Yesterday, Monday, was the darkest of Mondays. On this dark, tumultuous day, I was so mentally scarred I don't think I'll ever recover. The USFWS is going to have to pay for my therapy, after the terrors I have witnessed.
'Oh, you poor child!' You cry at your computer screen, reading my heavy words, 'What happened, you poor, poor thing?'
With a weighted heart, I will tell you of my tale, my sorrows. Yesterday... yesterday was a day I will never forget.
Yesterday was the day I pulled not one, but TWO lonestar ticks from my hair. I cringe even now, remembering the feeling of those tiny, indestructible tick legs scurrying up my neck. The tickling feeling as they navigated the downy tendrils on the nape of my neck sends a shudder through me even now. My skin crawls.
The first I caught in my fingers as my supervisor and I were riding from the Portsmouth end of things back towards Jericho and the central part of the refuge (I should really upload a map.) This one was reasonable, I'll admit. We waded through grasses as tall as I am, stepping carefully around holes and down slopes to make measurements. Fred cut the tree blocking the road into pieces and- wait, this needs more.
It was a long, skinny pine. Though after having stood before the redwoods of Northern California, all the trees look skinny in my eyes. It smelled like Christmas, and was draped across the road, having been knocked down from across the ditch. Prepared, Fred suited up in his cautionary orange kevlar safety gear and weilded a chainsaw, approaching the tree with serious intent. I too, suited up by putting a pair of work gloves on to my hands, the tiny things my dad calls 'kid hands.' He sliced it into sizeable chunks similarly to how one would slice up a holiday ham. I tossed the pieces to the side of the road, dirtying myself with damp dirt and crumbling shreds of bark. As he neared the thickest part of the trunk, the chainsaw became wedged in the sturdy pine.
Getting closer to examine the damage after awkwardly tipping a log as heavy as I am over to the side, I saw that our obstacle was in fact two trees, and the saw was stuck in the bottom trunk. I waited for instruction as Fred grabbed the bowsaw and shovel from the truck, he tried to lever the bottom trunk as an attempt to relieve the preassure and I tried to wiggle the saw free.
Being the weakling I am, I'm sure he was lamenting his choice in intern gender. Using the bowsaw, he made a little room for the saw, and I went and put my weight on the shovel, lifting my feet from the ground. The saw came free, the log snapped, and the top trunk sprung upwards. If it weren't for my catlike reflexes, I would probably have a broken nose.
I was really impressed by the upwards snap of the tree. More impressed than worried, but I've always had more booksmart than common sense. I wondered what a physicist would have said.
Anyway, escaping relatively unscathed, we went about our business, on down the now clear road. Down the way, we stopped to do flow measurements with the flow tracker. I put on my hip boots and we waded into the ditch.
Graceful as I am, I slipped on the shrub at the bottom of the ditch, effectively tearing several holes in my right boot, right at the knee. (Monday of all Mondays!) It didn't bother me at first, but when we measured the center of the ditch, my boot started filling up. With resignation and my usual dry internal dialog, I figured the swamp was determined to keep me soaked, so I let the boot fill.
Standing in the middle of this ditch, the water was up no higher than my midthigh (it only went to Fred's knees, but I've given up completely on my height.) the yellow flies decided to start gnawing on my hands and arms. The devilish things were mildly balanced by the huge black and white butterflies that landed on my hands as I tried to keep the flow tracker straight in the water.
When I got out of the ditch, I had to drag my right foot out of the water and down to the truck. When I pulled my boot off, I flipped it upside down and water sloshed comically out. I was soaked to the knee. But only on my right knee. It's an improvement. Don't worry, I had a spare pair of socks because at this point I was just being realistic.
Anyway, after all of this, we were driving back from our outing and I felt a tickling on the back of my hair, at the base of my braid. Absently, my fingers probed and captured the culprit. With silent terror, I either dropped it or threw it out the window. It's all a blur.
Back at the office, I had untucked my sweaty shirt and as I mindlessly thumbed the bottom, I felt a tickle on my hip and brushed another off with a half hearted yelp. I tried to squish it with my boot hopefully. It didn't work. Bravely (dare I say intrepidly?) I plucked it from the carpet with my BARE HANDS and released it into the wild again.
It gets worse. As these things normally do.
After a scalding, paranoid-induced scrub down in the shower, I was satisfied. I didn't have any embedded, any remaining would have been rinsed down the drain. So after my long day, I curled up in the recliner with a book and got to work.
Another tickling interrupted my day, and there it was. Probably that very first tick I released into my room, back for vengeance. I used words that would have made a sailor more than proud, and screaming, threw it outside. I felt vulnerable, having been attacked in my own home.
I went outside and hosed myself down with the bug spray. I even took the 100% deet, flipped my hair over, and spritzed it freely. Never again, I vowed, swearing on my split ends and deet-mangled hair.
Anyway, the rest of this week should be friendly. Today I spent nine hours sitting on my butt at the Atlantic White Cedar Symposium. Today there were a serious of scientific presentations, all of them on white cedar. It was interesting, I went into the Hilton with nothing but a chicken biscuit from the Chick-fil-a down the street and the knowledge that the species was mildly important. I now consider myself an expert on the AWC. Ask me anything, I dare you.
'Oh, you poor child!' You cry at your computer screen, reading my heavy words, 'What happened, you poor, poor thing?'
With a weighted heart, I will tell you of my tale, my sorrows. Yesterday... yesterday was a day I will never forget.
Yesterday was the day I pulled not one, but TWO lonestar ticks from my hair. I cringe even now, remembering the feeling of those tiny, indestructible tick legs scurrying up my neck. The tickling feeling as they navigated the downy tendrils on the nape of my neck sends a shudder through me even now. My skin crawls.
The first I caught in my fingers as my supervisor and I were riding from the Portsmouth end of things back towards Jericho and the central part of the refuge (I should really upload a map.) This one was reasonable, I'll admit. We waded through grasses as tall as I am, stepping carefully around holes and down slopes to make measurements. Fred cut the tree blocking the road into pieces and- wait, this needs more.
It was a long, skinny pine. Though after having stood before the redwoods of Northern California, all the trees look skinny in my eyes. It smelled like Christmas, and was draped across the road, having been knocked down from across the ditch. Prepared, Fred suited up in his cautionary orange kevlar safety gear and weilded a chainsaw, approaching the tree with serious intent. I too, suited up by putting a pair of work gloves on to my hands, the tiny things my dad calls 'kid hands.' He sliced it into sizeable chunks similarly to how one would slice up a holiday ham. I tossed the pieces to the side of the road, dirtying myself with damp dirt and crumbling shreds of bark. As he neared the thickest part of the trunk, the chainsaw became wedged in the sturdy pine.
Getting closer to examine the damage after awkwardly tipping a log as heavy as I am over to the side, I saw that our obstacle was in fact two trees, and the saw was stuck in the bottom trunk. I waited for instruction as Fred grabbed the bowsaw and shovel from the truck, he tried to lever the bottom trunk as an attempt to relieve the preassure and I tried to wiggle the saw free.
 |
| The Water Control Structure I spent the friendlier part of my day at. |
I was really impressed by the upwards snap of the tree. More impressed than worried, but I've always had more booksmart than common sense. I wondered what a physicist would have said.
Anyway, escaping relatively unscathed, we went about our business, on down the now clear road. Down the way, we stopped to do flow measurements with the flow tracker. I put on my hip boots and we waded into the ditch.
Graceful as I am, I slipped on the shrub at the bottom of the ditch, effectively tearing several holes in my right boot, right at the knee. (Monday of all Mondays!) It didn't bother me at first, but when we measured the center of the ditch, my boot started filling up. With resignation and my usual dry internal dialog, I figured the swamp was determined to keep me soaked, so I let the boot fill.
 |
| Look at that flow- I had to stand in that water. |
When I got out of the ditch, I had to drag my right foot out of the water and down to the truck. When I pulled my boot off, I flipped it upside down and water sloshed comically out. I was soaked to the knee. But only on my right knee. It's an improvement. Don't worry, I had a spare pair of socks because at this point I was just being realistic.
 |
| Here's the foam! And downstream is where we did our wading measurement. |
Back at the office, I had untucked my sweaty shirt and as I mindlessly thumbed the bottom, I felt a tickle on my hip and brushed another off with a half hearted yelp. I tried to squish it with my boot hopefully. It didn't work. Bravely (dare I say intrepidly?) I plucked it from the carpet with my BARE HANDS and released it into the wild again.
It gets worse. As these things normally do.
After a scalding, paranoid-induced scrub down in the shower, I was satisfied. I didn't have any embedded, any remaining would have been rinsed down the drain. So after my long day, I curled up in the recliner with a book and got to work.
Another tickling interrupted my day, and there it was. Probably that very first tick I released into my room, back for vengeance. I used words that would have made a sailor more than proud, and screaming, threw it outside. I felt vulnerable, having been attacked in my own home.
I went outside and hosed myself down with the bug spray. I even took the 100% deet, flipped my hair over, and spritzed it freely. Never again, I vowed, swearing on my split ends and deet-mangled hair.
Anyway, the rest of this week should be friendly. Today I spent nine hours sitting on my butt at the Atlantic White Cedar Symposium. Today there were a serious of scientific presentations, all of them on white cedar. It was interesting, I went into the Hilton with nothing but a chicken biscuit from the Chick-fil-a down the street and the knowledge that the species was mildly important. I now consider myself an expert on the AWC. Ask me anything, I dare you.
I still hate ticks more than any other arthropod that I can think of. But, like you are slowly experiencing, I've built a tolerance for them. I still tuck my pants into my socks if I go out in the field, and I check myself thoroughly after a day in tick habitat. I'm ashamed to admit that I don't usually let them live if I find them on me!
ReplyDeleteMine always end up going for a swim, but they don't freak me out nearly as much as they did earlier in the summer! I use 100% deet on my ankles AND I tuck my jeans. I still avoid them like crazy.
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