Chipmunks, Mosquitoes, and Northern California

I promised a recap on suicidal chipmunks, so here we go.

I recall chipmunks fondly from camping in my childhood. They weren’t suicidal or adrenaline junkies then. Clearly something has changed. Specifically, something is going on in Northern California. My first tip was the mosquitoes.  Permit me to wander astray for a moment. I’ll come back to the chipmunks.

Mosquitoes aren’t complicated. They’re blood-sucking little monsters that I could deal with if they’d just not leave the itchy little calling-card behind. Want to suck my blood? Fine, just knock off the backwash. A real mosquito is a master. It flies in under the radar to land lightly on your skin. Stealth – the Air Force might have taken tips from these guys. (Granted there are novices that seem to want to neck or cuddle in your ear, but there are a few slow learners in every species. Maybe they were dropped as larvae. ) Once a real mosquito has landed, it gently inserts its delicate hypodermic proboscis into you - carefully, so you don’t feel a thing – and takes quick, silent sips. She knows not to overstay her welcome and makes a fast getaway before you get a chance to notice. (Again, I know there are some who can’t take a hint and need to be escorted off the premises, but they’re the minority.)

That’s how real mosquitoes work. I have no idea what’s going on in the redwoods. Those are not mosquitoes, they’re fun-sized vampires. Hear me out, I can prove it. First, “fun-size” has nothing to do with fun, it just means “small.” Ask any kid. Second, I just told you how a real mosquito operates; now let me tell you about the mosquitoes I met in Northern California.

The redwoods were impressive. There were a lot of really tall trees, ferns, and mosquitoes. I forgot to bring the insect repellant so I thought we were going to be an all-you-can-eat buffet on our little hike. No. As it turns out, these little critters don’t land lightly on your skin, they crash into you like a Kamikaze pilot. It’s difficult to overlook. They sit there for a moment, recovering from the botched landing no doubt, then set to work trying to drill for gold. Hypodermic? No, they use a broadsword, and they don’t insert it gently either.

The reason I label them as “vampires” is because they avoided the few spots of dim sun like they might give themselves away (Sparkly mosquitoes? That’d be cool.) Also, because we know mosquitoes operate by stealth and these suckers (Ha!) are anything but stealthy. It implies they’re pretty full of themselves. That whole vampire-top-of-the-food-chain concept fits the bill. Vampires are fast, these little things were fast. Vampires are strong, and it takes a lot of strength to hack at someone with a broadsword the size of a hair. Oddly enough, they also only attacked one at a time, even though there were more then enough to swarm, overpower at least one of us (let’s say The Boy, he’s the lightest) and bring him to the ground by sheer overwhelming numbers. Vampires are traditionally solitary hunters. Are you starting to see a pattern here?

Now let’s put the bizarre not-really-mosquitoes aside and get back to the deranged chipmunks. I can’t say they weren’t chipmunks, I didn’t get close enough to any to inspect them. They looked like chipmunks. They were the right size, shape, color, and they ran like chipmunks. Chipmunks are usually smart enough to avoid wide open places where things like predatory birds can see them easily. Roads are a good example. Also, there are cars on roads and they go faster than chipmunks. Shocker, I know.

So, I’m driving through Idaho, no chipmunks. Washington, no chipmunks. Maybe a squirrel or two trying to cross before they get flattened, but squirrels are like that. Oregon, no chipmunks. Cross over into Northern California and it’s like someone called open season on them. Excuse me? Suddenly chipmunks are playing chicken with cars? When did this happen?

The really bizarre thing is that Hubby didn’t have chipmunks dashing out in front of the car when he was driving, just me. By all means, let’s get the chick with the slower reflexes and pit her against a thrill-seeking/suicidal chipmunk! Hubby hated it. Every time one of those little (explicative) would dash across the road in front of me, I’d squeal and brake and/or swerve. And by the time hubby opened his eyes from his nap, the bratty little rodent was gone. No evidence that I wasn’t just trying to keep him from catching a quick snooze.

It was a hundred times worse when we left the coast and headed inland to Redding and then Reno. Hubby finally gave up any illusions he had about a peaceful drive with me behind the wheel and took over. Then no more chipmunks. Seriously, not one.

Chipmunks hate me.