POTHOLES BLUES

The question is: what happened to the tequila? There was half a bottle left - I'm almost sure of it. I remember thinking 'I'll just put it here for now,' but there's no image accompanying the thought. There's usually an image....

I don't know where the Potholes are anymore - if I ever really knew. We used to just sort of wander around and somehow find our way. Then, sometime over the past twenty years they dammed the river that fed the Potholes, created Potholes Reservoir, and altered the terrain. And then, of course, it has been more than twenty years since I made the drive out from Seattle with my sweetie. And, um, I may have been somewhat altered at the time, myself.... So, where do I go now, for a reunion visit?

It's late afternoon. Ethel and I are cruising along Frenchman Hills Road - I remember that name - through young orchards of apples and cherries, acres of corn, fields of fragrant mint. There used to just be brown fields - some in rangeland, most scrubby wild.

I hope I'm on the road to the Potholes Reservoir. I want to see the assassination, uh, transformation. Then...a sign! Small, government green: Public Hunting and Fishing. By the time it registers, I've whizzed by; but now I'm on alert for another sign. And there it is again - across from an attractive new farmhouse. "Public" it says. "Hunting and Fishing." The gravel road has a familiar...something. "We're doing it," I say aloud.

I've developed the habit of thinking of Ethel and me as a team. And in a matter such as this gravel road, that so intimately involves Ethel, she's naturally represented in my thought process. I do the thinking for Ethel - it's marginally better that way. And she does the heavy lifting - or in this case, bouncing.

So, we're jolting down the extreme washboard gravel road. I'm grateful everything is well bungeed and otherwise secured in Ethel; and I hope, again, that persistent wheel sound isn't serious.

Several miles in, the road ends at a heart-shaped reed-enclosed Pothole. Sinkholes they're called in the Florida Panhandle; cenotes in the Yucatan; places where an underground river surfaces to form a small lake. It's beautiful - not the Heart Lake of memory, but maybe it's best I not revisit that sacred place without the companion of memory.

I get out of Ethel and exhale. Yes, here it is - the deep, encompassing peace of the Potholes. Dusk is coming on, and pothole residents are ready for the sacred daily rituals. Bullfrogs warm up their otherworldly calls. Swallows swoop and dive over the water. The last rays of sun warm my soul.

Then I notice a prickle on my arm. Oops - a mosquito. Of course... Time to reenter Ethel, my fortress - capably re-screened by my friend D.

Inside, I mix a margarita, with the good tequila. This perfect evening reunion with the Potholes calls for a celebratory drink. I don't feel like cooking, so I get out some fruit, crackers, jerky - a lovely backcountry meal.

I'm deep in a reverie of discovering the Potholes of eastern Washington with my then-new love. How we searched in vain for a camping place, until we turned at the evening star down a dusty road and came, unsuspecting, to beautiful Heart Lake, basalt cliffs rising from the clean, cold water. How we returned perhaps a dozen times before we left Washington for Southern California, brought our friends, our infant daughter, explored the interlinking pools, listened to the coyotes sing...

Speaking of singing, I'm roused from my reverie by a natural sound - not exactly singing, more of a whine. I shift my focus from the distant sunset to the freshly screened window by the table, at which I sit. The screen is covered - black! - with mosquitoes, whining to get in, like petulant children locked outside in the gathering darkness. (That's just a guess, dear reader - please don't report me!)

The whining actually seems to be in stereo, so I look across to the couch (the living room), where there's another big window, pulled open to admit the faint evening breezes. OMG, it's COVERED too! Quickly, I slam the windows closed, trapping dozens of the little beasts between glass and screen. I'll deal with those in a moment. There are other windows and vents, including the little unscreened window vents in the cab....

I spend a few minutes shutting Ethel down tight and killing the mosquitoes trapped between window and screen. There...! Oh, and it seems a few have gotten inside. Dang, they're LARGE!

I've lived in South Florida, on the edge of the Everglades; and I've visited Maine's North Woods in summer - both places rightly famed for their voracious blood suckers -but I've never seen mosquitoes this big. Or this desperate... Now they're flinging themselves against the window glass. They know I'm in here, and they want a piece of me! HA! I have screens.

Well, quite a few do seem to have gotten in somehow. There are cracks around the vent screens, though the vents are tightened down now. That's okay. I know how to kill mosquitoes: you wait until you feel them break the skin, then very quickly and carefully you slap. You just have to tune in to that first itch. Slap. Ha! Slap.

Slap, slap, slap. Slap! Slap! SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP!!!

About the time I cross the half-century mark of dead mosquitoes, I realize I'm in trouble. Outside, there's a thick, and thickening, haze of swarming black buzzers; inside, it's getting dark and I'm slapping every few seconds. No way I can sleep tonight; I'll get out while I can. It's good to be decisive.

As I'm throwing things into secure spots - never mind where they're supposed to be stowed - the phone rings. I can't believe I've got reception out here! It's D, screener extraordinaire. I thank him for the fresh screens. I'm stashing the tequila, the jerky, the fruit.... It's dark now.

Still on the phone, I crank up Ethel. Ethel likes to warm up for a while before she'll move. Right now it feels like an interminable while. Finally, we start jolting back up the road.

I'm unable to see all the holes now, swaying back and forth, jouncing up and down on the washboard, grateful to have my wireless lifeline to distract me as I crawl along. Because I don't have a Bluetooth setup for the phone, I'm holding it with one hand and the wheel with the other. But the mosquitoes just keep on attacking, so I'm also still slapping away as I go down the road. Maybe it's because of that - admittedly stiff - margarita that my memory is fuzzy; but I'm not at all sure now just HOW I was slapping, driving, and holding the phone, all at once.

My original plan was to drive a mile or so up the road and pull off; but as I drive and talk and slap, I reach Frenchman Hills Road and turn towards the Reservoir. Slap. Drive. Talk. Slap...

Darkness envelops me, and I fall into a rhythm. Despite the welts swelling on my feet, my legs, my arms, my neck and face, I'm enjoying the feeling of barreling down the (now paved) deserted road in the dark, talking and driving and slapping.

Somewhere past the Reservoir, I lose my phone connection in the hills. Probably for the best, as I''m moving faster now - drive, slap, slap, slap.

I end up driving for almost an hour, into a small town, where I park next to a church (for protection from the blood suckers?) and stay up well past midnight, until the relentless whining finally stops. I've killed over a hundred mosquitoes and have perhaps half that many itchy welts. The next morning I see that I'm smeared in blood as well - my own, of course. I realize that the poor insects were just trying to propagate. I was probably the first mammal they'd had access to all season.

Additionally, I realize now that, in my inexperienced haste, I left open the vents at my feet on either side of Ethel's cab. As I beat my hasty retreat, I sucked in additional mosquitoes while I drove!

I did learn a couple of vital lessons - paid for in blood. Those unscreened vents are always the first thing I lock down in the evening now; and I've bought both bug repellent (can't believe I didn't have THAT with me!) and mosquito netting - just in case. Now, if only I could find that tequila...it's been almost a month, and Ethel's just not that large!