The list of potential threats to my well-being seems to keep growing.
In Rappahannock County, there’s a new concern: “alpha-gal syndrome,” a tick-related illness that has joined others like Rocky Mountain spotted fever, tularemia, and the ever-familiar Lyme disease. Alpha-gal can spread through ticks that are barely larger than a poppy seed, resulting in severe allergies to meat from mammals.
Researchers from the University of Virginia identified alpha-gal as the cause in the case of a New Jersey man who died after eating a hamburger, and it’s being investigated in connection with other fatalities as well. Several people I know here are dealing with alpha-gal, and one local eatery even offers an “Alpha-Gal Wrap” made with chicken. I’ve started keeping an Epi-Pen at home, just in case someone with an alpha-gal allergy mistakenly bites into a lamb chop or a steak.
Deer meat poses another risk here due to the spread of chronic wasting disease, which is transmitted by prions, those elusive infectious particles. I have my venison tested, but there’s so much we don’t understand about how this disease spreads that I can’t be entirely sure I’m safe.
Cleaning my birdhouses and feeders makes me cautious about salmonella and histoplasmosis, particularly since invasive European starlings leave droppings everywhere. Locals also say that common issues like bee stings or poison ivy can become severe if you’re exposed repeatedly. I steer clear of a big bald-faced hornet nest by the river and make sure to cover nearly every part of my skin when I’m outdoors.
It seems like even the mice are out to get me now. Rodents are everywhere: there are groundhogs in the barn, voles tunneling in the septic field, and mice nesting in the crawl space under my house. I’ve tried to mouse-proof the area, but they always seem to find a way around my measures. Just a few weeks ago, I had to catch and remove a small group that outsmarted my defenses.
I took precautions when removing them, wearing gloves and a face mask to protect myself from potential diseases. However, I also spent time in the crawl space without those protections, not really worrying about it—until I heard alarming reports about hantavirus linked to a cruise ship outbreak.
Concerned about my rodent exposure and the lengthy incubation period of hantavirus, I consulted an AI named Dr. Claude, who informed me of some alarming details:
- The hantavirus strain found in Virginia—“Sin Nombre”—is notably lethal.
- Virginia has the highest number of hantavirus-carrying mice in the nation.
- I could contract it just by being near mice.
- Chances are high that I’ve already contracted it.
- There’s a 40% chance of mortality.
- I need to find a hospital with an ECMO machine, which would take over my breathing and blood circulation.
This all seemed contradictory because while mice are indeed common in Virginia, there have only been two confirmed hantavirus cases in 33 years. Either Claude was mistaken, or I was in serious trouble.
I checked with my actual doctor—who’s used to my eccentric inquiries—and he saw no need for alarm.
So, what was the AI on about? Geeta Sood, an infectious disease expert at Johns Hopkins Medicine, clarified that while hantavirus is a theoretical risk on the East Coast, it’s not a significant issue here as it is in certain western states—and cases aren’t rising. At Hopkins, she noted, “I don’t think anyone has ever seen or treated a case.”
And if, by some stroke of bad luck, I were to become Patient No. 3, she said I could always knock on her door for that ECMO machine.
So, back to worrying about alpha-gal.
***
One common thread linking many of these rising health threats is climate change. Milder winters are enabling ticks to expand their range and proliferate. Researchers suspect it may also be contributing to the spread of chronic wasting disease. It’s also implicated in the increase of hantavirus in Argentina.
But you don’t need a microscope to notice the damage in Rappahannock. This dry spring following a harsh winter has become a front-page topic for the Rappahannock News. The report describes, “Mother Nature has been especially unkind to Rappahannock County.”
And it’s true; the drought that affects much of the southeast is particularly severe here. Added to that, some late frosts have destroyed newly-burgeoning leaves and blossoms. Local vineyards and orchards are worried that their entire yields might be lost.
Financially, I’m not impacted because I only grow native plants, but I can sense nature is struggling.
The sycamores have shed all their leaves, and their bare branches are laboring to bud anew. The tender leaves of the pawpaws I planted have turned black and withered, along with the leaves on my experimental white ash and American chestnut trees.
I’m particularly worried about the future of the 1,400 seedlings I planted last fall, funded by the Culpeper Soil and Water Conservation District. The 35 white oak seedlings I recently planted are also facing uncertainty.
This feels like the new normal in our changing climate. Since my wife and I bought this property in 2022, drought has been a constant worry. The rivers are reduced to trickles, the soil is cracked, and vernal pools have dried up before the amphibian eggs could hatch.
This season, my first clutch of bluebirds has yielded 19 fledglings and several unhatched eggs, whereas last year more than 25 fledged by this time. It’s tough to pinpoint the exact reason, but I can’t help but think the concrete-like snow that lingered for weeks and the ongoing drought have played a role.
For my land, there isn’t much I can do except pray for rain and frequently check my weather apps. When rain is in the forecast, I’m refreshing RadarScope every few minutes, watching storm cells develop and hoping that the red or yellow patches will hit my area in Sperryville. They always seem to avoid me—heading south toward Madison or north toward Winchester—but that could just be my imagination.
Once the rain starts, I keep an eye on my home rain gauge and celebrate every hundredth of an inch. One night, I went to bed with it showing 0.12 inches and woke to find it at 0.67 inches—I cheered, reminiscent of when I was a kid and heard about the Mets’ incredible comeback.
After the rain last Wednesday, I looked at the rainfall totals:
- Madison: 0.54 inches.
- Winchester: 0.54 inches.
- My house: 0.27 inches.
I felt cheated!
Weather has become my new sport; I’m not just a spectator—I’m directly involved. Everything within 150 feet of my front door—the length of my garden hose—receives artificial support for at least its initial season in the ground. This spring, I planted hundreds of flowering plants along the driveway: short-toothed mountain mint, shrubby St.-John’s-wort, ninebark, blue hyssop, and calico beardtongue. They should be beautiful—if they can survive the drought.
I initially used an oscillating sprinkler, but the water pressure dropped after just an hour. I called for Aquaman, our local well expert, who upgraded my pressure tank, but the same issue persisted. Apparently, my well was literally running dry after 450 gallons and needed to recharge.
So now, I’ve taken to hand-watering each plant with a wand sprayer—a two-hour task that often starts as early as 5:30 a.m. It’s easier on the well, but definitely harder on me.
***
There’s a lot to feel down about when I look at the parched scenery while rationing water from my well. Yet these solitary hours have had an unexpected effect; I’m reminded of how much life still exists and how nature perseveres.
The indigo buntings have returned, singing to me as I water: cheap cheap, penny penny, cheap cheap. The usual white-eyed vireos are now accompanied by their yellow-throated relatives, with their richer calls. I’ve spotted a blue grosbeak, a hopeful sign that it may nest near the house this year. And purple martins have finally arrived, even if starlings have commandeered the gourds I set out for them. (The starling traps I ordered are finally here.)
One morning, as I watered, I noticed a tree swallow watching me from a maple branch. It was gorgeous, with a shiny blue back and pure white breast. To my delight, it eventually flew down, circled my last empty nest box, and went inside. Last I checked, there are two tree-swallow eggs nestled in a fluffy, white-feathered nest.
During the day, bumblebees (including the struggling Bombus pensylvanicus) and various butterflies, mostly swallowtails, seem plentiful this year despite the harsh conditions. At night, fireflies (spring treetop flashers, I believe) illuminate the fields in greater numbers than I’ve witnessed before.
This abundance brings me joy. Despite the drought, the freezes, and my many blunders, something seems to be thriving on the farm. It suggests that, in small ways, we can counteract the effects of climate change. I’ve worked to restore native habitats, and the wildlife is responding. Surrounded by them, I feel more alive—no matter what Dr. Claude thinks.
