Dr. L. 0. Howard tells us that the mosquito rarely goes far from
its birthplace. That must refer to the miserable degenerates they
have in New Jersey, for these of the north offer endless evidence
of power to travel, as well as to resist cold and wind.

On July 21, 1907, we camped on a small island on Great Slave Lake.
It was about one-quarter mile long, several miles from mainland,
at least half a mile from any other island, apparently all rock,
and yet it was swarming with mosquitoes. Here, as elsewhere, they
were mad for our blood; those we knocked off and maimed, would
crawl up with sprained wings and twisted legs to sting as fiercely
as ever, as long as the beak would work.

We thought the stinging pests of the Buffalo country as bad as
possible, but they proved mild and scarce compared with those we
yet had to meet on the Arctic Barrens of our ultimate goal.

Each day they got worse; soon it became clear that mere adjectives
could not convey any idea of their terrors. Therefore I devised a
mosquito gauge. I held up a bare hand for 5 seconds by the watch,
then counted the number of borers on the back; there were 5 to 10.
Each day added to the number, and when we got out to the Buffalo
country, there were 15 to 25 on the one side of the hand and
elsewhere in proportion. On the Nyarling, in early July, the number
was increased, being now 20 to 40. On Great Slave Lake, later that
month, there were 50 to 60. But when we reached the Barren Grounds,
the land of open breezy plains and cold water lakes, the pests
were so bad that the hand held up for 5 seconds often showed from
100 to 125 long-billed mosquitoes boring away into the flesh. It
was possible to number them only by killing them and counting the