Applegater., May 01, 2008, Page 20, Image 20

20 May-June 2008 Applegater
APPLEGATE OUTBACK: MY OPINION
The extermination of the horsefl y
BY BOB FISCHER
I believe in the concept of
biodiversity, that each species of plant
and animal has a place and a purpose
on this earth, whether or not we humans
understand or appreciate it.
Having assumed mastery of our
planet, I believe that mankind also has
assumed responsibility to maintain it in
as natural a state as we possibly can. Not
when it is convenient and not just when
it is economical.
Now that I have established
my position of record on the moral
and philosophic high ground, I have a
confession to make.
I can see no reason for the
continued existence of horsefl ies! I
hate horsefl ies, or deer fl ies as they also
are known. Hate Them! This is not a
phobia. I like snakes, I fi nd horny toads
interesting, and I am on speaking terms
with many lizards. But horsefl ies are
different. Horsefl ies are evil.
Horsefl ies do not bite for food
or to protect themselves; they bite to
infl ict pain.
Mosquitoes are bad enough with
their clever, soft whining approach and
their guerrilla-like stabs for blood. You
don’t even feel the pain until they have
gone. Like true guerillas, mosquitoes
receive little respect, which means they
are consistently underestimated.
My old hunting partner actually
could ignore mosquitoes when they
landed on him. While I slapped and
complained, he sat unperturbed by the
whirring insects that covered us. He
had hide the color and consistency
of plywood, and the patience of a
mountainside. Those characteristics
helped him overcome mosquitoes.
But I once watched that same man
drop his rifl e, backpack and hat into a
stream as he reacted to a horsefl y bite
while trying to cross a fallen log.
Show me a man who can ignore
the wretched stinging bite of a horsefl y
and I will show you a cadaver.
Horseflies don’t care anything
about guerrilla tactics; they are the strike
force of the insect world. Horsefl ies
make no attempt at stealth, but depend
on their sense of timing for protection.
Their timing is incredible. Rarely do
horsefl ies appear unless you have both
hands committed to some activity that
will keep you from retaliating.
A favorite horsefl y technique is
to attack fi shermen wading in a noisy
stream. Not only can the angler not hear
a fl y approaching over the river noise, but
it is diffi cult to react even after he has
been bitten. An off-balanced retaliatory
blow or a misplaced step and you can
end up like I once did—soaked to the
skin and 30 yards downstream without
my fi shing gear.
One time I watched my friend,
Rex Fletcher, under horsefly attack
during a barbecue get-together at his
place. He was carrying a large bowl full
of home brew to a table. Just short of
the table he cocked his head as though
to listen closely. His body suddenly
stiffened, his head snapped back, and he
began slapping the back of his head and
neck hard enough to chip vertebrae. The
bowl was forgotten with his pain and
rage—it dropped to the ground where
it behaved exactly as you would expect
a ten-gallon bowl to behave.
The despairing groans from
everyone at the bowl’s explosive
destruction were almost overpowering,
but they were overcome by the roar
that burst from Rex’s mouth. In what
I recognized as a classic response
to a horsefly bite, Rex’s cr y of
“YAAAAHHHH!” announced both his
pain and his resolute decision to battle
this ancient enemy. Having scraped
the attacker from his neck, Rex circled
warily waiting for the next attack that
was certain to come.
Horseflies are very stubborn.
They are not like the psychopathic yellow
jackets that attack anyone at anytime.
Once a horsefl y establishes a target, they
return again and again to bite that same
person. So, if you are not the unlucky
victim, it is often safe to stand nearby and
watch the whole thing take place.
And that is exactly what occurred.
While we watched, the horsefl y landed
twice on Rex’s bare arms and neck. Both
times the fl y managed to get into the air
before Rex’s blows fell.
Finally, Rex steeled himself for
the time-honored “let-him-bite-you-so-
you-can-kill-him horsefly-elimination
technique.” Rex stood still as the fl y
came buzzing in. He stayed calm and
still as the horsefl y landed on him. Then
he erupted into a frenzy
as the horsefl y bit. The
horsefly was unable
to disengage quickly
enough to escape. It
was caught by the flurry of blows,
stunned and then knocked to the dirt.
Had it been a mosquito, Rex
would have been satisfi ed with a simple
brush-off. Even a tick, fl ea or yellow
jacket would have been forgotten once
it was no longer a threat. But horsefl ies,
which give no quarter in their battles,
rarely receive it either.
With another blood-curdling
“YAAAAHHHH!” Rex stomped the
horsefly into the ground, repeatedly
jumping on it with both feet. Time and
time again he pounded it, screaming each
time he did so.
Finally, with his shirttail hanging
loose and a trickle of blood draining
down his neck from the fi rst bite, Rex
stood with his head hanging, exhausted
but triumphant. A few of the guys over
at the picnic tables applauded.
Scattered conversations indicated
that many of the guys deplored the death
of the fl y. I wanted to stand and discuss
this with them, but the line at the broken
bowl was getting long. For it took quite a
while for everyone to jump up and down
on the dead horsefl y while raising their
arms and screaming “YAAAAHHHH!”
Good old home brew.
Bob Fischer
541-846-6218
BACK IN TIME
Ruffl ed feathers
BY EVELYN BYRNE WILLIAMS WITH JANEEN SATHRE
Turkeys! Not my favorite farm
animal. Actually, I can’t remember
seeing very many turkeys on Applegate
farms, but my McKee grandmother
had half a dozen or so. She always
fi xed a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving
and Christmas and I did not mind their
demise for a good reason. To a young
child they seemed so big and frightening
and, since they were not fenced in, they
roamed wherever I might be.
I did not mind crossing the scary
foot bridge over the river and the quarter
mile walk to grandmother’s, but having
to escape those turkeys before getting
to her front gate was quite a challenge.
Those turkeys would chase me, probably
thinking I had some food. On one of
my visits I had stayed until Grandmother
said it was beginning to get dark and I
better get home. I took off in a hurry
and on the way I walked under some
big fi r and pine trees. Then I felt some
splats on my head. I looked up and saw
those darn turkeys roosting on the limbs
above. Ohhhhhhhhh, I was so mad!!!
Years later my brother raised the
same kind of turkeys on his ranch here in
the Upper Applegate. He started with a
small fl ock and found it quite profi table.
He kept the hens, selling the eggs to a
hatchery. I helped with some of the egg
gathering and there was one old hen who
did not like my taking her eggs. When
I made the gathering, about every hour,
she would bristle up and give me a good
peck on my hand. My brother said to
throw her over the fence into another
area since she wanted to set on her eggs
and become a momma. So I then tried
to get a hold of her tail feathers before
she could peck me, but she would spring
from her nest and outrun me.
I became exhausted after each
chase around that big nesting area.
Finally I managed to grab a part of her
tail, which left her with fewer feathers.
Eventually, she lost all of them and I still
was unable to catch her. That’s when
my brother couldn’t stop laughing at
my problem and came to help. He soon
took care of it by outrunning her. She
would still ruffl e her feathers and bristle
whenever she saw me coming near. Poor
thing—she did look funny with no tail
feathers.
In the spring my brother’s large
brooder house would be full of young
ones that were later turned out in his
fi elds to fi nish growing on a special mix
Morris Byrne and his large fl ock of turkeys on Upper Applegate Road circa 1942 (from Evelyn
Byrne Williams collection).
of grains put in feed boxes. In following
years, the boxes were replaced with large
metal self-feeding containers, which
saved time and energy in keeping the
turkeys fed. My brother soon found
the turkeys were more profi table than
his cattle and began raising large fl ocks
of the white, broad-breasted ones, both
for eggs and meat. A truck would come
to take the turkeys for processing before
Thanksgiving and Christmas.
For many years the turkey ranch
on Upper Applegate Road, and even a
second ranch on Highway 238 in Ruch,
were landmarks well known by locals.
Eventually progress put my brother out
of business as it became cheaper to have
large operations all in one big building.
Years went by without seeing
a turkey in the Applegate, but now I
see the same old kind of turkeys that
my grandmother and brother first
had. I don’t know if there really were
wild turkeys here in those days; I don’t
remember ever seeing any. All I can say
is that I don’t dislike them now, but when
they come in my yard I sure get tired of
chasing them. Again!!
Evelyn Byrne Williams
with Janeen Sathre
541-899-1443