For awhile, it’s doubtful you’ll even know there’s a problem.
Early symptoms will mimic all the things you might expect from a weekend out in the wilderness. Sore legs and shoulders. Fatigue. When the headache and and fever starts, you’ll figure it had something to do with your drafty tent. And when you vomit you’ll figure it was the boat-ride.
When the coughing starts some 4-10 days later, your pride will take a beating. “I told you you shouldn’t have gone on that silly trip!” You’ll hear it from somebody, but you won’t let it get to you.
Until you can hardly breathe. Then you’ll start to wonder. And worry.
One survivor said it felt like a “. . . tight band around my chest and a pillow over my face.”
That’s what it feels like when your lungs are filling up with fluid and you’re drowning from the inside.
That’s what it feels like fighting your way through hantavirus pulmonary syndrome.
I remember my first time on Santa Cruz Island. It was summer-time and the whole place was browned over. There wasn’t any running water back then- you had to pack it all in.
We hauled our gear from the beach to the campsite, big fifty-pound containers of water sloshing around the whole way. It seemed like forever, but we were in high spirits and it felt good to finally make camp.
As I recall, we did a little fishing. We got some bites. One of the guys brought up a shovelnose guitarfish:
That was exciting. We cut the line, let the shark go and made our way back to our campsite. We prepared our dinner as the sun dropped down behind the western hills.
That’s when the earth woke up. The ground beneath our feet began to churn and rustle. We had never seen anything like it. The shadows thrown by our lanterns exaggerated the movements of the shifting leaf litter. It was mice. Millions of them, it seemed, and all moving at once.
We dove into our tents. I was sleeping alone and zipped mine up just in time. I could hear their feet criss-crossing the canvas, see their darting silhouettes as they ran up and over my shelter.
Others weren’t so lucky. Four men were sharing one tent and the zipper got stuck. I will never forget their screams.
That night of unspeakable terror finally passed and the light of morning revealed absolute destruction.
My toilet paper had been devoured. My bar of soap reduced to slivers. My backpack was open and inside was the stuff of nightmares.
Mouse droppings.
Smaller than a grain of rice, they might not look like much. But mouse droppings are the repositories of the deadly hantavirus.
Signs were posted all over the island warning of the terminal malady. With a mortality rate approaching 40%, there was certainly good reason for signage. And now, with these tiny little turds all over my bag, my life was in the balance.
Well, I’m happy to report that that was many years ago. I’m pretty sure I’m alright, but anybody that spends enough time with me will come to know my signature cough. I think it’s stress related, but it could be festering mouse crap.
Back in those days the ecosystem was all out of whack. Golden eagles had taken up residence and eaten up all of the foxes, so the rodent population exploded. A while back they brought in some bald eagles that ran out the golden eagles. The foxes are back and the mice are under better control.
But hantavirus is still all over the island. You can read the most recent warning here.
Behold the face of DEATH!
That little hand, though.
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I have a PTSD mice experience from having had a family of mice living in my apartment during my med school days in Baltimore. The mice would shred my notebook paper to make nests for themselves under the kitchen hutch and would eat my baked goods left on the counter overnight by tearing through the layers of saran wrap covering them. After 1 month of terror, my husband finally caught them and took them outside.
Then a few months ago, while I was enjoying dinner with Mariam in the outdoor patio section of Urban Plates, she calmly mentioned to me that there were some rats/mice running by our feet. All the PTSD came roaring back as I jumped up, stood on my chair, and started jumping up and down, waving my arms and screaming like a lunatic. Mariam even offered to CARRY me to my car because she saw how distressed I was – that’s how lame I am, and how good a friend she is!
So, reading this post only heightened my fear like 100 fold. I am not looking forward to the mice on the island. My only saving grace is to remind myself that part of the very reason I choose to go on these trips is to overcome my fears.
So, I’m psyching myself up to confront these mice……….but can I bring my cat with me to the Island?
The island foxes will protect you, but you need to keep them hungry. Avoid feeding them and they’ll go right for the mice 🙂
That sounds terrifying and Mariam sounds amazing MashaAllah! If all else fails you could always cower in your tent or take to the waters 🙂