Simply put, I hate ticks. Having said that, ticks are a part of nature, albeit a frustrating one. I immensely enjoy traipsing the outdoors all times of the year, and particularly now that it’s warm and the trees are dressed out in shades of dark green and all about the countryside is undergoing renewal of another growing season.
I usually go out in my well-worn overalls, a get-up I long thought was protection against ticks, as well as thorns, angry brambles and contrary limbs. They also provide a multitude of pockets for whatever I may collect as I explore a patch of timber, an old farmstead or, my favorite, a place where families of long ago disposed of such treasures as old bottles and other things I can’t resist.
For years I never used spray to ward off insects and ticks. That changed a couple of years ago when I picked a nice early-April day to hunt mushrooms along a small creek.
I had found morels there previously. The setting looked conducive: tangled thickets and low-hanging cedars. I licked my lips anticipating a fresh meal of morels sliced and slow-fried.
My anticipation quickly turned to exasperation. Look as I might, even along the high north-facing side of the creek where old trees had fallen and disintegrated to rich soil, I found just one mushroom. A nice one, but not much of a meal. When I returned home the outing turned darker. I had an itch here, another there, and on inspection I found four of the miniature vampires, swollen with my blood.
From then on, I’ve successfully turned to DEET.
Sometimes the little devils are hard to find.
The other day a neighbor said she thought she had a tick on the back of her arm. I could only see a small dark spot, but with my 10-power loupe I saw the spot had legs.
A word of warning: When you go outdoors, even at home, be careful about ticks. They can carry ailments, including Lyme disease.
