Guest post from Jon: Marvolo the Mouse

For the first time, after four visits to Australia, I was physically assaulted by a wildlife denizen. At our first camp (Third Pine Creek on Owiendana station), we were warned of the presence of mice. Sure enough, that night, we observed little food searchers, scurrying around our cook table, looking for dinner. Precautions were taken -- food boxes sealed, dishes well cleaned, the offending rodents run off, the truck shut for the night. But our truck is old; there are many points of ingress and egress for a little mouse.

Sure enough, when we moved camp, there were not two passengers, but at least four. Evidence of their nightly feasts were diurnally found -- nibbled pastas, sampled nuts, brown sugar grazed upon, an abundance of mouse crap at the base of our food boxes. We sympathized with the feelings of satisfied hunger our unwanted guests must have felt, but these raids represented an existential threat. Thinking we faced only one foe, we named him/her Marvolo. We raised the threat level from yellow to red, and bought plastic boxes the first time we passed through Leigh Creek, our resupply town. The nighttime food raids ended, with our vulnerable edible sundries ensconced in plastic forts. The mice appeared frustrated. One behind in the arms race, they vented their rage by shitting all over our canned goods, which were left out in the open to weather the storm. They decided to take it to the next level.



Picture this scene. After a hard day's work and a well earned meal, I am resting and reading in my tent. I turn off my light when I decide to turn in; when I do so, I hear a rustling at one corner of my tent. Assuming its the wind but thinking it wise to check, I turn on my light and sit up. Lo and behold, Marvolo! Behaving like any self-respecting adversary who is approximately 400 times his opponent by weight, I scream like a child and retreat to a corner. Marvolo to his. Silence. I choose to use one of my lifelines, and start yelling to Christine to please bring me a bowl and a cutting board. Undoubtedly confused, Christine moves from the fire where she had been quietly writing, brings me my chosen weapons, is filled in on the state of play, and watches the drama. After removing all items from the tent, Marvolo begins to run laps around my tent, rebuffing my earliest attempts to trap him under a bowl. Eventually, he slows, I spring, and Marvolo is my prisoner. The board is slid underneath, and Marvolo is escorted away from my tent.

I shall refrain from the grisly details, but Marvolo was dispatched, suffice it to say. He is buried underneath a rock at Black Range Spring camp in Warraweena Conservation Park. This haiku serves as his elegy:

goodbye marvolo
you lived in our truck, though we
did not want you to

Marvolo is gone, but his comrades are soldiering on. Now Christine has been experiencing some mischief and foul play. Mice running up and  over her tent, pooping freely beneath her rain fly. A daring mouse ran up her leg as we enjoyed the after dinner fire. We are currently trying to name our second opponent, and are accepting bids so long as they are based on geeky sci-fi/fantasy villains. Generel Grevious? Gaius Baltar? Shelob?

We have purchased mouse traps to try and contain the issue -- but will it be enough?