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Out For Blood "You're alive. Do something."
Todd, a seasonal park ranger at Rondeau Provincial Park, told us he planned on heading west to look for work once the fall season was over. Government cutbacks had decreased his hours until he couldn't afford to live on what little he made. Our cycle trip impressed him. He asked us a ton of questions. After handing us a park map, he suggested several good picnicking spots. But, best of all, he said, "Feel free to help yourselves to showers." Words of welcome, indeed. The breeze that heralded my arrival wasn't exactly Oscar de la Renta. It wasn't even English Leather. The showers were our first stop. "Ah!" Sharon sighed, emerging squeaky clean. "Hot showers! Modern technology's finest achievement!" Fresh as two daisies, we meandered down the smooth park road in search of a most excellent picnic site. There were few people, even though the park hosted an accumulation of quaint cottages. The place was deserted. We soon discovered why. "Idyllic," I sighed, surveying a site alongside calm Lake Erie. We unloaded lunch supplies. Within seconds of sitting down, ferocious biting insects descended upon us in droves. And they were out for blood. Our lunch spot was about as far from idyllic as swamp land in Florida being Elysian Fields. We swatted. We shooed. We hopped and we skipped. Even cursing didn't work. Nothing deterred the ravenous hordes from their blood sport. The little beggars even bit right through our clothes! Unfortunately for Sharon, the gnats preferred succulent female flesh. By the time we concluded our abbreviated lunch, her ankles had swollen in size to rival our melon. Why couldn't they have bitten her boobs? I wondered. "These are the worst of the trip!" Sharon screamed, flailing her arms, and heading back to our bikes to make a quick getaway. "Much as I hate to agree, I have to agree," I said, following closely in her jet stream. Todd drove up in a dark green Park's truck as we prepared to take flight and leave Rondeau Park to the flying pests and annoying midges. Todd rolled down a window. "I finally found you guys!" he shouted. "Everyone in the park is on alert, on the lookout for you two." Had I used too much water showering? Seeing my questioning expression, Todd said, "Oh, there's no problem. I just wanted to give you some park pins." He handed them over, then reached onto the seat. "And here's a patch for each of you, too. We're commemorating the park's 100th anniversary. Maybe you can sew it onto a pannier as a memento?" We thanked Todd. "Oh, and one more thing," he said, smiling. "I asked my boss if you could stay in the campground for free and he said you guys can stay as long as you like." "Great!" I chirped. "In that case, we'll stay a month." Sharon swatted another blood-sucking savage and looked at me as if I were more deranged than usual. Maybe I thought I could kill all the wee beasties in that time? We chose a site close to the showers. After setting up, Sharon and I struck out on Tulip Tree Trail. Big mistake! Hordes of biting insects chased us every inch of the way. A sign at the trailhead indicated the trail took 60 minutes. It took us less than 20. Running cuts down on the time. "'Blood Transfusion Trail' would be more appropriate," Sharon said, huffing like an emphysematous Big Bad Wolf. "Yeah, no kidding," I agreed. "Some of those little beggars were so fast I'm sure they had racing stripes." Sharon soaked herself in citronella. But even that didn't help. She was still a major bug attraction. "This stuff works about as well as smearing honey on one's body to avoid a bear attack," she snorted. "Yeah," I agreed, swatting at my own cloud of gnats. "Sort of like running in front of an auto to escape a falling grand piano." Still, I thought her masochistic. Dusk descended. More mosquitoes (if that were possible) appeared - it was time for their bedtime snack. I sought refuge inside the tent. Behind screened protection, I heard the high-pitched whine of laughing mozzies. Sharon, meanwhile, sat outside at the picnic table, cleaning her bike whilst hundreds of blood-suckers drilled holes in her. Covered in grease, she couldn't apply more bug dope or even swat the buggers. She made an easy target. It was like taking blood from a baby. They scored bite upon bite. By the time Sharon conceded defeat, the little rotters had driven her insane. "Good thing we're not in malaria country," Sharon spat with uncharacteristic venom as she dove inside the tent. "I would have contracted it several times by now." She grabbed her journal. With obstinate determination she scribbled away. I glanced over. In capital letters, she had printed: Mosquito Rating Scale. 1. Annoying: But can ignore them. 2. Irritating: Brush them away. 3. Curse and smack them. 4. Savagely swat: The stalk begins. 5. Swat and cheer: Beginning of unglued stage. 6. Erratic movement: Dance, swat, flail. 7. Fight, then flee. Swatting combined with swift movement away from invaders. 8. Irrational: Bugs begin to drive insane. 9. Resignation: Look like pin cushion; why bother? 10. Bugbarians declare victory! Call hospital. Need blood transfusion and padded cell. |
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