I SPIED THE ENEMY SCOUT before the snow was gone. He circled the house, searching for a prime location for the troops to converge. They'd want to be beyond the reach of flailing broomsticks. Maybe they'd settle in last year's spot, under the deck, near a delicious food supply. The Vespidae gang, boldly dressed in yellow jackets, is the scourge of barbecue season. I've done battle with them before, and it's not pretty. Last summer, whenever we used our deck, the occasional wasp checked out the menu. Soon, you couldn't enjoy a nice, cold beer without six of them pushing you around. It had to stop. Knowing nothing about banishing wasps, I consulted the pros at the garden centre. I'd heard tales about the guy dressed in shorts and T-shirt swatting a nest with a broom. Stung everywhere, he ends up a balloon in ICU. Not me, I vowed, purchasing insecticide, gloves, netted hat - everything necessary for all-out war. You're supposed to wait until dusk, when it gets cool. You sneak up on the nest and spray bug foam all over it. For the coup de grâce, you insert the nozzle into the nest, sending the gang to bug heaven. So, as daylight vanished and the night air became cool, Bug Man jumped into action. Armed with all the foam cans I could carry and dressed in a snowmobile suit and black balaclava, I felt like a ninja warrior. I was so padded, I could hardly move or see. But I was protected ... wasn't I? Crawling under the deck was difficult. When I'd positioned myself below where I thought the hive should be, I was cramped and sweating. No matter. Those bugs would soon be history. With one gloved hand, I shone the flashlight on the nest. Yikes. It was as big as a basketball! Swallowing hard, I emptied a can of foam on the nest. Fumbling to grab more of the insecticide, I watched, aghast, as the glop saturating the nest shifted and dropped, its weight ripping the papery structure. Out came the swarm. Panicking, I jumped up, banged my head on the deck's underside, dropped my flashlight. Furious wasps were everywhere, even on my glasses. I fired a second can of bug glop at my face. Yuck - that stuff's toxic. Coughing and swatting, I scrambled out, dashed to the garage and slammed the door tight. I could hear my son pipe up from the inside step. "Boy, you sure showed them, eh, Dad!" Peering through the goop, I saw my wife, Jackie, embrace Karl. Both were stifling giggles. "Don't bug your father, dear, especially when he's feeling defeated." I learned my lesson. To battle wasps, you need proper equipment. Preferably a flame-thrower. - MARK BEHREND