Long John

Mono Lake is a fascinating place, but the one thing that doesn’t come across in the photographs of it––something that only really impacts you upon an in-person visit––is the flies.

Brine flies, specifically (even more specifically, ephydra hians). They crowd the shoreline of Mono Lake, looking like gatherings of moss until you step near them when the explode into a translucent cloud of tiny flies that don’t really fly higher than your knees before settling back down behind you. They add to the eerie nature of the place, among the pocked tufa towers and under the strong smell of salt water.

The tufa towers at Mono Lake; missing: the billions of brine flies.

While that may not seem appealing to most––I mean, it’s not––it’s definitely not disgusting. Unlike the bothersome flies that haunt you while eating at a picnic table or one that somehow found its way into your bedroom at night buzzing in the darkness, these flies are not interested in you in the least. Their instant explosion and resettling reads as if they’re being polite, letting this giant pass through so it can get back to its own business.

I found it hard to translate to the art, as well. They’re so small and multitudinous that it would either take forever to draw them on the pages, or I would try to some digital shortcut which would likely end up looking like some cheap overlay (because it would be). In the interest of creative control, I tended to leave them out. So, having this young woman mention them seemed to be my peace offering and apology to these peaceful creatures that didn’t deserve such erasure.