Tick Talk

A run-in with the scourge of the earth

*Warning: The following is not for the faint of heart.*

A beautiful spring morning. Arms outstretched, balanced on a broken limb, I navigated the edge of the pond and came away with only one wet runner.

Oh, how I was loving this adventure, wondering why my biologist husband had never brought me to this beautiful place. Surely he knew about it. Surely he knew how I love exploring off-trail where few seem to venture.

But now it was time to go. I’d been gone too long already and a walk through the tall grass would be better than the chance of another wet shoe.

As I mounted my bicycle I saw them. Hundreds of them. An army of ticks marching from the hems of my sweatpants toward the soft folds of flesh beneath my tee.

In case you are unfamiliar with ticks, ticks don’t brush off. A tick can dig into almost anything. With three hook-like fingers on each hook-like hand, it is unstoppable in its quest for blood.

Modesty battled a primal urge to be rid of my clothes. Though the road was deserted, modesty won. I pedaled as fast as my mid-forty legs could pedal, toward home, three miles away. At the one-mile mark, I glanced down. Advancing up my shins now, those in the lead were nearing my knees.