By Ashleigh West.
I decided to pack for the elements—this was New England after all—and out here in Western Mass the weather can be especially unpredictable. It was Friday, sunny, and obnoxiously hot—the air in the sweaty and almost uncomfortable 80s—for the first week of October, the first day it hadn’t rain all week. Dressed in shorts and sandals, I packed my purse with a light sweater and scarf, carrying my thrift store boots in case of any impromptu hiking. After checking for the sixth time that I had remembered my keys, camera, and wallet, I set off on my solo adventure to the Quabbin Reservoir.
I hopped in my teal 2000 Camry and immediately turned on the car, rolling down every window and the sunroof to let the less scorching air pour in. I began the tedious process of programming my destination into my GPS, my temperamental lifesaver. When “Quabbin Reservoir” returned no results, I glanced at my dashboard and noted my intense need for gas, since wandering the roads of Western Mass seemed to be in my future. I searched again for a more general location and upon finding a “Quabbin Park” about 30 minutes away, decided it was my best bet and said a silent prayer for lots of signs.
As I pulled out of Lot 44 of North Apartments, beginning my quest for cheap gas, priority number one was finding a suitable soundtrack for this epic adventure. With the radio stations of Western Mass pumping out 60% static, 40% music, this was no easy task. My seek button became my best friend, as I surfed through the chart toppers and teenyboppers in search of some good ole classic rock, throwbacks, and indie tunes. With the likes of Aerosmith, Guns N’ Roses, and AD/DC focusing in and out of my speakers, I cruised on to the cheapest gas I could find: Stop & Shop at $3.86 a gallon. I use my Stop & Shop rewards card every time, hoping I spontaneously acquired points to lower the gas price, even though I always shop at Big Y for its better deals. With my tank half filled, I pulled out onto Route 9 and began religiously following GPS’s dictations.
GPS lead me through the winding roads of Amherst, Belchertown, and Palmer, where the speed limits jumped from 30 to 55 within seconds of one another. Driving through the streets with the windows down, the air, smelling both fresh and woodsy, was cooler and felt wonderfully crisp on my skin. The trees flamed red and orange as I cruised past, and after four years of calling this area home, I still marvel at its beauty when dressed in autumn. The drive was freeing, relaxing even, melting away the stress of the workweek and I tried not to worry that the route was almost identical to the way I go to get to the Mass Pike to head home. I comforted myself with the cliché, but usually true, notion that it’s not about the destination it’s the journey. Even if I didn’t make it to the Reservoir, I would have an interesting tale of how I got lost with a GPS.
As I rapidly approached what was suppose to turn into the Quabbin Reservoir in approximately two minutes, but remained yet another winding road littered with orange and red, “A-Punk” by Vampire Weekend leaked through the speakers and I was surprised that an alternative radio station had actually found me through the immense static. Bopping along, I whizzed pass a sign for the Reservoir entrance. GPS tells me that I still have another minute to go until I approach my destination. Foolish GPS. I wanted to turn around and head back to the sign, but I kept passing all the potential areas to pull into. GPS alerted me that I have now reached my destination and what do you know, another entrance!
The road was strange; somehow it was both paved and dirt and there were no signs to welcome me. I began to panic, wondering if I’ve entered in the out way. A couple cars passed by and I frantically searched their faces for signs of outrage or puzzling confusion for this obnoxious Camry that was plowing through the exit. They didn’t seem to notice. So, I continued on my way, slowly and eyes peeled for signs of parking. After a few minutes on the partly paved, partly dirt road, I spied off to my right a small parking area with a few spaces left open. I quickly pulled in and got my bearings. I decided to ditch my boots, as the way looked flat and I preferred not to all Jane of the Jungle alone. Grabbing my purse and readying my camera, I set off to explore.
The air was warm but not as smothering as it was on campus, for a canopy of trees provided some shade. The sky burned a clear blue up ahead and the whole place seems to scream Fall, but in a rather peaceful manner. There were some patches of flies, but I figured once I had made it to the open road that surrounded the Reservoir it would not be as buggy.
I was wrong. Since it had rained every day the past week and it was freakishly hot, the bugs had a field day. They were everywhere. Swarms. Herds. Packs of bugs. Everywhere. And not just flies. There were bees, hornets, yellow-jackets, what have you, but they were buzzing about all over the place. Giant insects the size of my pointer finger, and which I can only describe as a sort of flying cricket, ruled the air. They leaped and jumped and seemed to be after me—as if they could smell my fear. The Quabbin Reservoir was in desperate need of some air traffic control. The ironic part was that I—with an intense, boarding on insane phobia of bugs—seemed to be the only person who even noticed their existence.
Swatting, I ventured out of the trees and into the clearing, where the sky seemed to stretch on forever, all blue and cloudless melding with the water. The bright sun streaming down made even the air sparkle and the whole Reservoir smelled of what Yankee Candle tries to bottle with labels like “Perfection” or “Tranquility”. I wanted to be brave and not let my out of control fear ruin my trip, so I attempted to make my way past a concrete barrier and towards a better view of the sprawling valley. I noticed an elderly couple was just on the other side enjoying the scenery, and they seemed perfectly content and bugless. As I neared the barrier, it became apparent to me that a colony of bees had marked their territory, calling this place home. 
I scooted as quickly as I could, and as far up on the grassy bank as I could, to get around the bees, but it was no use. They were everywhere. The couple seemed not to notice them, and thankfully paid no attention to my fitful panic attack, as I swatted and ran, silently screaming, for my life. Safely—or rather simply amid a smaller swarm of bugs and bees—on my original side, I stretched my five foot three inch self as tall as I could, and with the camera over my head, snapped a picture of the breathtaking—no pun intended—valley.
This was my experience of the Quabbin Reservoir: a continuous and tiresome series of shrieks, shrills, swatting, sprints, and snapping of pictures, until having made it about half way down the paved path opposite the barrier, I could fair no more near death encounters and retreated half-jogging and sweaty to the safety of my Camry. I checked myself as best I could for extra passengers clinging to my clothes and hair and very literary, jumped into my car locking the doors, as if the bugs might attempt a break-in. My breathing finally began to calm, and just as I was about to start my car for a little air, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a cell phone sized insect attached to my passenger side window! I screamed for about three minutes, alarming the man climbing into his car beside me, and decided that being a little warm wasn’t the end of the world. 
I was disappointed that I never made it far enough to actually see the Reservoir, but I knew there was absolutely no chance of me leaving the vehicle until I was back at my apartment. Then it hit me: I would drive through. All the other cars that did not stop at the tiny parking lot were continuing onto somewhere; I might as well join them. It was truly the best of both worlds: I was safe from the bloodthirsty insects in my rather warm tank, all the while snapping pictures of the fiery foliage as I slowly crawled along, keeping tabs on the whereabouts of my unwelcomed guest, should the bug attempt to MacGyver his way into my car.