37 Fans
Thirty seven creatures tip-tapped on the fabric of my tent and thought hmmm…you’re tasty. The cloud of my breath drew them in like smoke from a grill and they waited for an opening.
Under other circumstances, I’d be flattered as the muse for a symphony.
But we were in the kind of place where the buzz didn’t go away even while we were walking. The mosquitoes numbered fewer while keeping a steady clip along the trail, but the ghost of that noise lingered.
I mean, look - it’s nice to be wanted. Not nice to be left with a parting gift only healed with cortisone and time. I’d rather be noticed with less itching, less whining.
I’d rather be the one doing the noticing - which I did, but mostly in motion. Mostly in sneaky glances up from the trail surface – just enough time to prevent a rolled ankle, just enough to know how spectacular the landscape could be.
Just enough to unwrap the Clif bar and walk, nibble, glance, swat, and keep moving through the crowd of thirsty, buzzy, alpine mosquitoes.
Inspired by events in the Wind River Range, Wyoming.
Land of the Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapahoe.