The Mosquito Coast

Working around the ranch today, I got my first mosquito bite of the year. It brought to mind my first attempts to curb the problem...

Besides having several troughs for the livestock, the ranch also has a seasonal pond about the size of a football field. Recognizing the inevitable swarms of mosquitoes to come, along with their potential for West Nile Virus, I decided to look into stocking the pond with mosquito fish. (Ravenous little predators of mosquito larvae.)

            Luckily, it turned out that our county Vector Control gives them away for free. All I had to do was tell them the size of the pond and set up an appointment. I warned the gal on the phone about the road to the property, but she indicated it would be no problem.

            So the morning of the appointment, the phone rang about fifteen minutes before I expect her to arrive. “Um, would you mind meeting me at the bottom of the mountain?”

            Apparently, the road was a problem.

            Now, we had only been living on the ranch a couple months, and I still didn’t have a 4-wheel drive vehicle. I had been using Sassy to get up and down the mountain, but didn’t figure she would be amenable to transporting fish back up the road.

            So I called Dave. “Hey, honey, is there enough gas in the Jeep to get down the hill and back?”

            “Uh, yeah, there should be.”

            A little background on the Jeep. It is a 1980 4WD CJ-7. I love this Jeep. We have driven all over the backcountry in it, had tons of adventures, and it has never left us stranded. (Do you hear me knocking wood?) The windshield can even be dropped onto the hood for an African safari-style experience, which is really awesome provided you remember to keep your mouth shut and your personal windshield (sunglasses) in place.

            However, it is over 30 years old. Some things don’t work quite like they used to. Like the gas gauge. Usually, the Jeep stays on the mountain, and we fill it with random gas cans when we think of it. So we never know just how much fuel is in it. I still didn’t have the “feel” for it like Dave did. Or, like I thought he did…

            So, down the mountain I bounced to meet the fish-lady. After explaining how to release them, she handed me two super-sized bags about half full of water and fish. (Imagine a school carnival goldfish bag on steroids.)

            About a mile and a half back up the road, the Jeep gave a couple of chugs, and stopped cold. Uh-oh. So now I faced a choice. Do I hike up the road alone, pick up Sassy, and come back for the fish, or do I take the fish with me now?

            Using a complicated logic formula that included the heat of the day, the issue of refueling the Jeep, the temperament of Sassy, and my own questionable temperament at that moment, I decided to hike with the fish. It was only a half mile, after all.

            Not only did the bags get progressively heavier, they were really tough to hold onto. The tops were rolled, folded over, and then rubber-banded, just like they do in the fish store. Only, the banded nub on these bags was really small and, as I started to sweat, really slippery. So I stopped and set them down to get a better grip. On a sloping road.

            I watched in horror as, in total slow motion, one of the bags tipped over, the rubber band slowly unraveled, and water and fish poured out all over the red dirt road. Noooo!

            I grabbed the bag only after all but about two fish were left, and quickly started scooping up all the little flopping bodies I could find. (And I had been worried about how the heat was going to impact them?!)

            So now I had a bag with 3 inches of muddy water and a bunch of fish gasping for air. Determined to give them a fighting chance, I poured some water from the other bag into the spilled one. On a positive note, now both bags were lighter, and easier to carry without the stubby tops.

            But, I’m hot, I’m still a quarter mile away from the ranch, my arms are starting to ache, and my temperament has deteriorated to catastrophic levels. So as I walk, I’m ranting under my breath like a crazy woman, and my absentee husband is the prime target, “Sure there’s enough gas!... Who’s hare-brained idea?... grumble, mumble… Leave me up here alone… Come home and find me moved back to town!...”

            About now, half of me is hoping that one of the neighbors will drive by and take me out of my misery. The other half is praying that none of them will get the opportunity to see yet more proof that their new neighbor is truly an imbecile.

            It turned out to be the imbecile option. I meekly sat in the passenger seat with my muddy packages as she continued her phone conversation with a fellow board member, organizing a complicated, week-long event they were hosting. See? I told you they walk among us.

            She dropped me off with a quick wave and an apologetic smile, and I slunk off to the pond and set my poor prisoners free.

            And we still got bit all summer.