USExplorer
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This is my fourth year on the road, but my first full-timing during the summer months. And man, have the mice been a huge PITA lately here in Colorado.
Two years ago, I worked briefly for a trucking company. While I was away for a week, an industrious mouse at the terminal tore a hole in my firewall and rampaged through my camper, building a nest inside. I gassed it out with a bath towel soaked in ammonia, but was never able to find the breach.
Between then and two days ago, I have had intermittent issues with desert field mice entering my camper to forage. I was usually able to scare them out and drive off. One time, I had to bait the floorboard with peanut butter and use my hand as a human mousetrap. In any case, every incident resulted in a rather unpleasant night.
Meanwhile, the scent trail left by the mice was turning into a scent superhighway. Street signs, lane markers, all that. This summer, almost every well-established campsite had a mouse who would happily romp in and out of my truck. I had to stay in little-used spots or hang out around crazy cat people. God bless 'em.
Last Sunday, the usual happened. The scratching in the undercarriage, the scraping through the breach, the infiltration. Little did I know this pair of infiltrators were the Special Forces of mice.
Screw 'em, glue trap time. I put in earplugs, wake up an hour later. Two mice are helplessly caught on the trap, or so I believe. It's two in the morning; I can deal with this come daylight. Benadryl makes me stupid.
Come daylight, there's nothing left but blood and hair. Alright, glue traps aren't worth a damn. But, I assure myself, the survivors of mouse SAW would sprint for their burrows and have a group cuddle or whatever mice do to deal with trauma. I proceed to drive over a hundred miles with only a little nagging doubt.
Last night, outside Cerro, I park in a wide-open barren expanse, sub-prime real estate for men and mice alike. As soon as I quiet down, the paranoia builds. Sure enough, a faint scritching. Glue trap time.
Once bitten, twice shy. My nemesis (or was it nemeses) emerged, clambered nimbly around the glue trap, and set to work at revenge. I swear, the little turd did his very best to keep me awake. He nibbled boldly on peanut butter inches from my hand under the glare of my headlamp. "Slap!" goes the human mousetrap. The mouse must've had springs or wings, because it simply vanished. In a frenzy, I empty my truck, search every nook and cranny to no avail.
I determine to sit up, wait for it to reappear. He determines to wait until tiredness takes its toll, then noisily rambles into the engine compartment. As soon as I awake, silence.
I throw my bed down outside, under the stars. Sensing that quiet scampering would fail to wake me, he commences chewing plastic under the hood. By now, it is almost dawn.
I climb into the driver's seat, play his waiting game. Time passes; he begins quietly walking around under the hood. Hoping he is in a precarious position, I crank it, throw it in drive, and do a donut, followed by a sudden stop. Down the road to Taos.
Is he here or is he gone? Will a 50 cent snap trap be his downfall? How do I erase the scent trail? A Dollar General clerk suggested an amazingly simple method; a good undercarriage wash, followed by generous spritzing with vinegar. Will I remain legally sane long enough to rid my truck once and for all of this plague? One simply does not know.
Two years ago, I worked briefly for a trucking company. While I was away for a week, an industrious mouse at the terminal tore a hole in my firewall and rampaged through my camper, building a nest inside. I gassed it out with a bath towel soaked in ammonia, but was never able to find the breach.
Between then and two days ago, I have had intermittent issues with desert field mice entering my camper to forage. I was usually able to scare them out and drive off. One time, I had to bait the floorboard with peanut butter and use my hand as a human mousetrap. In any case, every incident resulted in a rather unpleasant night.
Meanwhile, the scent trail left by the mice was turning into a scent superhighway. Street signs, lane markers, all that. This summer, almost every well-established campsite had a mouse who would happily romp in and out of my truck. I had to stay in little-used spots or hang out around crazy cat people. God bless 'em.
Last Sunday, the usual happened. The scratching in the undercarriage, the scraping through the breach, the infiltration. Little did I know this pair of infiltrators were the Special Forces of mice.
Screw 'em, glue trap time. I put in earplugs, wake up an hour later. Two mice are helplessly caught on the trap, or so I believe. It's two in the morning; I can deal with this come daylight. Benadryl makes me stupid.
Come daylight, there's nothing left but blood and hair. Alright, glue traps aren't worth a damn. But, I assure myself, the survivors of mouse SAW would sprint for their burrows and have a group cuddle or whatever mice do to deal with trauma. I proceed to drive over a hundred miles with only a little nagging doubt.
Last night, outside Cerro, I park in a wide-open barren expanse, sub-prime real estate for men and mice alike. As soon as I quiet down, the paranoia builds. Sure enough, a faint scritching. Glue trap time.
Once bitten, twice shy. My nemesis (or was it nemeses) emerged, clambered nimbly around the glue trap, and set to work at revenge. I swear, the little turd did his very best to keep me awake. He nibbled boldly on peanut butter inches from my hand under the glare of my headlamp. "Slap!" goes the human mousetrap. The mouse must've had springs or wings, because it simply vanished. In a frenzy, I empty my truck, search every nook and cranny to no avail.
I determine to sit up, wait for it to reappear. He determines to wait until tiredness takes its toll, then noisily rambles into the engine compartment. As soon as I awake, silence.
I throw my bed down outside, under the stars. Sensing that quiet scampering would fail to wake me, he commences chewing plastic under the hood. By now, it is almost dawn.
I climb into the driver's seat, play his waiting game. Time passes; he begins quietly walking around under the hood. Hoping he is in a precarious position, I crank it, throw it in drive, and do a donut, followed by a sudden stop. Down the road to Taos.
Is he here or is he gone? Will a 50 cent snap trap be his downfall? How do I erase the scent trail? A Dollar General clerk suggested an amazingly simple method; a good undercarriage wash, followed by generous spritzing with vinegar. Will I remain legally sane long enough to rid my truck once and for all of this plague? One simply does not know.
