Those @$%!! Yellow Flies!
When a band of yellow flies attacked Jennifer Kornegay in the coastal Alabama woods, she got intimately acquainted with some of the nastiest critters in the Southern ecosystem.
The South is rich in natural wonders. One of the most biodiverse regions in the country, it’s blanketed in landscapes ranging from mountains to marshlands, thick woodlands to wide-open fields, and swift, sparkling streams to sandy coastlines washed by foam-capped waves. In all these places, a plethora of flora and fauna thrive.
On land, you’ll find shy bobcats, lumbering black bears and ring-tailed fox squirrels. In the air, red-tailed hawks soar, and bluebirds flit from tree to tree. Underwater, tasty redfish, trophy bass and gentle manatees swim. We’ve even got some cool bugs: humming cicadas and neon-yellow butterflies. Heck, in the Smokies, thousands of synchronous fireflies light up their backsides in perfect unison every summer.
Yet among all that wildlife, a handful of species are bane. I don’t think anyone would bemoan the absence of giant flying roaches. Who would miss mosquitos? I, for one, would be positively thrilled if I woke up and heard yellow flies ceased to exist.
Don’t know what a yellow fly is? Count yourself lucky; this ignorance is true bliss. But let me educate you, in case you’re ever in an area where these insidious, sneaky bloodsuckers congregate.
First, their name is apt. The approximately half-inch winged insects’ bodies are washed in a fetching iridescent yellow-green hue. Some people call them deerflies, but this moniker is deceiving. They’ll feast on anything with a heartbeat; the females subsist almost exclusively on the blood of mammals.
They live in the shade of forests in many parts of the South and are active when it’s hot and humid. The yellow fly is a pack animal and attacks — aggressively and persistently — in multiples. I know. In May 2013, I had an experience that ensured the very mention of yellow flies would make me twitch with fear.
The yellow fly is a pack animal and attacks — aggressively and persistently — in multiples. I know. In May 2013, I had an experience that ensured the very mention of yellow flies would make me twitch with fear.
I was trekking along a paved trail through a maritime forest on Alabama’s coast in the afternoon. I was snapping close-ups of wildflowers with my fancy (read, heavy) new camera. I was about a mile in and click-click-clicking away when I had the faintest sensation of something on my left leg. I looked down. There were 100 (okay, maybe just six or seven) yellow flies latched onto my calf. They’d already made such a meal out of me; ribbons of blood were running down and pooling in the heel of my flip-flop.
I screamed. I swatted. I ran as fast as I could, carrying my big camera and trying not to trip over my very flippy flip-flops. Those little @$%!!s pursued me all the way to my car, and when I got there and saw others about to head onto the trail, I shrieked a warning. “Yellow flies!”
That’s all it took to put an old couple right back in their Cadillac, to get two buff college boys to toss their bikes back into their truck bed, and to make a mom and dad pile kids back into their van and roll the windows up tight before burning rubber out of the parking lot. I hopped in my car, slammed the door, and three danged flies landed on my windshield. They only budged when I turned on my wipers.
Only later did I feel the sting and see the evidence of their bites: swollen red welts. I slathered on some sticky pink calamine lotion, and in an hour or two, I couldn’t feel the pain at all. The physical damage was fleeting; the mental trauma stuck around.
The memory of that day remains clear and present. I spend a decent amount of time down at the coast and really enjoy exploring the areas off the beach. That was the worst part: Those tiny little yellow flies turned me yellow-bellied and, for a time, stole a beloved pastime. For years after that horror show on the trail, I wouldn’t even consider traipsing into the woods down there. I’d read that conventional bug sprays don’t work. I’d heard DEET could hold them at bay, but I wasn’t sure that was a you-ain’t-gonna-git-bit guarantee. Covering all exposed skin provides protection, but then I’d die of a heat stroke (which I think I’d prefer).
Those little @$%!!s pursued me all the way to my car, and when I got there and saw others about to head onto the trail, I shrieked a warning. “Yellow flies!”
I will always be fearful of yellow flies. (Wanna see me break into a cold sweat and flail around while screeching? Get real close and either brush my leg with a feather or hum a low buzz next to my ear.)
But a few years ago, I decided I wouldn’t let them continue their reign of terror. I’ve now gone back on that same trail and many others, much deeper into the woods, many times. Am I incredibly courageous? No. But I’m smart, or at least smarter than a bug brain. I just do my trail exploration on a bike, and at the slightest hint of yellow fly — a shadow, a whisper buzz moving past my head — I ride like the wind and dare them to catch me.
