The black flies didn’t seem responsive to repellants—only to robust physical barriers, i.e., thick, tight clothing without any points of entry. They specialized in finding the tiniest of gaps, which meant that even while I sweated profusely in too many clothes, my wrists ended up a mass of bloody welts. Pants I tucked into socks; collars done up tight, with neck gaiter and netting head-dress mandatory.
Maybe I hit the worst possible time—hard to say. I remember trying to take a quick selfie (before that word existed) but becoming so frantic I couldn’t hold the camera steady. Out in the bush I learned to stay high on the scoured bedrock, above the sparse stands of timber below, and to endeavor to always face the breeze—mosquitoes and black flies both hover and attack from downwind.
Funny to hear my own descriptions! I’ve always heard similar from people about Alaska but never found it that bad myself. Probably there’s a lot of dumb luck—or absence thereof—involved. Have fun and report back here!
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