The rustling woke me from an absolute stupor around 11:30PM.

In my sleep addled state, I banged my hand against the felted roof of my topper and rocked the truck back and forth within the truck bed violently. This was my usual remedy for nocturnal tent visitors, but I had to acknowledge, this wasn’t a tent, and these visitors didn’t seem perturbed.

The scraping continued.

I couldn’t fathom what part of the truck it was coming from. I suspected the roof, so I hauled myself out of the warmth of my -15-degree sleeping bag, and into a fine mist.

The night was moonless and cold. I glanced around, squinting at the wetness hitting my cheeks.

I walked a determined lap around the Tacoma, beaming my headlamp at all parts of it—even underneath—nothing.

A mixture of defeat & exhaustion crept over me, and begged me to just give up.

And I clambered back into my make-shift bed, but as soon as my head hit the pillow, the maddening noises began again.

I wondered if a possum or skunk had infiltrated the hood of my truck and was currently building itself a nice, oily nest? I shuddered to think.

Paranoia won out, and I crawled into the night once more to start my truck—just to be sure—the engine roared to life and I breathed a small sigh of relief.

I resigned myself to the dubiousness of the situation and jammed in a pair of ear plugs, eager to fall back asleep.

I woke in the dark to a sea of stars peeking through a thinning blanket of clouds; this time it was morning, even though the sky said otherwise.

I didn’t pause to listen for the sound of scratching. Wanting to vacate Upper Onion Creek Campground and leave my “friends” behind as far behind as possible, I extricated myself from my tangled cocoon and immediately leapt into the driver’s seat.

I peeled away from Upper Onion Creek Campground without a backwards glance, and hung a right on the highway, driving away from Moab, UT.

My brain worried over what mischief could possibly have befallen me in the night, as I wound my way through the blackness on byway 128.

And then, as I rounded a particularly dark and damp curve, it occurred to me that I might have mice.

This was much worse than a possum but perhaps less so than a skunk.

How was I supposed to get rid of mice? What if they’d already constructed mouse-sized cities in my undercarriage?

I cringed to think that while I was jamming earplugs in, the mice were probably making babies, strengthening their reserves, and battening down the hatches in case I decided to wage war.

My fury nearly drove us all from the road and into the Colorado River.

I might have been overreacting.

I arrived at Fisher Towers Trailhead positively certain that the mice were now also in the cab of my truck, rummaging about in my food bags, gnawing on my belongings with their tiny teeth—but silently—no matter how I strained my ears, I really couldn’t hear them.

The sky was still dark when I turned into a parking space and killed my headlights.

After donning my headlamp once more, I hopped out, marched around back, and flung down the tailgate.

My courage ebbed as I slid out the drawer of my platform.

I moaned internally at the sheer quantity of tiny black pellets littering the storage space.

I began systematically pulling things out the drawer that I didn’t want chewed, shaking them violently, and chiding the mice for their poor choice in vehicle, as mine was headed back to a place roughly 40 degrees colder than this one.

I noted a tiny nest made from what appeared to be pieces of thread and tufts of insulation, carefully arranged in the boob-cup of my bikini.

It was kind of cute, but that didn’t stop me from dumping it out onto the gravel.

Fairly certain the mice had not yet made a home in the interior of my vehicle, I jammed everything I’d determined mouse-free inside and went for a quick hike.

 The sky had begun to lighten in morning shades of pink, lavender, and pale blue.

But I was distracted.

I worried incessantly over the roving infestation my vehicle had become. Why couldn’t I let these things go and just roll with the punches?

I paused at several overlooks along the trail and tried to bring myself back to the present.

We are all just trying to survive, aren’t we? I thought to myself. And to blame rodent opportunists would be outrageous—I’d left the rear of my truck wide open, after all—I all but invited them in.

 Once back in my Tacoma, I threw on a Brené Brown podcast to drown out my companions and my thoughts, and I began the two-plus hour drive to Montrose.

The morning was glorious; the red buttes were dazzled in a sparkling layer of snow, and they loomed over hills of sage green, mint, and yellow. The sun teased the still frozen world with its adoring rays, and for a moment, I almost forgot I had a colony of mice wreaking havoc not 5 feet away.  

The first thing I did when I arrived in Montrose was take my truck through the carwash.

I had a favorite, drive-thru carwash and I was not going to change my long-standing plan to finally rinse the off the summer grime, simply because I had house guests.

I smiled to myself as I pulled into the thunderous bay, wondering vaguely how the mice were holding up as the sponges and hoses and washing arms whirled furiously against the exterior of our home on wheels.

Apparently, not well.

 After the air dryers blew us off, I pulled us around to the vacuuming station. I figured I could at least shake out the remaining items in the drawers and suck up some of the poop (not the mice, I know how that sounded).

I popped the tailgate without much thought, and was startled to see a huddled figure, seated expectantly at the edge of the truck bed.

Its eyes were two wet ink blots, shining with worry. Its small, grey paws were pulled up close to its chin, resting below luxurious and twitching whiskers.

 “Ohmygosh, you have to get out!” I exhaled in a breathy squeal.

The absurdly small creature did not move, perhaps in shock from the sudden brightness, the giant looming above it, or the violent activity of the carwash—a far cry from its serene home at Upper Onion Creek Campground, just outside of Moab.

I brought my cupped hand around the quivering soul and bumped its furry little bum with my palm.

The mouse leapt into action, flattening itself against the rubber liner, suddenly unsure of its decision to evacuate.

I parried its backwards retreat, and launched the tiny astronaut into the parking lot with a single finger, acutely aware of how soft and small it felt against my palm.  

 The mouse zigzagged across the adjacent parking space and into a clot of snow, which sent it reeling backwards, stunned. A second passed, it gathered itself together, and then it zipped around the side of the building.

Another flash of grey caught my eye, and a second mouse beat feet out from under one of my tires. It seemed my vehicle was teeming with tag-a-longs.

I was left gasping with mortification as the situation unfolded.

I never meant to bring mice to my favorite carwash, I thought with dismay.

My embarassment only increased when I saw a girl walking towards me from the exact direction the mice had just fled.  

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell no one what I just saw come outta your car, “ She smirked.

I grimaced and wondered where the mice would settle. For their sakes, I hope they found a cozy nook stuffed full of insulation.

I wished the pair the best of luck as I drove out of Montrose. I was still racking my brain for the moral of the story as I drove through Little Blue Creek Canyon…

But perhaps it’s something as simple as: don’t let a mouse catch you with your tailgate down.

And if you do happen to pick up some unwanted companions while camping, a quick pass through a carwash should do the trick.