I love hiking in the mountains because it continues to thrill me long after I’ve returned to my workaday life, which is filled with pastimes that simply make existence bearable: Reading the news, walking on the bike-path, shopping, going to restaurants, going to the movies. These activities provide fleeting escape, comfort, or amusement, but nothing matches the exhilarating exertion of climbing a mountain, the meditative calm of nature’s sanctity, and the sense of accomplishment upon attaining a summit.
And even if hiking in the great outdoors doesn’t inspire lasting awe, the bug bites will endure as a remembrance for a couple of days. Bugs have always been attracted to me. Maybe it’s my tender ivory skin, my dull reflexes, some unique chemical scent that signals me as delectable insect fodder, or maybe bugs are like cats in that they are always drawn to the person who likes them least. Maybe my extreme bug aversion is a losing tactic; I should start courting bugs to come, frolic in my vicinity, and rest their weary thoraxes upon my supine forearms.
On last Saturday’s hike, I achieved a bug bite on my ear, an oval bump nestled in between the helix and the antihelix that has swollen the antihelical fold into an angry purple contusion. I suspect that it’s a black fly bite. Black flies are somewhat storied in northern New England, where they thrive during May and June. They are smaller that normal flies, but none less vigorous in flight, and apparently have quite a capacity for blood. For a time, I dared not venture outside in New Hampshire or Maine in early summer for fear of being swarmed. I had heard stories about black flies devouring live cows.
But while black flies are pesky, they’re not that bad. The black fly bite on my ear is slowly de-swelling and lacks the exquisite itch of a mosquito bite. I am particularly sensitive to mosquito bites, which can swell to unbelievable mass and often demand fingernail attention a week after sting.
My paranoia of mosquitoes is acute. I always wear long sleeves and pants in the woods, even if sweat is pouring down my body. When buying insect repellents, I ignore any bottle featuring pictures of families enjoying a bug-free picnic, and go straight for the pictures of dark, foreboding deep woods that provides jungle-level protection. If it doesn’t have 30% DEET — the highest allowed by law– then you might as well rub apple juice and Calvin Klein’s Obsession on your body and run through the woods named and blindfolded.
