Chigger-me-not!

On July 9th, 2009, on our way up to the Pacific Northwest for the big 'ol family reunion, we ventured off Hiway 5 in Oregon. We drove into the country and followed the McKenzie River along a two lane road with really nice asphalt through 100 person towns with names like Walterville, Deerhorn, Leaburg and Vida. "This is cheese country," I told the kids, attempting to foster their curiosity. There were loads of churches and covered bridges and small elementary schools with signs warning you to slow down because of kids crossing. The river was wide, like football field wide, and quiet and deep and green. We ate dinner at a place called Takoda's up the road in Blue River where the menus were heavily laminated and the salad bar had peas and radishes. I drank a 20 ounce ale and became way too happy. Lydia drove us back to our bed and breakfast, the McKenzie River Inn.

At the inn we tried fishing in the backyard of our guesthouse. It was dusk. True to form, we caught nothing and spent most of our energy taking moss off the rooster tail lure after we reeled it in. Discouraged, the boys went inside, leaving me to take one more cast in daylight's last gasp. I cast as forcefully as I could then began reeling in. However, the reel felt different. It was lighter. The entire upper half of the pole, I realized, along with the enire line, had become disconnected and disappeared. I was holding half a fishing pole. I spun in a quick circle. "What the?" I looked in the fast moving water which was now dark and fathomless, and I looked in the branches over my head. Not there. I shined a headlamp into the wet, knee-high grass along the riverbank and searched for the upper half of my pole.




While looking I noted, but did not pay attention to, tiny pricks on my lower legs below the hem of my shorts, as if someone were gently tapping my skin with a hairbrush. I never found the pole. It had probably flown into the center of the river with the exuberance of my cast and by now was half way to Walterville (where all the Walters lived).




Fast forward 24 hours. We were driving up to Seattle on Hiway 5 listening to the crackly, late-night AM radio sounds of John Miller broadcasting Jonathon Sanchez' no-hitter for the Giants down in San Francisco. My legs began itching. Hey, a mosquito bite. Or two. Or poison oak? Or scabies. Or a shrimp allergy, even though I hadn't rubbed shrimp on my legs recently. As Portland faded behind and the excitement of Sanchez' possible no-hitter mounted, the pruritis in my legs became unbearable yet magnificently satisfying to itch. This must be how our dog, Bella, feels, I realized, when we scratch her tummy. I scratched all the way to Seattle, and I scratched all the next day as we toured the Rock and Roll Museum in the Seattle Center by the Space Needle.

We met up with my brother, Joe, and his family in the museum's Jimi Hendrix exhibit. "What scourge of the Pacific Northwest has done this to my legs? Is this leg acne?" I asked him while I pointed at my legs. Joe looked at the hundreds of weeping red welts on my legs. A big picture of Jimmy Hendrix was nearby, and the famous rocker seemed to be examining my legs as well. "Holy cow!" Joe exclaimed, "You've got chiggers!"

Chiggers? These are chigger bites? I could only think of Steve Martin's bit about chiggers when he says "Something that bothers me more than terrorism and crime is when people come up to me and tell me that they have chigger bites!"

Apparently chiggers, barely visible to the human eye, love dewy, knee-high grasses along riverbanks in Oregon. They come out at dusk to celebrate the momentous occasion of their pregnancy and drill their reproductive organs and deposit their eggs into the skin of unsuspecting humanoids from California. That must have been the pinpricks I felt. The eggs and other chigger parts are easily washed off, but an allergic reaction ensues over the next 24 hours. I have never read Dante's Inferno, but I'm sure the book is about Dante's experience with chigger bites.

The chigger pictured below is standing on his hind legs and flagging down traffic, because he is having car trouble:



Please note that the image below is not my foot. (Although I wear sandals, I do not typically apply nail polish). This is the foot of someone who has chigger bites. This is a mild case.