It has finally happened. After a half century of tromping and paddling throughout the vast recesses of the Adirondacks, I was finally forced to throw in the towel. I felt like a battered boxer, but I probably looked more like a puffy, cranberry muffin.
It happened just last weekend, while I was fishing on the small ponds near Lake Clear. With a blizzard of buzzing of mosquitoes in hot pursuit, I was actually chased from the woods.
Never before have I experienced bugs so thick, so ravenous and in such abundance. The buzzing was incessant and there was no escape. I was forced to give up.
Mind you, I was prepared, sporting a full arsenal of bug dopes, sprays and other concoctions. I wore long pants, which were tucked into tall, rubber boots and my head net was covered by the tight collar of a turtleneck shirt.
I had taken proper precautions to insure that no patch of skin was available, beyond the fingers I had cut from cotton gloves to allow me to fish. I sprayed on plenty of bug dope, swatted when I could and even considered drinking a bit at the height of the battle. I knew whiskey wouldn't help, but I figured it couldn't hurt either as I already had a buzz going on.
After absorbing as much torment as one could possibly bear, I decided to call it a day. With the cloud of mosquitoes in hot pursuit, I stashed my canoe along the shoreline and turned tail for the trailhead, about a twenty-minute hike.
A buzzing grey cloud accompanied me on the frenetic foray that followed. Mosquitoes filled the car as I quickly slid in through a small crack in the door.
Although fully encapsulated by glass and metal, I was still under fire. There were nearly as many mosquitoes on the inside of the windshield as there were on the outside.