The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
ward off their attacks. On the beach, where you 
caught what breeze there was stirring, life was 
more endurable, but Alaskan mosquitoes baffle 
description—I simply cannot do them justice. 
When they disappear—if they ever do—their 
place is taken by sandflies of sorts, the ordinary 
tiny black and white one and a red one. These, 
however, can be kept in some sort of bounds 
by smothering one’s skin with a concoction of 
grease and penny-royal. 
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