Manzilla vs. Mothra

5.7.2020

I dropped off the grid a few days this week.

Literally.

Last year I purchased five acres of raw land high in the hills of Colorado. No electricity. No Internet. Not much phone unless I stand on a stump facing south holding my mouth just right. Maybe two bars. Enough to text, but not enough to send a photo.

I have a friend, Freddy Bon Jox, that I think might be smart enough to physically distance responsibly. We go up there in the same vehicle, spitting and coughing on each other. Neither of us are sick, but we might as well be slow dancing as distanced as we aren’t.

We don’t.

No friend can be guaranteed virus free. Not me. Not Jox. Everyone has to go to the market. A trip to any public place is a gamble. I feel like I should quarantine for 14 days after every outing. I trust Freddy is as paranoid as I am. There are risks. No one is responsible for your safety but you, and you’re responsible for everyone else. Wear those masks.

Being off-grid is like living in a cave. News is limited to an hour of NPR with our cowboy coffee. After a leisurely breakfast, we work. It’s mental bliss. Cave dwellers know nothing but the basics. Food, shelter, and health. Cave dwellers do have problems, though.

It’s May, and this time of the year at 9,000 feet the fear of another freeze keeps us from charging the plumbing with any water. The tiny RV pump that supplies the little cabin with water will likely have to endure another winter storm that could cripple it if we de-winterize it now. It’s May, after all.

We stink.

A good shower is three or four Wet Wipes. Freddy suggested using vodka to deodorize our sweaty pits. We voted on it. We still stink. How I won a 50/50 vote is beyond me. The vodka might have had something to do with it.

Upon arriving at the cabin Jox noticed moths. Where do moths lay eggs? Damned if I know. I’m writing this off-grid and can’t Google it, and won’t when I return to “civilization.” It will remain a mystery. I simply didn’t think it would be inside a cabin. Uninsulated walls of primitive buildings must ensure perpetuation of the species far better than the underside of the leaf I envision moth eggs inhabiting. Jox noticed moths because the place was infested with them.

This is all fine and good unless you read before bed. Lying in bed with a book requires a headlamp. Try turning off every light in a room infested with moths except the light on your forehead. Moths fly up your nose with their dusty little wings. Moths flutter on your eyeballs. Moths dive bomb your attention from the subject matter as you swing and snatch at the air.

I decided I needed a strategy to defeat this winged scourge. I turned on a propane lantern to attract them into one location. It was a moving location because they’re fast. I grabbed my hat and started batting them to the floor, hopefully, stunned. I’d pluck them up and toss them out the door. I wanted them alive. I don’t want to piss off Mother Nature any more than she is by killing them outright. Stomping the little fuckers was not an option.

Strategy fail.

I thought of another grand design, without violence, to release the moths and me from our shared confinement. Training my headlamp on a window full of moths, I attracted them to my light and stepped outside. Several followed the light and flew into the night free to crazily flutter by the full moon. I was pleased with myself for outwitting moths.

However, several are not enough to stem an infestation. Another strategy fail.

The moths win. I decided I won’t read before bed.

Next time we return to the cabin the cycle of the moths will have ended (and been replaced by flies). Their little carcasses will be swept from every surface and tossed outside into the soil to decay into nutrients destined to give birth to a flower.

Death gives way to life. And vice versa. It’s all part of the plan. Ashes to ashes; moth to moth.

A moth infestation is a good problem to have.

Physically distance, socially unite, and stay healthy.