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by Nick Callanan
So last Wednesday was Kristen’s birthday (it’s June 10. I figure if I write it here, maybe someone will remind me next year before she does [I’m a dumbass!]…). After my awkward smiling, apologizing and happy birthday-ing, we trucked up to The Forks to go paddle the Kennebec from Carry Brook down. When we stepped off the last step to the river, however, the water level was already dropping. We put on anyway (“Hey, it’s your birthday, we’ve got to go boating!”) and paddled down to Black Brook.
We got out of our boats and walked in to the first little waterfall. It was a sunny day, the water was raging and, for a wonderful moment, it seemed like the only place in the world to be. We had a dip in the pool below the 7 foot drop and the water was much warmer than I had expected. We swam around a bit, and then had lunch. And so did they...
Mid-June in Maine. The time of year when where participants in every outdoor adventure, at some point, must choose between panic or toughening up. Between continuing on or running back to Momma. Between heading back to the couch or having some real fun in the outdoors. The cause of this fork in the proverbial road is the ever-hungry female black fly. Where do these tiny creatures of such great number find their voracious appetite?
I don’t know, but I can tell you where they find their dinner.
It’s called “Nick’s Flesh Soup Kitchen.” Yes, lately, kayaking has been my method of community service. Instead of volunteering at the shelter or helping the elderly with their groceries, I just go to the river and take off my shirt. While I’m changing into my river gear, dozens - perhaps thousands - of needy mouths feast on my flesh -- the less fortunate eating all they can handle and it’s all because of me. Ahh, isn’t helping others is its own magnificent reward?
Everybody has their own “worst black flies ever” story. My friend Zac tells one where they were so thick out to Duck Trap Pond in Lincolnville that both his nostrils were completely clogged.
I heard another where a couple fellas from Massachusetts, came from a fishing trip on the St. Croix and walked into a store. The clerk said to one of them, “Dude I’m sorry, but I’ve got to say: That’s the worst case of chicken pox on the face I have ever seen.”
Readers may even remember a similar piece in this very rag last summer. Yea, the one where I was too numb to realize that no matter how quickly you attach your spray skirt to your boat, the black flies still get in.
But seriously, the black fly – Maine’s unofficial welfare recipient – comes around thick about this time every year, and people must either buck up or allow them to ruin an otherwise satisfying time in the outdoors.
So, as an exercise to promote American productivity amongst an overwhelming black fly presence, I resolve to share as much black fly intelligence as space allows. (By the way, I squashed 45 black flies in a single minute near Millinocket last weekend.)
According to an article on Maine Nature News’ web site (mainenature.org), there are over 40 different identified species in the black fly family--Simuliidae; most, but not all, are in the genus Simulium, including one species called Penobscotensis. Black flies spawn only in fast moving water. Also, only female black flies bite; information that could be comforting the next time your face is getting swarmed: there could be twice as many of the little buggers.
Sitting on a flat rock at the confluence of Black Brook and the Kennebec, I ate a roast beef sandwich while the black flies ate me.
The net energy ratio of this situation was not in my favor: I could feel myself getting weaker, even as I chewed and swallowed the delicious sandwich.
“They’re pretty bad today.” Kristen has a knack for remaining chill in bloody awful situations.
She had a Big Dipper pattern of bug bites on her face.
Between slapping my legs, throat, arms and back; chewing my food; choking on black flies; and having blood sucked directly from my veins, I was a bit short of breath.
“Hey,” I gasped. “What do you think about paddling back upstream instead of heading down? It’ll cut our time on the river in half, and I’m not sure I can handle another three hours of these black flies.”
She agreed, and we got back into our boats.
An hour later we were sitting in my truck back at Cary Brook. We had loaded our gear into the back and I started the engine. She slapped my neck.
“Mosquito.”
Email nick [at] noumbrella [dot] com with your questions, comments and concerns.
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