Fragments From Floyd

Ann could stand it no longer. The yellow jackets had made nests (apparently excavated their own holes in the ground, not taken over when a groundhog or mole went AWOL) in two places along her walking path at the edge of the pasture. They appeared when the hay was cut; we'd walk right past them dozens of times with the high grass keeping us naive of how close we tread to a thousand stings. One day last week, early morning before first light, she marched off with her jaw set, her family's farm-chemical insecticide of choice toted in a large red plastic can-with-spout. She poured gasoline (apologies to those concerned about groundwater, including me) and that was that. Didn't so much matter to me; I could just avoid walking where the little devils lived until winter killed them off.

But not so for the nest I discovered directly under my pull-line to the dead ash tree. I found this nest last week, and doused it with an approved $4 can of hornet foam on Sunday morning so I could get on with felling the big ash early in the week.

Monday, after class, I hurried home and changed clothes. I was down at the ash tree by 2:00 with chain saw and axe and all the necessary tools in the back of the truck. This particular tree is growing from the middle of what used to be a small barn or outbuilding of some sort (none of the old-timers seem to know) up almost around the bend of the valley, out of sight from the house. Only thing I needed to do before making the notch cut was take the axe and chop away the dead bark that still clung limply to the tree. I put down my saw, hefted the axe and commenced to chopping a line across the bark at the level of the future notch. (You can see a faint line on the tree trunk in this little image above.) After about the fifth lick, a fire ignited on the back of my neck.

I dropped the axe, turned and ran, falling twice, flailing at my neck, not stopping until I was safe inside the cab of the truck. And from there, thirty feet from the tree, I could see my chain saw covered in a thick writhing felt of yellow jackets boiling up out of the ground exactly where I had been standing as I welded the axe those few short seconds. (Yellow arrow)

I left my saw where it lay overnight. This morning before first light, I went to fetch it home, and wreak vengeance on my venomous adversaries. At 40 degrees F, nothing was stirring within the old stone foundation. With the flashlight, I couldn't find the vermin's hole. Later in the warm, sunny morning, I could see them streaming in and out of the ground like a time lapse of pedestrians coursing into and out of a morning subway station.

Saturday morning, I'm cutting that tree. Unless I discover the hard way that there were THREE swarms guarding that ash. In which case, I'll wait and revisit it in mid-February. Not a day sooner.