1999
Uncle Wally's Weirder-Than-Real Paddling Adventures (Black Flies)
by Uncle Wally
You know, when you get to the end of your rope, it's generally not a very good idea to let go of itespecially when your boat's tied to the other end.
Now, August is usually a pretty safe, conservative month to be paddling through Ontario. The weather's nice, mostly. The water's had a chance to warm up about as much as it ever does. Sure, there's a few mosquitoes whinin' around. But the black flies are all gone. I don't know about you, but I'd take a hundred mosquitoes in exchange for ten black flies any day and consider it a good deal.
Too bad it doesn't always work out that way. When we paddled Ontario's Albany River one August, we endured a certifiable plague of black flies. And we weren't too happy about it.
It was a really wet year. The river had so much fun flooding that spring that it didn't want to quit all summer long. In August it was still out of its banks. And for all I could see, it was likely to freeze up flooded come winter.
All that spring-like spate of running water made the black flies as happy as clams, or maybe even zebra mussels. They were gaily reproducing with sobering success. What we met up with was probably the third or fourth generation of black flies since June. And there were more on the way. AND they were all hungry.
Thin-skinned foreigner seemed to be quite the favored delicacy among the six-legged set. We were beset, besieged. In this case, the only offense was a strong defense, instead of the other way around. We protectively swathed ourselves in anything and everything available. Pant cuffs were tucked into thick, wool socks inside leather boots. Long-sleeved shirts were buttoned up through the collar button and down through the cuffs. If I'da had gloves, I woulda worn them, too. Bandannas bridged the gap between collar and headnet. I'd always sorta smugly thought that anyone who didn't own a headnet had never really camped in Canoe Country. But this was the first time I had ever been driven to paddle in one.
Trouble is, black flies have an uncanny and unpleasant knack for finding the chink in any armor. They'll attack through any tiny gap in your defenses. That little rip in the knee of your pants becomes reserved seating dining for twelve. That gap in your shirtsleeve above the cuff button seems HUGE when the black flies are swarming. And Lord help you if your cuffs come untucked or your pants part company from your shirttail in back! Any opening, no matter how small, that leads to unprotected flesh will have black flies frenzying to get in.
And black flies do frenzy. A black fly attack is a crime of passion. By comparison, mosquitoes attack coolly, calmly, with premeditation and an almost surgical precision. In chivalric tradition, they send defiance with their whine. They let you feel their bite and give you an honest chance to retaliate with a well-timed swat. Black flies blunder blindly along en masse, silently, stealthily. They crassly gnaw a hole in your skin and sneak off, leaving the blood flowing. Mosquito bites itch for a couple of days. Black flies raise welts that itch for a month. They'll make you crazy. If there'da been black flies in the Land of Üz, they woulda set Job to whinin' on day one.
Well, that was what we were up against. It wasn't too bad as long as we stayed out on the water. But camp life took on a tense and defensive edge. We were all in perpetual motion, hoping that, as long as we didn't stand still, the black flies wouldn't be able to keep up with us. Strangely attired, pacing around on shore while ritually fanning our hands from ears to nose to keep the black flies at bay, we musta looked like pagans involved in some sort of animistic demon worship. In a sense, I guess we were: we were all silently praying for the black flies to go away.
Getting into the tent evolved into a sort of ritual, too. My tent mate fanned away the swarms while I hastily unzipped the door. Then we both dove into the tent and zipped up in a flash. Dozens of the beastly flies came in with us anyway and we spent the next half hour grimly involved in manual insecticide. My tent mate devoted two journal pages to black fly executions, squashing the bugs between the pages. The carnage was amazing.
Portages were the worst. Not only did the insects have the home turf advantage, but the portagers were relatively helpless under their loads. Pack toters at least had their hands free to defend themselves. But those carrying the boats were utterly defenseless.
By the third day of the trip, I was thoroughly annoyed with our bloodthirsty little neighbors. I was haulin' the boat over a fairly long, buggy portage, and my headnet was back in my pack. Mosquitoes were whining around my head under the boat. About halfway across, I started to feel blood runnin' down the sides of my neck from black fly bites behind my ears. I was thinkin' some pretty uncharitable thoughts. And I could hardly wait to put down the boat and launch a counter-attack.
When that beautiful patch of blue finally opened up between the dark trees, I hurried on to the portage landing and heaved the canoe off my shoulders. Most of the host of little blood suckers went with it. I quickly attended to the rest, especially the black flies that had been feasting behind my ears.
When I looked up again, my boat was about a quarter of a mile downstream. I had thoughtlessly launched it into the tailrace of the long cascade we had just bypassed and it had gone floating gaily downstream, its unused painter trailing uselessly behind it.
It wasn't a pretty sight. And I couldn't help thinking what a long swim it would be to Fort Hope (a good nine-days' paddle downstream) if I didn't get my boat back. So I quickly commandeered someone else's canoe to paddle down and fetch it back.
Once reunited with my transport, I firmly resolved to develop more of an attitude of stoic resignation toward these hordes of bloodthirsty natives. I figured a more Zen-like mindset might be helpful in the Far North during black fly season. I mean, there's no point in railin' against the forces of Nature, even when they all seem to be aligned against you. 'Cause they really do have you at their mercy ( if they have any) if they get you so unstrung that you forget to tie up your boat.
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Well,'til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Mickey McBride, 8191 Belden Blvd., Cottage Grove MN 55106 or mickeymcb@worldnet.att.net. Let me know what's been bugging you while you've been paddling. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even the Orkin man.
