It was 1875, and the people under the blazing Minnesota sun hoped for relief.

At first, they welcomed the ominous cloud forming on the horizon, but instead of rain, came locusts.

Like something out of a horror movie, they blanketed everything before them, eating and chewing

through every green-growing thing, and then when they had devoured every crop, the ravenous

insects took to paper, cloth, and even the wool off of sheep. Intense summer heat had caused

the grasshopper population to explode. For some mysterious reason, certain species

morphed into hideous, long-winged, ravenous locusts, and while yes, insects are pretty light,

estimates put the total weight of the swarm at roughly the equivalent of a full-grown bison.

They blanketed the skies and fields from Texas in the south all the way to the

Dakota Territory in the north. The locusts washed up against fences, creating drifts a foot deep.

As one landowner put it, they ate everything except the mortgage. Farmers filled trenches

with sticks and leaves before setting them ablaze, but the thick wave

of locust smothered the flames. It was like bringing a fly swatter to a gunfight. When autumn

rolled in, the bugs sunned themselves on the railroad tracks. But when the cooler morning

came, the chilly insects found themselves unable to move. If you're imagining a slippery,

gooey mess and train wrecks, then we're both on the same page.

Communities turned to the government for assistance.

Unfortunately, state governments offered next to no relief, and Congress tossed a measly

$100,000 at the problem.

In 1875, the locusts returned in record numbers. At an astounding 110 miles wide,

1,800 miles long, and a quarter mile deep, they covered a staggering 198,000 square miles,

and inside that buzzing cloud were an estimated 3.5 trillion hungry insects.

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