Here’s the thing about setting up house in Sonoita in June. Sure, it’s hot, dry and dusty. Not exactly Chamber of Commerce weather. But there’s also a lingering excitement in the air. Almost like being a kid during those last few weeks before Christmas.
The monsoon is on its way.
OK, so it’s not a perfect analogy. It’s not a joyful anticipation. It’s weeks of wind-blown, sun-baked crankiness. But still, with the knowledge that we’ll soon be doing a little happy dance while the glorious rain clouds gather, the atmospheric pressure and temperature drop, and then the skies let loose. A gift from the gods to rival tamales. And one that keeps giving.
We’re blessed down here to still have a true monsoon. Granted, this year’s was late-arriving and less prolific than ideal, but we’ll get no sympathy from my city friends.
I must admit, however, that nine years of occasional visits and tent camping didn’t fully prepare me for my first monsoon as a resident. Namely, how a totally different ecosystem emerges out of thin air.
Varmints and critters of all shapes and sizes found their way to our patch of transformed grassland. Frogs. Crickets. Mice. Javelina. And, oh, the bugs.
Fortunately, the Mrs. hadn’t relocated yet when I returned home one evening to find the porch covered with thousands of winged red ants, many of whom wormed their way inside. For three days we did battle. Did you know that everything from ground pepper to coffee grinds to cucumber peels have been promoted as effective ant repellents? But there weren’t enough cucumbers in Santa Cruz County to deal with this many ants. And how would I peel them all?
My best defense was the garden hose with a high-pressure nozzle. And then, on the fourth day, they were almost all gone. Not because I had blasted them to the great beyond; they simply moved on.
Shortly thereafter came some other winged visitors.
Say hello to the Swallows of Santa Rita Court.
This house we had built has very tall eaves, to accommodate our very large windows. Little did we know that such eaves were a beacon in the wilderness to every swallow this side of Sierra Vista.
As soon as rains began to soften the ground, a few swallows began their back-and-forth ritual from mud to eaves. Then word got out, and their friends came along and decided this was the perfect place not just for a nest or two, but a full-fledged maternity ward.
Our very large windows were soon collecting very unsightly patches of bird droppings.
From the Googler I learned that (1) in some parts it’s against the law to destroy active nests; and (2) nesting birds, while cute, are a nuisance and a health hazard due to both droppings and potential property damage. So best to act fast and not let them get comfortable.
I sought out the local authorities, whose advice fit into the “good luck with that” bucket. The internet was full of cucumber-peel-type remedies, but the only one that seemed suited for my circumstances was to hang netting across the eaves. Putting aside the aesthetic questions, this seemed as challenging as peeling thousands of cucumbers.
Once again, it came down to me and the garden hose. But as relentless as I was in spraying down the mud, my adversaries were equal in response, covering both sides of the eaves from one end of the porch to the other.
So it went for nearly a week, until, much like the flying ants, the swallows gave up. But with collateral damage: streaks of mud up and down those very large windows and along the porch.
Once the dust (and mud) had settled, I began to doubt my strategy. Sure, the best-case scenario might be that the swallows find a more welcoming place to nest forever and ever amen, and if that’s the case next monsoon season, I dare not complain. But if they decide to come back for another baby boom, maybe I should concentrate my efforts on keeping the windows clean and worry not about the eaves until the chicks have moved out. The gods just might smile upon that.