Take pests, for instance. I’m not talking about your campground neighbor who turns on his generator just when you’re ready to slip into your comfy chair with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. The pests I’m talking about are the critters and varmints that think your RV is a much better place to live then a hole in the ground.

Most of these pests are merely a nuisance, and can be dispatched by various easy-to-use methods. The pests that test my mettle, though, are the various species of Perognathus (pocket mice) that defeat my every effort to thwart their entry. Even with my advanced intellectual status on the evolutionary ladder, they always manage to find some unknown, secret entry into my motorhome, (for all I know purposely built into it by some disgruntled RV tech), eluding even the most advanced high-tech detection techniques.

Though I consider myself a conservationist and wildlife ecologist, I admit openly (knowing that there are some of you out there who will throw sticks and stones at me with cries of "hypocrite" and "assassin" the next time we meet), that in the spring nesting period I maintain a permanent trap-line. The possibility of flocks of little gray mice hatching and chewing on the strings of wires that run through my rig’s dark inaccessible places does not cause even the slightest twinge of guilt or remorse when an intruder, lured by the smell of Lynn’s gourmet cooking, unknowingly disturbs my night’s sleep with the "snap" of a springing trap.

Automatically, like a programmed robot, I pull myself sloth-like up from a deep state of catalepsy, extract the intruder from my instrument of death, and fling him into the black hole of the night. In this semi-conscious state, I sometimes forget that I am not camped in some desolate boondocking site, which I realize when the mouse thunks off the RV next to me. Then I have to scoop it up (remembering first to put some clothes on), retract the carcass, wipe the mouse remains off my neighbor’s rig, and dispose of it in the trash bin--usually far from the motorhome--as wives will not let one just drop dead mice into the galley waste basket. I reset the trap, get back in bed with a sigh of relief, and return to my dream state.

One night recently, this do-it-in-my-sleep ritual took a decidedly different turn, however, which did not immediately ring the warning bell that it should have. I arose as usual, stubbed my toe making my way through the hallway, lit my trap inspection light, and found the trap had indeed sprung--but it was empty and the bait was gone. I reset and re-baited the trap, returned to bed, and was soon snoring again like the Orient Express rumbling through the night.

Darned if that trap didn’t spring again, and once again I stumbled down the hall, stubbing my toe over the same object, lit the trap light, and---. You guessed it. Sprung trap. No bait. No critter.

I reset and re-baited the trap, but by this time all hopes of a restful night had vanished. I lay awake, ears pricked to pick up the faintest of mouse footsteps and was startled by a shuffling noise that was too loud for one so small. Quietly, with the stealth of a cat burglar, I sat up and aimed my flashlight at the trap, illuminating the scalawag and stopping him in his tracks. The thing was the size of a cat! But it disappeared so quickly I couldn't identify it.

During the urgently assembled damage-control conference the next morning the ranger suggested that a baited live animal trap, which I could borrow from the local SPCA, might capture our uninvited guest, whatever it was. That evening I set the new trap. This was no wimpy trap, mind you. It must have been three feet long and a foot high, built of heavy gauge wire. Big time trapping. I placed the bait (a can of, "seafood fiesta" cat food), set the automatic trap door spring mechanism, and settled back in bed to sleeplessly await the thrill of the catch. A short while later I was rewarded by the metallic "clank" of the closing trap door.

I sprang from my bed, turned on the lights, and raced to the front to see this captured varmint. Proudly I held up the cage to display the catch to my admiring wife, which set her to screaming, "get it out of here, it’s a skunk!"

With a complete lack of regard for my own personal safety in this moment of peril, and bravely disregarding the pungent gift that I could at any moment receive from my frightened captive, (actually more like the conditioned response one gets to one’s wife’s screams), I grabbed the cage handle and whisked skunk and trap outside where I deftly covered it with the awaiting tarpaulin.

At dawn’s early light, I triumphantly summoned the ranger, the camp host, and our neighboring campers to witness my accomplishment, and to bask in the accolades of one who has just returned from the dark moment of terror to the shining light of glory. I whipped off the tarp with all the flourish of a magician making a tiger disappear. And disappear it had. The cage was empty!

Lynn turned and walked silently into the motorhome. The ranger stood mute, staring at the empty cage. The camp host resumed raking the campsite, and the RV neighbors, murmuring to themselves with an occasional furtive glance in my direction, began to wander off.

Lynn emerged from the motorhome carrying our video camera, handed it to the ranger, and flicked a button. The ranger looked through the viewfinder, shook his head slowly, and replied, "Yep, Desert Spotted Skunk."

Unbeknownst to me, she had taped the entire episode. I still don't know how he got into the motorhome or how he escaped from the trap, but we have proof. It's all on videotape.

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