'Hate' is a Strong Word

Warning: this blog contains the word 'hate' several times. I agree that 'hate' is a strong word and that is exactly why I am using it today.

I hate flies. I hate them. If I could write a decree banning them from the face of the Earth, I would sign that decree with a super-fancy quill pen and then do the dance of joy.
I hate flies- all of them: fruit flies, gnats, those gross, slow, blimp-like flies, horseflies, dra- wait, I can't hate a dragonfly, but you get the idea. I hate all flies except for the cute blue and green ones that land on your finger and smile at you (like the dragonfly)- everything else, in my mind, can just go straight to fly hell where they're surrounded by no poop to feed on and no warmblooded animals to bite, and definitely no people to constantly bother.

My distaste for these bugs came about twelve years ago when Dad, my brother Hunter, and I headed into the heart of the Idaho National Forest for our annual August 'Death March'- the most grueling, difficult, foot blistering, PrayYouMakeItOutAlive, camping trip known to man.

We Abells have been voluntarily signing up for our own version of Survivor since I was about two years old. Each year that passed, I would be given more responsibility. When I was five, it was my job to carry the marshmallows and a water bottle. When I was seven, I got my very own official external frame backpack and graduated to 'I can carry all my stuff now' mode.

When we pack for this trip, we make sure that our backpacks are extremely heavy so we can brag about how much we carried. Dad always wins though- at 71 years old, he packed 70+ pounds last year. There's no way that anyone will top Dad's studly back-packing abilities, but we all try. That's how sick it gets.

If you think this all sounds insane, it's because it is insane. Who else backpacks with entire cans of evaporated milk (for coffee), a heavy jar of real peanut butter, several POUNDS of bacon, and a large skillet? We do. Forget about bringing in dehydrated food- that stuff has no place in our camping trip- besides, with all our other stuff, I'm pretty sure that a pack of Mountain House Lasagna isn't going to ease the staggering weight of our packs.

There's no room for sissies on our trip- it's 'only the strong survive' all the way. I usually start mentally preparing for this annual August trip somewhere in April and give myself the pep-talk of the century:

"You can do this. You are tough. Stick with it. No one wants a baby around. Viv, you are the youngest one, you can at least keep up with Dad..."

With each month bringing me closer to our Idaho trip, my pep talk gets more fevered: "If someone dies on this trip, Viv- you are going to have to pack THEM out too, so you'd better get in shape..."
With no room for wimps and since we look forward to the torture of our grueling trip each year- you can imagine that 'bugs' usually don't even come close to making it on the "Top 100 Abell Hiking Factors that Make You Want to Cry and Run Home to Mommy" list.

Well, one year the bugs DID make it on the list- and, in my mind, they were #1. As I was saying earlier, it was about 12 years ago. I turned 16 two months earlier in June. For my Sweet 16 , Dad gave me a brand new pair of hiking boots- a pair of boots that would, later that summer, help hike me and my heavy pack into our family's secret camping spot.

August arrived and we packed out truck with all the gear, food, rations, guns, knives, fishing poles, and bacon we'd need for the next 8 days. After the 12 hour car ride, we put on our packs, loaded our weapons, and staggered down the trail- ready to make new memories and hopefully live to remember them. What we didn't know was that this year would be one of the most challenging trips...ever.

Hours after we began our hike, we arrived at our camping spot with evening quickly approaching. We used whatever daylight was left to pitch our tent, light a fire, and cook a few hot dogs before crawling into sleeping bags and resting our blistered feet.

Dad is always the first one up in the mornings. He gets up around 6:30 and the sound of him unzipping the tent door usually wakes me too. Each year, the mornings begin the same: Dad gets up, I get up, we light a fire, and Hunter sleeps like a lazy punk until the coffee or cocoa is ready.

This particular morning did not unfold quite like it had years previous, however. As the morning sun rose and our campsite warmed with orangey rays of sunshine, we found ourselves surrounded by small black flies (FLIES!!!). The size of a BB, black as night, and walking around like they were drunk- the flies gave the impression that they were small, clumsy, court jesters and more of a bother than anything else.

Then they started biting.

Each fly that landed on me would stagger around until it found a spot along my hairline or behind my ear to bite- leaving spot of blood and an unbearable itchy welt. Countless bites appeared- even on my cheeks and forehead. We spent our entire camping trip swatting at flies, scratching bug bites, and watching each other turn from a recognizable family member to a giant blob of bites and dried bloody spots. Gross.

The flies were unbearable- even by Abell standards.

At the end of our stay, we gladly packed our bags and hiked to the truck. None of us would tell the other person how sickly they looked with so many welts and spots on their faces. Upon arriving at the truck, I took a look in one of the side mirrors and saw for myself the damage the flies had caused. I saw a swollen face of bites and wounds that left only my eyes and nostrils recognizable.

I believe that my hatred for flies began that week in August- and my distaste for them still continues. It took weeks for my face to return back to normal, but my attitude toward certain flying insects was forever tainted.

Since my arrival in Iceland, I've battled swarms of flies- they are both inside the house and outside. They crawl on me as I try to paint outside, they land on my coffee cup while I try to blog, they even have the audacity to land in my food when I am trying to eat. I swat at them, whack them with whatever item is closest, and even do a comical Jean-Claude Van Damme routine as I try to kick, punch, and swat each one in the house.

Yesterday, my distaste for flies reached an all new level. I spent all morning trying to muster up the energy, entusiasm, and inspiration to go out and begin painting the mountains outside. Finaly, I took my sketch book and backpack out to a spot here at the residency and began sketching a scene. Listening to my iPod and drawing, I took in the beautiful vistas surrounding me and the artistic inspiration started flowing. I happily sat and soaked in the scenery- the mountains, the beautiful lake, the river flowing through the pasture, the puffy clouds, I soaked it all in... and then a fly flew like a Stealth Bomber into my left eyeball. I immediately dropped my sketchbook and attempted to get the small fly out of my eye...but to no avail. It somehow managed to get under my eyelid and that sucker stayed there.

Have you ever tried to draw with an insect lodged in your eye? Well, I did and it wasn't pretty. My eye watered and salty tears dripped down my left cheek as I tried to finish my drawing. I gave up, tossed all artistic inspiration to the wayside, packed my things, and angrily stomped back to the farmhouse where I washed out my eye and gave up drawing for the day.

My trip to Iceland offers memorable experiences and allows me to see some of the most incredible landscapes on Earth- but Iceland comes at a price. There are flies here, lots of them- big ones, small ones, blimpy-slow ones, and all of them are annoying- especially the Stealth Bomber eye-diving ones. I hate them, all of them-except dragonflies.