Antpocalypse Now

“And all the little ants are marching, Red and black antennas waving; They all do it the same, They all do it the same way.”— Dave Matthews Band; Ants Marching

Late one evening, Kristy told me that she was seeing some ants in the RV.  I gave her my “what do I look like, an entomologist?”-look before realizing this was going to be MY problem regardless of how I tried to package it.  I told her it was probably a few feral “scouts” who were lost and I’d investigate further in the morning.

While I slumbered, a massive logistical mobilization was underway.  Tens of thousands of ants—under the orders of their “I can’t live in this flooded burrow any longer” queen—had grabbed all of their personal belongings and relocated into the more comfortable confines of Chateau Walker de Mobile.  [Note: we later found that this was the name they used in reference to or rig, as all ants are of French lineage.]

When I awoke, I was no less surprised than any adolescent who stared in amazement at the complete overnight transformation that occurs in one’s own abode on Christmas Eve.  There were ants.  Thousands of ants.  Everywhere.  There were ants on my night stand.  Ants in the shower.  Ants on the walls.  And to my horror (and Kristy’s quiet approbation) ants in my 6-pack of maple-glazed apple fritters that I had just purchased from La Walmart Patisserie.  NOW this was a crisis!

“I really knew I wanted to be “Adam,” because Adam was the first man.  “Ant” I chose because, if there's a nuclear explosion, the ants will survive.” –Adam Ant; Musician

With the exception of the red imported fire ant (Solenopsis invita)—whose past primogenitors and future progeny I maliciously despise with extreme prejudice—I actually like ants.  During my primary educational years, ants were generally depicted as hard-working, socially-responsible, and level-headed (well...the ecdysial cleavage is somewhat level).  Against many mother’s wishes, “ant farms” were peddled as “natural learning tools” to help young kids develop an appreciation for working all of their lives for the betterment of a monarch or oppressive ruling party.  Bedtime stories were written, exalting the tenacious work ethics of The International Brotherhood of Formicidae members, and their distain for non-unionized grasshoppers.  Even Saturday morning cartoons showcased The Ant as the arthropod we all wish we could grow up to be; displaying seemingly effortless charisma and self-assuredness, a “living-loose lifestyle,” and universally recognizable Dean Martin voice. 

With such an engrained reverence for these creatures with the Ethel Granger waist, you can imagine my shock and disappointment when I discovered that there was a coup d'état in-progress for control of our rig.  I grabbed my trusty reading glasses and a flashlight, and set-out in search of the origin of this infestation.  Upon closer inspection of the rig, I was seriously impressed with the degree of logistical planning that had gone into this invasion. 

“We rebuilt the colony; better than before, because now we have a very large indoor swimming pool.” –“Z” from Disney’s Antz

There were bi-directional columns of ants infiltrating our trailer via the electrical supply cables, water hoses, tires, and stabilizer jacks.  Every point that had ground contact was being used to relocate the colony into our home.  They were now fully entrenched in our walls, our cabinets, and our under-belly storage area.   There were active trails along every piece of molding, every pipe, and every seam.  We had been invaded.

I realized that they could not be reasoned with, and—even with their French genetics—would not retreat without cause.  I had to create a plan to forcibly remove them from our abode.  I headed to the nearest big-box do-it-yourself store—keeping my mind occupied with the “BunnyTuna” sign that I passed en route—and headed to the pesticide aisle.  Although I had allowed my Department of Defense Pesticide Applicator’s License to lapse, I still wanted to “bring the big guns.”  I was somewhat disappointed by selection of lesser killing agents, so I grabbed a few cans that had the most ominous graphics of an insect dying in agony.  

Once back at the campsite, I received a mission update (from The General) regarding the current status of opposing forces.  It went something like this:

“Are you going to do anything about these ants?  They’re everywhere.”  

I know most of you won’t fully understand all the operational jargon of that mission brief, but trust me when I tell you that things were looking really bad.

I quickly employed a plan of attack, borrowing a strategy from the Desert Storm mastermind, General “Stormin’” Norman Schwarzkopf. Since I planned on using chemical weapons, I decided not to seek out a coalition of my neighboring campers; nor did I seek any resolutions or community sanctions from the campground host to try and pressure the ants to return to their own borders. This was my battle, and I was going it alone.  Seeing how the ants had a propensity for plundering and pillaging pastries, I deemed my mission OPERATION DESSERT STORM. 

“The horror…the horror…” – Colonel Walter E. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now

The first wave of attack focused on their infrastructure.  I took out the electrical cables, water hoses, wheels, and landing gear pathways; cutting off the forward army from the safe confines of their subterranean lair.  With a pesticide residual blocking their escape route, I moved to the second phase of the attack; eliminating the unwanted intruders from inside the RV.  I had to be much more cautious during this phase, as there was food and other items that were in close proximity to the ant population.  This phase would require surgical precision of the close aerosol support.

The nozzle quickly dispensed death to the unsuspecting workers who were busy relocating their potentate's wicker furniture and duvet covers.  It was a quick and decisive battle that had not been seen since the A-10s showed their tusks on The Road to Basra. The mortality was great.  From my towering vantage point six feet above the RV floor, the numerous casualties strewn across the linoleum battlefield looked like it was covered in…well…ants.  The next few days were dedicated to performing “mop-up” operations, finding the few feral stragglers that had escaped, and “dispatching” them.  I returned to a hero’s welcome, and enjoyed an ant-free atmosphere in the shower, the cabinets, and my coffee (I think…it could just be a few coffee grounds).

I love the smell of 0.025% Lambda-cyhalothrin in the morning.  It smells like…victory.