You look out the car window. There’s no sign of the flooded riverbanks anymore. Ahead of you stretches an endless green landscape, now in full summer growth.

Large insects dart back and forth through the air at lightning speed.

A loud tapping hits the car.

You lean forward. There’s one sitting on the side mirror.

It looks like a giant fly.

A horsefly.

And they’re everywhere.

Do you really want to get out here?

You force yourself to make a decision and step outside.

You’re attacked immediately. They’re everywhere. On your hands. On your legs. You swat at them, but it barely helps. Every step through the grass only seems to make them more active. Frantically, you move back and forth, trying to escape them.

Ouch!

A sharp pain shoots through your leg.

You look down and try to swat the horsefly away.

Too late.

It has bitten you with its razor-sharp mouthparts. A small red spot appears almost instantly. It itches, and you scratch it.

It doesn’t help.

The itching spreads, as if something is crawling farther beneath your skin.

Ouch!

Another bite.

You look at your arms. The buzzing grows louder. You take a step back toward the car, but the movement seems to be their signal. They come at you faster, more aggressively.

You start swatting again, but you miss more than you hit.

You quickly jump back into the car and slam the door shut.

You slowly breathe out and look at your leg.

A bump is beginning to form. It feels sore and warm.

A large cloud moves across the sun, casting its shadow over the grass.

Within seconds, everything seems to change.

You look through the window.

The horseflies are gone.

You wait a little longer, then cautiously step outside.

No buzzing.

No painful bites.

Finally, some peace.

You quickly start setting up the tent, sliding the poles into place.

Then the sun breaks through again.

The grass starts moving.

There they are again!

Like tiny vampires that somehow seem to love the light, they come straight for you.

You make it into the tent just in time and zip the mosquito net shut.

The horseflies patrol back and forth across the fabric, as if they’re waiting for you to come back outside.

Not happening anytime soon.

Hours pass. The air grows cooler, and it finally seems like the swarm has retreated.

You cook a meal and take it up to the observation tower. From there, you look out across an area that was still largely underwater just a few months ago.

As dusk begins to settle in, you climb back into the tent. Through the tent fabric, you scan the dark edge of the forest.

Maybe a moose will appear tonight. Or a fox. Maybe even a lynx.

Then a sharp call rises from the tall grass.

A corn crake.

Again.

And again.

The sound seems to be getting closer, but no matter how hard you look, the bird remains invisible.

Just to be safe, you grab a pair of earplugs.

Hopefully they’ll help.

All night long, its call echoes endlessly across the field. Every now and then, you drift off, only to wake again a little later to the same piercing sound.

How can a bird this loud be so impossible to find?

If it keeps this up, you’ll be the one going deaf.

Sleepily, you open your eyes.

Buzzing everywhere.

No. Not again…

The itching is intense.

Your arms. Your legs. Even your neck.

Did you really get bitten this many times yesterday?

You look at your skin.

Red bumps everywhere.

Then you look up.

Dozens of mosquitoes are sitting against the mesh of the tent.

How did they get inside?

Is there a hole somewhere?

You sit up and look around the tent.

Then you see it.

The window is open.

You look at the zipper.

Wrong zipper.

You slap your forehead.

You left the window open all night.