Erin Menke (0:00)

This is an iHeart podcast.

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Erin Menke (0:38)

Welcome to Erin Menke's Cabinet of Curiosities, a production of iHeartRadio and Grim and mild.

Aaron Manke (0:47)

Our world is full of the unexplainable. And if history is an open book, all of these amazing tales are right there on display, just waiting for us to explore. Welcome to the Cabinet of Curiosities.

Erin Menke (1:10)

What we call a group of animals says a lot about how we see them. We call a group of crows a murder because of the bird's ominous appearance. We call ants a colony or an army of ants because of how they move in formation, like a small society. And when you see a plague of locusts on the horizon, well, that collective noun comes from the book of Exodus in the Bible. But what makes a locust unique among these creatures is that there really isn't such a thing as a solitary locust. When they're on their own. We call them grasshoppers. Taxonomically, they're identical. The only real difference is how they socialize. A grasshopper is solitary. Locusts, however, swarm. In other words, not all grasshoppers are locusts, but all locusts are grasshoppers. They are a creature with a surprisingly rich cultural history. They're mentioned in a number of religious texts from around the world in different cultures. As far as swarming animals go, they are the most famous. And with that in mind, let me take you back to the 1870s in America. Immediately post Civil War, post westward expansion, farmers in the Great Plains of North America were working hard to keep up with a rapidly changing country, making a home for themselves in a land that was settled but not fully developed, late in 1873 to early 1874 was a tough time for people. In particular, an economic recession that led to a harsh winter and a dry summer. And while the panic in the economy was the main thing on people's minds, in late 1873, conditions would be just right for a new sort of panic to begin as well. The first sightings were in June of 1873, but they wouldn't reach their full peak when, until the following year, it started as a shadow in the sky, a glistening, vaporous cloud. But the closer it came, the darker it really seemed. There were thousands upon thousands of insects in the sky. Rocky Mountain locusts coming right for them. Farmers scrambled to protect their crops against the impending swarm. They threw blankets over vegetables. They locked their windows. They covered their wells to protect the water. But after a point, there was only so much you could do. The incoming locusts ate everything that wasn't nailed down. They ate away the blankets that protected the crops. They ate bridles from the backs of horses. They ate curtains and sheets when they got inside. Some farmers had to shake the locusts off their bedclothes before going to sleep at night, and again when they woke up in the morning. At least one woman reported that as she froze with fear, the creatures ate the dress she was wearing. This locust plague lasted for five whole years. It was a wave that swept across the center of North America, covering over 2 million square miles between 1874 and 1877. Multiple state governments attempted to address the devastation with minimal results. They offered bounties to those who could destroy the eggs in between swarms, but there were simply too many locusts to keep up with. Farmers resorted to a series of increasingly elaborate measures to dispose of the bugs. In one instance, someone dug a ditch around his farm, filled it with tar, and then lit it on fire to create a barrier between the locusts and his crops. But the locusts were so thick in the air that they smothered the flames with their bodies. Overall, there were trillions of locusts involved in the plague. One of the swarms was 1,800 miles long. For context, that is over half the width of the continental United States. It took five whole days for this enormous swarm to pass overhead, and in that time, it would completely block out the sun for up to six hours at a time. Some farmers starved in the devastation. Others took the advice of local entomologists and actually ate the locusts for sustenance. They were, however, in the minority, as eating large bugs requires some effort to get used to, even if they're cooked and well seasoned. The locusts disappeared suddenly in 1877, following an especially cold winter that likely destroyed many of their eggs. The particular type of locust that caused the catastrophe, the Rocky Mountain locust was, is believed to have gone extinct by the early 1900s, the plague of the 1870s becoming, in hindsight, something of a last hurrah for the species. Few creatures on their way to extinction go out with a bang rather than a whimper. And these locust plagues are a reminder to all of us that even the smallest insect can make a legendary impact on history. The people of Mitchell's Lake had questions. Namely, what in tarnation was Dr. Charles Campbell building on the edge of town? For weeks, they had watched the unusual structure come together plank by plank. It wasn't a barn or a house or any kind of building they'd seen before. Tall and narrow with odd slats and and perched on four thick beams, it loomed over the lake, an enigmatic wooden monolith. No one could guess its purpose. And whenever anyone asked Campbell what he was up to, he would respond with a knowing wink and a smile that he would say, is a cure. It wasn't much of an answer, to be honest, but the locals had no doubt what disease he meant. In 1911, malaria was a major public health threat in Texas, and San Antonio was one of the worst hit cities. The swampy Mitchell's Lake area on the city's south side was home to millions of mosquitoes that carried the parasite. Earlier that year, Campbell had tested the local population of the 87 adults and children who lived on farms around the lake. An astonishing 78 of them were infected with malaria. So you can imagine they were desperate for help. And there was a reason to hope that Dr. Campbell might actually have a solution. The 46 year old Tulane graduate was a respected bacteriologist. Just a decade earlier, he had helped stop a typhoid epidemic that had seized San Antonio. But recently, something had changed. Campbell had shuttered his medical practice and become a recluse. He'd gone off the grid, spending hours wandering in the woods alone. People said that he'd gone batty. But when Campbell finally completed his tower in the spring of 1911, the mystery only deepened. Campbell. Soon, strange, noxious odors began wafting from the 30 foot tall wooden structure. And then the noises began. Not from the tower itself, but from the surrounding area. Late at night, people started hearing a loud orchestra of music from deep in the woods. Campbell was showing up near abandoned buildings and large trees, blasting music at ridiculous levels. He banged pots and pans and made as much ruckus as he could. And from there, it didn't take long for the locals to figure out what he was up to. The doctor was driving bats out of their hiding places, making their old roosts unbearable with the noise. And where did they go? To the carefully designed structure that he had just built for them. The tower at Mitchell's Lake was a house after all, just not for people. The stench wafting from it was guano, or bat droppings. Campbell had filled his bat house with cheesecloth soaked in the stuff, hoping that it would make his tower more inviting to the displaced bats. And it worked. First a few bats arrived, and then hundreds and then thousands. Soon, each evening brought a dark cloud spiraling from the tower as bats took to the sky in search of food. The Mitchells Lake mosquito population plummeted as a result, and with it went the disease. The next year, Campbell retested the population. There wasn't a single case of malaria. Word spread quickly, and similar towers began to crop up all throughout Texas, Florida, and even as far away as Italy. They weren't always as effective as the one at Mitchell's Lake, and eventually malaria was eradicated in the US through more traditional medical advancements. But for a time, Campbell's clever innovation was the best weapon against the disease. His work has had a lasting effect too, not just in combating malaria, but in changing people's relationship with bats. Once viewed as disease carrying pests, they became a valued fixture in Texas skies. Today they're protected by state law in recognition of their ecological importance. And while Campbell's original tower has now collapsed, modern versions continue to be built. One near Bracken Cave in San Antonio houses over 20 million bats, the largest mammal colony in the world. They're a natural, cost effective form of pest control, keeping farms and orchards free of insects without the need for pesticides. It turns out Dr. Campbell learned a thing or two wandering around in those woods. Thanks to him, we finally learned that sometimes bat neighbors make the best neighbors.