Stories of the confluence of Vermont’s alternate universe.
This story was related to me by my doctor a couple of years ago. The locations may have been changed to protect privacy.
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Years ago, I ran out of gas on old Highway 89. It was a hot summer afternoon, and I was heading back from med school. I left the car on the side of the road and hoofed it to find the nearest gas station.

I started down a circular exit ramp. This ramp was a perfect circle, so the bit of wood in the middle was surrounded by pavement. To save some time, I decided my best bet was to cut through the trees and introduce myself to the local insect and plant population.

My error was apparent within three steps, but I was too stubborn to simply return to the pavement. I continued, and the woodland grew darker. The mosquitoes were devouring me. After ten minutes, my skin looked like bubble wrap.

As if the mosquitoes weren’t enough, I stepped onto a trap door camouflaged with leaves and twigs. It gave way, dropping me into a dirt pit about two feet deeper than my height.

That’s when I met the tent girl of exit 34B. I’d guess she was around 14, though it was hard to tell under all the dirt.She could talk, but her guttural accent gave away her lack of schooling immediately. I explained I was a student looking for gas.

I guess I was convincing because she pulled me out of the hole with her feral girl strength. Her campsite, completely hidden by trees, was filled with things people had tossed, or lost, from their cars: gas tanks, clothes, mattresses, even a bike. She’d lived there her entire life, unnoticed. Her parents, she claimed, lived at an exit fifteen miles north.

As curious as I was, the mosquitoes were still feasting on me, and the girl noticed this. Mind you, she was entirely free of bites despite the surrounding swamp of bugs. I figured it was the dirt—turns out, it wasn’t. She motions for me to have a seat on a log outside her tent. She goes into the tent. I hear some pots and pans rattling while she’s in there searching for something.

She returned with a plastic Coke bottle, a quarter full of what I was pretty sure was urine. She emptied the contents of a rusted Altoids tin, which looked like dead flies, into the bottle. The contents, I’m pretty sure, were dead flies. Next, she hocks a loogie into the bottle and tops it off with a powder she had in an old sandwich bag, which may have been the dehydrated remains of an old sandwich.

She places the lid back on and shakes the bottle like a madwoman for nearly five minutes. When she’s finished, the urine, flies, spit, and sandwich have merged into a yellowish-brown liquid. She hands it to me with a grunt.
Naturally, I was wary of the mixture, but desperation won out. And wouldn’t you know? It worked. It worked better than any product on the market, and I even emptied it into a spray bottle when I got home. It lasted me the entire summer.

To get home, though, I needed gas, and the girl gave me a can that had just enough to get me off the highway. I thanked her and was on my way.
Thirty years later, I enjoy hiking and being out in the woods more than ever, and I’ll spend hours with nary a bite. No ticks even, and it’s all due to the girl’s secret formula.

Now, when I spot items of interest on the roadside, I stop and fill my trunk. Once I’ve gathered enough, I visit the girl. I say “girl,” but she’s in her forties now. I trade my items and some doctorly advice for the best damn mosquito spray in New England.