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| This Dracula Was a Mosquito |
As nearly everyone ever stationed at or TDY to Eielson AFB knows, the Alaskan Interior is famous -- make that infamous -- for its mosquitoes. There is nothing so terrible as an Interior flock of mosquitoes. Without question, these nasty critters rule daily life. They are reputed to be bigger, meaner, and more populous than anywhere else in the world; just ask our survival instructors! The mosquitoes are so terrible and so bothersome that they have become a major feature of the culture.
The quality of a summer day is not judged by its weather but, rather, by the number and ferocity of its mosquitoes. The jokes of the Interior usually include mosquitoes in the punch lines. Tourism, a major Interior industry, is heavily impacted by the mosquito. Mosquito netting, insect repellent, mosquito coils, moose dung "moosequitoes," mosquito filled acrylic ice cubes, and books on oil drilling mosquitoes by Ruben Gaines are peddled to visitors and gift buying locals alike.
I built a little get-a-way recreation cabin near Harding Lake with the intention of developing it into a retirement farm after my upcoming retirement from the 6985th ESS. It was my misfortune to set up shop right in the middle of mosquito headquarters; the mosquitoes were a constant and complete misery! My walls, which started out white, became red polka dot in testimony to how I spent my time. SWAP! One more red stain to decorate the wall. Each day was spent swatting, itching, scratching, cussing, and smearing on "bug dope." The night was an unbearable cacophony of buzzes, whines, and slaps. You know the sound: That high pitched, varying whine as the mosquito buzzes around your ear, looking for your jugular vein. And who is able to resist slapping and scratching in defensive response to that awful noise?
I used to dream up elaborate schemes of vengeance. The more bizarre and horrible the punishment, the more I relished the prospect of its execution. My mosquitoes must have sensed my ghoulish desire for this vendetta, because I was especially at risk from their torture. If you wanted guaranteed protection against mosquitoes, you only needed to travel with me. The bugs would be so busy with me, you would be left completely alone. I am still at risk. I hate them, and they hate me.
My visiting friends often wondered aloud why I had so many mosquitoes. I told them that I was raising the nasty little buggers to ease the world food shortage. I explained that it was my intention to freeze dry the terrible little critters and sell them to the protein poor Third World.
Unfortunately, I never was able to prove that mosquitoes had enough protein to make the plan feasible. Oh, sure, the specimens I did catch had plenty of protein, but it was all MINE! Besides, my capture technique was lousy. It left the subjects flat, red, and gruesome. Well, anyway, that's what I used to tell visitors who were impolite enough to complain about my hoards of Harding Lake blood suckers.
After reading a sample of my tirade against mosquitoes, you may think it strange, then, that I kept one as a pet. Well, sort of, as you shall soon discover. By reputation, my pet mosquito was the meanest, orneriest, biggest, and scariest critter in the Tanana Valley. I reportedly kept him chained out back and used him for a guard dog. Naturally, I called him Dracula.
I had many youngsters visiting my little recreation farm because I raised free roaming and petable ducks, geese, chickens, rabbits, goats, horses, and so forth. Two of my regular visitors were Raymond and Michael Fredericks, sons of Ron and Lo Fredericks. Ron was a notable 207 at the 85th and Lo was an accomplished painter, one who specialized in painting sourdough scenes on old artifacts like gold pans, saw blades, etc. (RIP Ron.)
Raymond and Michael were curious six or seven year olds, and they loved to work with the animals, especially the young turkeys. The turkeys enjoyed playing games like "tag" and "hide and seek" with the boys They required no training to learn the rules; they just sort of learned as they went along. Ray and Mike loved to chase the turkeys, and the turkeys took just as much pleasure in chasing the boys.
Another thing about those turkeys kept Ray and Mike returning to my farmstead: I had trained the little birds to stand on my arm as I fed them by hand. It was an interesting sight to watch several little turkeys, all lined up on a forearm, chattering and jostling for the best position to get the next bite. It was unique and comical. It was also quite easy -- until the turkeys grew to 30 pounds each! At any rate, Ray and Mike also enjoyed holding the turkeys at feeding time, and a special bond developed between the boys and those future Thanksgiving Day dinners.
One day, the two boys decided that it would be beneficial to take the turkeys for a walk in the woods behind the farm. There were lots of things there for the turkeys to forage on, and the adventure of such a trip had its own allure. One problem, however, reared its ugly head: In order to get to the woods, a beautiful stand of white birch, aspen, and silver spruce, one had to cross through a frightening, no man's land created by an old forest fire. Such a dark and foreboding place is usually found only in horror movies. This intervening strip of misery was a veritable bone yard of old tree carcasses and root systems. It was black, quiet, dark, and dank. For an adult, it was a repulsive place. For young boys, it was a place of both terror and challenge.
Ray and Mike wanted to go through it, but they couldn't muster up the courage necessary to do it by themselves. I know how they felt. I have spent lots of time looking over my shoulder while chopping wood in there. It is an unfriendly and eerie place. The boys asked me if I would go with them. I agreed.
We began our transit of the Transylvania-like forest, and the boys talked in whispers and were especially alert. They seemed to draw courage from each other and progressed as if in response to some silent dare. They frequently sought assurance from me that everything was all right. We made slow, steady progress, heads turning warily, eyes searching expectantly, half crouched and ready for immediate flight. The six little turkeys, however, peeped and strutted merrily along, following the pace set by Ray and Mike. Suddenly, one particularly ominous feature came into view. The boys stopped as if on cue.
A large spruce tree had fallen, and its huge, blackened root structure took a threatening pose some twelve feet high. It resembled a giant tarantula spider climbing out of the ground, all festooned with vines, ropes, and unidentified, creepy, tools for evil doing. There it was: A huge, black thing, almost animate, guarding the trail several yards ahead of us and seemingly coiled to spring out at us when we walked by.
Raymond quivered. "What is that?" he whispered, croaking the words because of a mouth gone suddenly dry.
Michael, wide eyed and open mouthed, half turned and was ready to run. He was speechless and wary.
"Why, that's my pet mosquito!" I quickly explained. "He guards this place so creepy, scary things can't get in here." I had hoped to rob them of their unreasoned fear.
"Huh? He sure is big! Will he hurt us?"
"No. He's chained up, over there, with a big logging chain. Its best not to get too close, but he won't bother us."
My trusting companions gratefully accepted my answer and reassurances. We continued on our way with the boys regularly tripping over limbs and roots during their frequent, backward glances.
Before the summer had passed, my pet mosquito became famous. Kids came from miles around, just to see it. Many tried to debunk my story or find chinks in the armor of my elaborate description of this critter. The bigger boys especially wanted to prove that there was no mosquito that big and ferocious, but they had heard the tales told to tourists by respected adults, and none dared venture close enough to discover the truth.
As more and more people became interested in my mosquito farm, I had to repeat my story more often. Soon, the story took on a life of its own, and the mosquito's reputation grew at a rate that even the best yarn spinner would be hard pressed to duplicate.
I knew that it had started out as an honest fabrication to protect some boys from fear, but as I began to hear things about this creature from others, I developed my own doubts. Afterwards, I seldom walked through the burn without keeping an attentive eye on that root system.
Once, I thought I saw it sneak a few steps forward, ever so slowly.... Paybacks are hard to handle.