The first time Mike the Hog-a-Nator (whose real name is Mike Foshee) noticed the ants, it was two summers ago, and they were piled outside his cardiologist’s office in Pearland, Texas, a suburb of Houston. There was a forbidding, fibrous heap of dead ants on either side of the building’s double doors, each a couple of feet long. Legions of living ants shuffled over the dead ones—though Mike the Hog-a-Nator had to bend down to see these. So many ants were moving so chaotically and so fast that the entire reddish-brown tangle at his feet looked as if it were shimmering.
Six years earlier, a doctor had found a tumor on Mike the Hog-a-Nator’s aorta. It was inoperable. Mike, who was only 36, was told to live every day as if it were his last. He narrowed his joys and priorities to two: The first was putting smiles on the faces of people who needed them, so he started a program he calls Therapy Through the Outdoors. Ever since, he has been taking kids with terminal diseases and veterans with injuries or PTSD on adventures in the 60-acre woodland across from his house. The other was shooting as many feral hogs as he possibly could.
Mike hates feral hogs and has always found it very satisfying to clear those hideous, rooting thugs off a piece of land. He has always been good at it, too—that’s how he got his nickname. Feral hogs are among the most gruesome and destructive invasive species in the United States. The federal government estimates that there are now five million hogs in 35 states, resulting in $1.5 billion in damages and control costs every year. The ants were an entirely different sort of invasive species. They arrived at Mike’s house a few months after he first saw them at his cardiologist’s office. One day, his air-conditioning stopped working. A musty smell seeped from the vents. He powered up his Shop-Vac to clear them, and by the time he’d finished, he’d sucked out five gallons of ants.
Soon he and his wife were waking up to find vast, frantic networks of ants zipping around the kitchen floor. When the picture on their 50-inch television started flickering, Mike took off the back panel and found the guts throbbing with ants. He got rid of the television.
Outside, dead ants began pooling around the house in heaps so high, they looked like discarded coffee grounds. Mike laid out poison, generating more heaps of dead ants. But new ants merely used those dead ants as a bridge over the poison and kept streaming inside.
People don’t want to visit the Foshees anymore, and if they do, they leave quickly, before the ants can stow away in their cars and accompany them home. This summer, Mike had to cancel Therapy Through the Outdoors. Recently, he and his wife were sitting outside when Mike looked down and saw one of his bare feet overtaken by ants. He ran inside, then ran back out with the AR-15 assault rifle he uses to take out hogs. He was about to open fire on the ants until his wife chuckled, and he realized how ridiculous the situation had become.
“The distressing part,” he told me, “is the feeling of something always crawling on you. It’s psychological, and yet you actually do have them on you.”
He tried leaving different foods on his floor overnight, to figure out how he might bait and kill the ants, as he did with the feral hogs. He tried doughnuts, crushed-up Cheerios, bread crumbs—“anything a normal ant would be attracted to,” he told me. He claims they touched none of it.
“They run around like they’re on crack, and then they die,” he said. “They’re freakin’ crazy, man.”
Entomologists report that the crazy ants, like other ants, seem drawn to electronic devices—car stereos, circuit boxes, machinery. But with crazy ants, so many will stream inside a device that they form a single, squirming mass that completes a circuit and shorts it. Crazy ants have ruined laptops and, according to one exterminator, have temporarily shut down chemical plants. They are most likely climbing into these cavities to investigate possible nesting sites. But David Oi, a research entomologist at the Department of Agriculture, told me that the science-fiction-ish theory that the bugs are attracted to the electricity itself can’t be ruled out.
Crazy ants don’t have a painful bite, but they terrorize people by racing up their feet and around their bodies, coursing everywhere in their impossibly disordered orbits. Some people in Texas have become so frustrated with crazy ants that they’ve considered selling their houses.
Crazy ants decimate native insects. They overtake beehives and destroy the colonies. They may smother baby birds struggling to hatch. In South America, where scientists now believe the ants originated, they have been known to obstruct the nasal cavities of chickens and asphyxiate the birds. They swarm into cows’ eyes.
So far, there is no way to contain them. In the fall, the worker ants are subject to magnificent die-offs, but the queens survive, and a new, often larger crop of crazy ants pours back in the spring. Crazy ants were first discovered in Texas in 2002 by an exterminator. Within five years, they appeared to be spreading through Texas much faster than even the red fire ant, which costs the state roughly $1 billion a year. Crazy ants have also been spotted in Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, and Georgia.
As the ants began to advance, a division of the Department of Agriculture convened a task force. On October 9, 2008, eighteen people, including representatives from state and federal agencies and several academic entomologists, met to assess the problem.
At the time, the American economy was crumbling. Six days earlier, President Bush had approved $700 billion for the Troubled Asset Relief Program. “I don’t think the government had a lot of money to spend on bugs,” says one task force participant. In fact, the conversation hit a Catch-22: The government didn’t want to release money to research or combat the ants until it knew what species it was dealing with. The scientists insisted that they needed funding to figure that out.
Finally, one man spoke up. “I said, ‘You all sound like a bunch of idiots,’” he recalls. He was 52, with a graying, bristly mustache and leathery skin, and on paper at least, he had no business being there. He wasn’t a bureaucrat or a scientist. He’d never even gone to college. But Tom Rasberry was the exterminator who’d discovered the ants—and he’d named them after himself: Rasberry ants.
Tom Rasberry speaks in an unflappable drawl—the same one that airplane pilots use to make mechanical difficulties sound like no big deal. Two years ago, he appeared on The Early Show on CBS and explained that it’s “too late” to stop the crazy Rasberry ants and that “the entire Gulf Coast is going to be inundated.” He added that the ants had been seen at a Houston medical center and that researchers at Texas A&M had shown that the ants can transfer pathogens from room to room. Then he sat there, stone-faced. “Sometimes,” Rasberry said, “I wish I would have never heard of them.”
Rasberry first spotted the crazy ants while on a job at a chemical plant in the Houston suburb of Pasadena in 2002. Outside the office, he saw a few hundred ants traveling in erratic swirls. “I just sprayed ’em with my can—no big deal,” he remembered. The following summer, he was called back to the same spot. “There were literally billions of them,” he said.
The ants quickly sprouted in surrounding areas, most likely transported in landscaping and soil, building materials, or cars. Rasberry called state and federal agencies, trying to communicate his alarm. But the government didn’t respond as quickly or determinedly as he expected.
The breadth of America’s battle against invasive species can be hard to fathom, involving 13 federal agencies and departments, including not only the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the Forest Service but also the Treasury Department. Cornell University ecologist David Pimentel and his colleagues have estimated that invasive species cost the nation $120 billion a year. In 1999, the National Invasive Species Council had to be created to coordinate all these agencies’ efforts. Says the council’s assistant director, Chris Dionigi, “Sometimes things can fall through the cracks.”
Rasberry crazy ants seem to have come pouring through one of those cracks. By appearing first in suburban neighborhoods and not, say, national forests or wildlife refuges or farmland, they colonized the territory between various agencies’ jurisdictions. The government’s system is reactive, not proactive, and so only recently has the species surged into regulatory view. The Department of Agriculture still doesn’t consider the ants a “pest of agricultural significance.” Plus, there was a bigger problem: Even when the government did look straight at the ant, it didn’t know what it was looking at.
Tom Rasberry collected samples of the ant at the Pasadena chemical plant in 2003 and sent them off to Texas A&M to be identified. But figuring out what species the ants were, and where they came from, quickly became vexing. Academics from other institutions swarmed in to debate, for example, the significance of four tiny hairs on the ant’s thorax. For years, they hurtled through a series of wrong answers, but the consensus eventually leaned toward a certain invasive ant, called Nylanderia pubens, which has been in Florida since the 1950s.
Rasberry was convinced this couldn’t possibly be the same ant. His ant was ripping through Texas like a violent dust storm; their ant had been entrenched in Florida for more than 50 years, barely causing any trouble. Why would the bug suddenly behave so differently? Rasberry began his own investigation, spending thousands of hours out in the field or examining samples with a microscope. “It was an obsession,” his daughter, Mandy Rasberry-Ganucheau, said. As long as there was evidence that the ants were pubens and not something new, the government felt it was reasonable not to act.
State and federal agencies have now financed very limited research, and the Environmental Protection Agency has tweaked its regulations to allow the use of a high-powered pesticide against the ant. The taxonomy question was settled in September 2012, when scientists concluded that the Rasberry crazy ant is not the same ant that was collected in Florida in the 1950s—it’s Nylanderia fulva, a species native to Brazil. Rasberry was vindicated.
Last winter, the federal research entomologist David Oi and the researcher who led the taxonomy study, Dietrich Gotzek, gave fulva a common name. Everyone was already calling it Rasberry crazy ant, but that hardly mattered: Naming a bug after a person is strongly frowned upon. Besides, Oi told me, the name was too confusing: “People thought it was supposed to be the fruit.” He and his colleague rechristened it the Tawny crazy ant, a name almost no one in Texas appears to use—especially not Tom Rasberry, who took Oi’s maneuver as a personal attack. “It may sound arrogant,” Rasberry told me, “but I think they’re irritated that someone without a college degree one-upped all the PhDs.”
Meanwhile, the bugs, whatever they were called, just kept advancing. As Roger Gold, a veteran Texas A&M entomologist, said, “All this work about scientific names and common names has never killed a single ant.”
I saw my first crazy ants in a rural area south of Houston called Iowa Colony, named by a land corporation in the early 1900s as a marketing ploy to sell acreage to Midwesterners. Strom Duke, the man who invited me out, had turned 65 the day before. He wore a yellow T-shirt, a yellow cowboy hat, and gold-framed tinted glasses. His story was typical: One evening, his iron stopped working, then sparks shot from the appliance and a tide of ants came rushing out. Strom’s neighbors had similar stories. The ants had caused $1,600 of electrical damage to one woman’s car; infiltrated one house’s alarm system, causing the alarm to blare; and shut off the water at Strom’s brother Melvin’s house by disabling the pressure switch on his well. As we strode up to Melvin’s place, we could see ants puddled under the doorframe and behind the tires of Melvin’s Camry—thick, tapering drifts of them, two or three feet across. Edward LeBrun, an ecologist at the University of Texas at Austin, believes a single “supercolony” of crazy ants occupies as many as 4,200 acres in Iowa Colony and is spreading 200 meters a year in all directions.
Wherever the Dukes pointed, there were ants: under the door of a microwave oven, crawling out of the electrical outlets, heaped in the flower beds where I mistook them for fresh topsoil. “You don’t feel them crawling up your clothes?” Melvin’s wife, Charlene, asked. She was walking around barefoot and in shorts, and I could see ants trickling across her feet and ankles and legs—spelunking between her toes. Soon ants were spiraling up my sneakers and onto my socks. I tried to shake them off, but nothing disturbed them. Before long, I was sweeping them off my calves. I kept instinctively taking a step back from some distressing concentration of ants, only to realize there was nowhere to go. I got in my car and left.
One afternoon last fall, I met Rasberry for a barbecue lunch. It was the third day of the government shutdown, and he explained that his technician wasn’t able to get into NASA’s Johnson Space Center in Houston, where they had managed to tamp down a crazy-ant infestation. Rasberry worried that if they were locked out for three or four weeks, the agency was “going to have a mess out there.” He said it without any hint of foreboding, or even much interest. He told me he has cut back his work hours, coming into the office only three days a week and spending the rest of his time at his house in the woods.
Rasberry is convinced that the next, obvious wave of damage from the crazy ants will be ecological: They will decimate ground-dwelling bird species, just as fire ants devastated Texas’s quails, and they’ll usurp nearly every other insect species until it’s all Rasberry crazy ants, everywhere. “You knock nature off balance, and ain’t nobody there to catch her,” he said. Entomologists speculate that crazy ants may eventually run into predators along the Gulf Coast. If that happens, their populations may crunch down to manageable sizes. But, these scientists add, the damage done before that happens could be enormous. On the other hand, maybe this is as dystopian as the ant situation gets, and this summer will be better. We understand so little about these crazy ants; it’s hard to say what’s possible.
Not long ago, Rasberry told me, he got a call from a woman who said, “I know how to fix the ant issue.” He could have been furious—it was 11:38 p.m.—but he invited her to go on. She said her plan was to import anteaters. Rasberry paused, then started troubleshooting, working all the angles, reeling her in. Would we lead them around on leashes? “And how many do you think we’ll need to import?” he asked her. “A million? Two million?” The woman thought it over. “If that’s what it takes,” she said.