The Last Mosquito

If you think you are too small to make a difference you have never spent the night with a mosquito. -  African Proverb

On our way back through the Midwest last summer, heading toward Michigan for my parents’ 50^th anniversary, we drove through northern Wisconsin and visited one of sea kayaking’s holy grails, The Apostle Islands National Lakeshore.  We’ve been out on Lake Superior before and know that the big lake demands respect at any time of year, but we didn’t know what to expect in terms of wildlife.  

Let me just say that impressive isn’t the word for it.  I’m not talking moose, deer, or even bear, though the National Park Service did shut down Sand Island the night after we left it because of an all too curious male black bear.  We didn’t get to experience his curiosity first hand, but the story goes that he waltzed into camp the night before we arrived, ate some poor paddler’s food and promptly washed it down with a whole can of bug spray – perhaps his palate was still too raw from that culinary concoction to come poking around again so soon.  No, it wasn’t bears that got my attention.  

As we set up camp on Sand Island we noticed small clouds lifting off the wet grass and reforming around our heads, giving off that special frequency which causes the same visceral reaction to all bi-peds, running and swatting.  Our Ultimate Bug Shirts, made in Canada by folks who know mosquitoes, had just paid for themselves yet again in terms of our sanity.  Usually, I try to deal with bugs using the milkshake method -- you know what you do with a milkshake, right?  Just suck it up.  But there are times when they come out in numbers that can only be described in biblical terms, and even the most seasoned outdoorsman is going to go running for mesh netting.  

After making dinner at the far end of the dock, as far away from the vegetative cover of these little biters, we put together our plan for getting in the tent, and staying there.  The trick is to keep moving and to open the zipper for just enough time to get you and whatever stuff you need inside.  Shari ran a circle maneuver around the tent while I quickly opened the door, then I ran around once or twice trying to give them the slip and jumped in while she worked the zipper from the inside.  Once inside we went on a psychotic killing rampage to deal with all the others who hitched a ride on our clothing, our hair, whatever.  If you can do this dance of the mosquito, and figure out how to pee in a bottle, you and the mosquitoes can reach some sort of separate peace where you can get some sleep and they can hang out under the rain fly and beat their nose against the mesh trying to get in.  

I can certainly understand why state legislatures won’t ever choose the mosquito as the official state anything, though they clearly outnumber birds, mammals, reptiles, and anything else moving around on 6 legs or less.  Who wants to be known for the small clouds of blood lusting Anopheles which hang over the camping areas on some of the bigger islands?  I can see the ad campaigns now…”Come to the Apostles!  Bring your bug suit!”  This isn’t the usual draw for kayakers, though if you need motivation to move quickly from breakfast to paddling, I can hardly think of better.  

We slept through the night.  No hiking to the lighthouse for us today…let’s get on the water.  Though the mirror-like conditions we cruised through yesterday had turned to 2-4 foot swells, we got ourselves off of that infested spot and 4 miles across a channel to a more peaceful camp.  Our destination was Key Island, a smaller sand bar with no inland ponds or other standing water so we were spared any greeting from the local wildlife, though we were treated to a spicy surf landing thanks to the sea state.  

 

Yes, to all of you unfamiliar with the power of the Great Lakes, Lake Superior should really be referred to as a “sea.”  At almost 32,000 square miles, 500 feet deep, and barely above freezing in late June, it’s one of the largest bodies of fresh water in the world.  The waves serve up a challenge to ocean-going vessels, and can ruin the day of any paddler who underestimates “the Boss,” as the locals refer to it.  Remember the tale of the Edmund Fitzgerald sung so eloquently by Gordon Lightfoot?  You don't? You should.  In a nut shell, she was a big ship, bigger than most, and here’s where she went down in an early November storm.

After our landing on Key, the Boss went on holiday and we spent the next two days frolicking on the beach, taking photos, collecting firewood, burying each other in sand and enjoying the first hot shower we’d had since Gillette, Wyoming -- thanks to the solar camp shower, which actually worked surprisingly well.  We paddled to a few more islands, toured a lighthouse built in 1907, and tried to catch our tailwind in an improvised sail.  It was a near mosquito-free bliss.  That is, until we got back on the road heading east.  

We crossed into Michigan, the U.P. (Upper Peninsula, which most folks from Michigan forget about and have never visited.)  In typical fashion, we found the national forest on our atlas and headed for it, thinking we might find an easy place to park for the night.  We were not disappointed.  Just a few miles into Hiawatha National Forest, we found a side road that had the right feel, followed it to the river and located an excellent parking spot in a lovely clearing.  There was even a fire ring to one side.  

We backed into place patting ourselves on the back for such a sweet find.  As I shut down the engine, we noticed a gang of flying blood suckers bouncing off the windshield and gathering around the truck in a frighteningly large cloud.  Apparently the states of Michigan and Wisconsin are in some sort of mosquito claiming competition, either that or mosquitoes have no respect for geopolitical borders.  “Holy shit!,” came out of my mouth and something about needing to repeat the tent drill with the trailer.  We dove inside, closed the door and immediately began killing anything that came in with us.  After about 5 minutes it looked like we were in the clear, the mosquitoes bounced off the screen in flying insect frustration.  I even taunted them as they banged their little heads against our mesh, but we’d soon see who had the last laugh.

As we went to bed we found a few more floating about and though we were quick to dispatch each one when found, another would take the place of its fallen comrade.  Another quick seek and destroy mission would do the trick,or so I thought.  It didn’t dawn on me that they had found a way past our screens and into the trailer until the sixth time I was awakened by another bugger biting my face or whining in my ear.  No matter our defenses we were outnumbered exponentially.  They continued to send in small raiding parties wherever they found a gap, as soon as I would plug one, they would find another.  Eventually we donned our bug shirts just so we could get some sleep.  Let me repeat that, we put our bug shirts on INSIDE the trailer.  The mosquitoes kept coming.

I lack words to describe what I saw as we woke in the morning.  We’d run the exhaust fan all night in some vain effort to try to trap them – the screen was covered almost entirely with the carcasses of those who flew too close.  The air within the trailer reminded me of that old commercial for OFF where the guy puts his hand into a glass box and they're swarming all around.  The space between the main and the screen doors vibrated with the eager hum of what must have been about 1000 individual beings, the blood lust dropping on them like some berserker of yore.  We made haste, jumped into the truck, fired the mother up and dropped it into gear, our bug shirts acting like some personal force field.

We only slowed down a few miles up the road at a gas station to open things up, give the few survivors a chance to escape and regain our nerves.   Coffee was going to have to wait.   To give you an idea of numbers, we counted 78 full mosquito carcasses stuck to the INSIDE of the fan blades and screen, and countless unidentified body parts.

I know mosquitoes serve some vital purpose in our environment, some link that would prove disastrous for us all were they to suddenly disappear.  But who hasn’t thought after spending a night in a sleepless fit, “What good are these little fuckers?”  I know, for me, I will never be able to say with confidence that we "got the last one."  Will we stop exploring in areas where the bugs outnumber the mammals?  Probably not, but as another old saying goes, there is no such thing as bad weather (or bad insects) just unprepared people.