about every square inch of mud and grass of interest.
The vegetation grew on tiny mounds -- bound together by the root mass, I suppose. In between them was just a silty mud. I was wearing an old pair of runners, which, cleverly, I hadn't yet thrown out. But I tried to step from one little grass mound to the next.
The thought of turning back, of course, never occurred to me.
Eventually, the mounds got farther and farther apart. They were more of a jump than a step. Despite holding on to the grass strands to steady myself, it was impossible not to slip off into the mud. I explained to Sam that if I ended up mired in quicksand, he was not to run for help, but to haul me out.
A bit like judging the distance as you swim to shore, it was farther than I thought. Eventually I made it though. When I got to dry ground I fell to my knees and embraced the earth, sobbing for joy. Actually, it wasn't all that dramatic, but you folks pay your money and you expect a story.
I looked back at the giant grass and mused, 'Must be a lot of nutrients in that silt. I wonder if I should gather a little potful sometime and see what it can grow.' But it was a very brief thought.
So there you go: that's one road I'd just as soon not have taken. I'm pretty sure I won't again. There's often a good reason why we don't follow some of them.