Mosquitoes at Buttermilk Falls
By Staff Writer Katie Tam ’21
Too many mosquitoes. I fan the folded trail map in front of my face to break up the gathering swarm. To keep the insects at bay, I continue waving the paper up and down for the next quarter mile or so. My right arm gets tired, so I switch to my left.
I pause for a sip of water. We have just passed through a tunnel of rhododendrons, two parallel lines of bushy branches reaching up in a natural arc. It is not yet July, so there are no blushes of bright pink flowers — only dark green leaves broken with patches of white sun.
I hear the faint buzzing return, like a constant ringing in the ears; you can’t stay still for too long. My mom stops next to me and slaps her cheek. Guess how many this time? I guess two, perhaps three. Her hand comes away with a smattering of gray mosquito bodies and blood. Macy hardly seems bothered, and even in the humidity I envy her lush fur coat.
We began the day driving south on Walpack Road, the recommended route to Buttermilk Falls according to the park’s website. It was not, however, the most direct, and by the time we turned off the main thoroughfare to the small side road leading to the Falls, I was already feeling carsick. It was our first hiking trip in New Jersey, at the end of my freshman year. Unlike the carefully blazed trails of the Shenandoah we had trekked in the past, Jersey trails were less well maintained, and trail markings often stopped abruptly, leaving us stranded with little choice but to go back the way we came. Both of us wondered what we would encounter on this hike.
Source: National Park Service
A few hundred feet on Walpack, we encountered the first pothole. My mom skillfully steered left, then sharply turned right to avoid a second pothole. The car slowed to a crawl as we approached crater after crater. I glanced anxiously at my mom’s furrowed brow and arms stiff on the steering wheel. Feeling useless in the passenger seat, I rolled down the window and craned my head to get a sense of the topology, shouting out suggested routes whenever possible. Go right, then left, then straight, but not too straight. The car wheels spun on the gravel of the unpaved road. My mom didn’t say much, focused on avoiding the obstacles. Oftentimes, the potholes couldn’t be avoided entirely and the front wheels of the car would dip down with a soft clunk, then a whirring as they kicked up dust and gravel on their way back up, then a larger clunk as the back wheels lagged behind.
When we finally heard the rushing water of Buttermilk Falls, even Macy’s gentle panting seemed to grow in enthusiasm. The waterfall emerged from the dense forest of hemlock. Relieved, we rolled into the parking lot directly across and after misting ourselves with bug spray (which, we would find, was not nearly strong enough a deterrent), we set out on the trail for a closer look. The stress of the drive had mostly dissipated. Now it was a matter of finding our way on foot.
There was no one around at this hour of the morning; just how we liked it. I heard only the dull roar of the waterfall and the chirping of warblers. Buttermilk Falls is one of the tallest waterfalls in New Jersey, but it is not very big — standing at the base, my mom could easily capture the entirety of it on her phone’s camera as we took a photo to mark the start of the hike. I shifted impatiently during the picture as I always do, eager to get moving.
A flight of wooden steps to one side of the falls marked the trailhead. I started first, grateful for the chance to stretch my stiff legs. My limbs felt uncoordinated, and I had to force them to move, one in front of the other. Soon, though, I fell into a rhythm, and I barely noticed as my mom and Macy caught up.
Directly ahead of us was a ladder, the rungs of which were just close enough together to allow a human to climb, but just far enough apart for a dog of Macy’s size to fall through. Do you think she can do it? I asked. The response came in the form of a soft plunk as Macy’s front legs padded up the first rung. Quickly, and in a somewhat awkward series of leaping motions, she worked her way up the ladder, my mom fumbling with the leash close behind. I scurried to join them at the top of the falls, where a viewing platform was installed. We took in the view of our car on the other side of the road, still the sole vehicle in the lot. With a pat on the head, my mom and I congratulate Macy on her ladder-climbing feat before continuing the trail to Crater Lake.
Now, about a mile from the rhododendron bush, the mosquitoes start to thin out. Thankfully, the trail has been well-marked, but we have been battered by the vampiric insects. We take a survey of the damage. My mom’s face is scattered with bites, some swollen to the size of grapes. You look rather bulbous, I tell her. She gives me a quizzical look. Apparently, I have fared a bit better with my fanning strategy, and there are only red marks here and there. Maybe about ten or fifteen, my mom says. Both of us have encountered worse, on my first trip to China when I was eight. Our blood must have been a special treat for the Beijing mosquitoes, because after an evening walk, the two of us ended up with twenty bites on the arms and thirty on the legs. My grandparents told us to use toothpaste to soothe the itching, so we covered our limbs with the white, goopy stuff. I wondered if the hotel toothpaste could work the same magic.
We walk on. My mom whistles back to the warblers in a call and response. Her mimic of birdsong rings clear and sharp through the air. I try to whistle too, but only a pitiful whooshing sound emerges. Occasionally, Macy shakes her head, and I hear the jangling of the metal dog tag on her collar. Only these sounds, and the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath my feet, for a few miles.
Gradually, though, we begin to hear voices. Then children screaming, and water splashing. We emerge onto a tiny beach, where a few families have gathered with blankets and picnic baskets. Kids play in the waters of what must be Crater Lake — we’ve made it. The lake is pale blue, and still. Relatively unremarkable, but a welcome change from the constant sights of trees and dirt.
How did these people get here? My mom turns towards the parking lot, hidden behind a stand of bushes, where a row of minivans is parked. We could’ve driven here. I guess, but neither of us really wants to do that.
The three of us stand together at the edge of the beach, a family gazing at the families laid out on towels and making sandcastles. Close to the water, the air is fresh and clear. Free from the oppressive humidity, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. When I open them, I glance at my mom and Macy. Their eyes are closed too, and Macy’s black lips are curled up in what can only be a smile of contentment.
After a moment, we turn back onto the trail for a loop around Crater Lake. More hemlock, whistling, the return of the mosquitoes.
What do you usually talk about? a friend once asked me about our hikes. Nothing, I said.
Indeed, blissful nothing.