The March equinox occurred two weeks ago today, marking the first day of spring. Although it could be a bit early to put the snow blower away, one can’t help but look forward to more outdoor activities soon. For us, thoughts this time of the year include returning to our small lake cabin and the oasis of secluded relaxation it has provided for 40 years.

It is never certain what will be discovered on the first lake visit of the year. Fallen tree branches blocking the gravel road are a frequent nuisance. But, less common discoveries can prove more challenging. Like the year 22 trees felled by a pair of beaver greeted us in addition to their dam constructed in a small creek that feeds the lake alongside our property. Surprises like these assure a measure of work will be needed before relaxation can get underway. Some years ago, other critters’ mischief brought trouble.

After customary first-day chores of leaf raking, cleaning and unpacking items stored away for the winter ended, we turned in for the night, totally exhausted. Just before drifting off to sleep, Rita said, “What’s that noise?”

“What noise?” I replied. “I don’t hear any noise.”

“Listen… there it is again, “that scratching noise.” It was barely audible.

An intermittent scratching sound came from beneath the bed. I found a flashlight in the night stand and dropped to the floor to look. Nothing but dust was underneath. Then I heard it again. The scratch was coming from the crawl space under the house.

Slipping on jeans, the flashlight and I took a stroll outside and around to the bedroom window. Sherlock Holms wasn’t needed to figure out the problem. A hole dug under the house was clearly large enough to allow something to crawl underneath. A plan was needed to bring whatever it was to justice.

Inside, I extracted a brat from the refrigerator, sliced it into bitesize discs, doused them in a little beer and shoved the paper bowl into the microwave. As the banquet heated to a sizzle, I retrieved a .22 rifle from the closet. Convinced that help from Johnsonville’s steamy aroma would lure whatever it was out into the open, the feast was positioned on the pile of fresh dirt alongside the house. With a full moon overhead, a lawn chair was placed a short distance away so the unwanted critter’s last super tab could be safely delivered. When the guest of honor proved a no-show 45 minutes later, I went back inside.

A more complete investigation happened the next day. After removing a trap door in the closet floor, I hung my head into the crawl space and shined the flashlight around. A half-dozen pair of eyes reflected light back at me. A raccoon and her kits were nested under the bedroom floor. A new plan was needed.

Raccoons prefer a quiet location away from foul odors I read on a website. A trip to town netted a jug of ammonia and a half-dozen soft, squishy balls from Walmart’s toy department. With the trap door open again, each ball was soaked in ammonia and tossed in different directions under the house. A timeworn clock radio from the garage was tuned to the only radio station with a signal in the area, Sunny 101.9, KBTO in Bottineau. The volume knob was cranked to maximum before the radio was dangled by its cord into the crawl space. I replaced the trap door. We were confident the raccoon squatters would find a new home before we returned.

In Minot, I shared details about our weekend activities with a friend. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Did you say you tuned in 101.9 FM? That station only plays country music. Raccoons LOVE country music,” he claimed. Rita and I returned to the lake the next weekend.

I thought I had nothing more to learn. Turns out raccoons don’t care for beer-steamed brats, but I’ll be darned if they aren’t fond of ammonia and Willie Nelson.