A Week on Mouse Island
A Week on Mouse Island
“Do you have any chips for sale?”
Standing behind the gift shop’s counter, I smiled and showed her the plastic tote of assorted chips. The woman screamed. A mouse was sitting on top of the chip packages, munching on a Cheeto as big as its head.
Dane and I had arrived at Rock Island three days earlier on the Karfi ferry. Our mission was to be the camp hosts from Sunday, September 29, to the following Sunday. Our responsibilities: “Along with helping to take care of the park, camp hosts greet daily visitors and campers, monitor the campground, sell merchandise and firewood, and much more.” We had no clue just how much more it would entail this year.
Leaving the boat, we had grabbed our gear and had taken a short UTV ride to the cabin where we’d be staying for the next seven nights. As we unpacked our supplies, we rejoiced in our luck at being here again. The year so far had been more than challenging, with Dane’s heart attack, a bout with Lyme disease, and my granddaughter Helena’s tragic death. We were ready to lose ourselves in service and the solace of the island. Better yet, my friend Emily was coming for her first camping trip on the island. I couldn’t wait to share the beauty of this place with her.
Mel, the departing camp host, greeted us with warnings: “The mice are everywhere, and bold. Keep the doors to the cabin closed. Tell the campers to eat before dark and out on the green or away from their campsite. Have them dispose of their garbage right away. They shouldn’t keep anything with scent in their tent, not even toothpaste or Chapstick. Hanging bags up doesn’t work—the mice can climb and are skilled at getting into the bags.”
As we walked back from our cabin to the boathouse to receive our instructions for the week, we saw our first mouse.
“Dane!” I cried, pointing at where his foot had just touched down, trapping a mouse. He lifted his foot and it scurried away.
Now we noticed them everywhere, hustling back and forth across the gravel path, rustling in the leaves, and even climbing the walls in the boathouse gift shop.
Soon the previous week’s crew departed for the mainland. We were on our own.
“Welcome to Rock Island,” I shouted as the ferry pulled up to the dock with our first group of campers and day visitors. And there was Emily!
After telling the day visitors how to get to the lighthouse, I tried to give the campers a heads-up on the mice—what to do and not do. The “Guys,” as we started referring to them, pushed past us, saying, “We know.” They’d received a letter the State Park had sent warning of the mice situation. Other campers hadn’t received the letter and weren't prepared to defend their gear or food from the mice. Many said that in all the years they’d camped here, they’d rarely seen a mouse.
Dane and I agreed. Rock Island is one of our top happy places. In our many years vacationing here, we’d never had to deal with mice.
Thankfully, Emily had received her letter and came prepared with a cooler.
Camp hosts don’t have much time to dawdle. While Emily set up her camp, we made our rounds and checked in with campers, loaned out two of our plastic containers, and checked on the garbage situation in the most popular building on the island: the one with running water and flush toilets!
“Arghh!” I yelped. Someone had left the cover off the garbage can in the ladies’ room. Mice started popping out, running the rim of the lid like they were on a treadmill, diving deeper into the can’s contents, climbing the wall, and circling my head on the ceiling like a circus act. I kept kicking the can, yelling, “Out, get out!”
That evening Emily joined us in preparing meal packs wrapped in foil while Dane started our campfire. It was still light out, and Emily reported seeing mice in her campsite.
While the meal was cooking, we fended off mice. While eating, we fended off mice. While making s’mores, mice were climbing our legs, the marshmallow sticks, and the picnic table, and we fended them off.
In the morning, the Guys boasted that they’d killed 70 mice.
We listened to tales of mice chewing through waterproof bags, running on and over tents all night, and emptying a full box of wine that had been left out. Gear and tents had been ruined, and many campers packed up to leave, including Emily. When the Guys left after three days on the island, their mouse kill count was close to 350.
Instead of finding solace on Rock Island, we found thousands of mice creating havoc and unrest. But we never considered leaving. We love the island in spite of mice.
We don’t know how the mouse population got so out of control, but we’re confident the DNR will figure out a solution and Rock Island will continue to be our happy place.