You know, working in the field isn’t all chasing butterflies through fields of flowers at sunset. There are blisters. There are ungodly smells. Mosquitoes. Wet feet. There are back pains. There are knees which crunch and crackle.
This hitch’s mini-hazards feature incidents in which I…
(1) Had to cut sap out of my hair.
Bears like to rub on fir trees. Firs trees are sappy. Ergo biologists who fiddle with fur on fir are also sappy. I’m not sure why I didn’t look for ways to remove said sap (peanut butter? mayonnaise?) before just clawing at it for hours and then bringing a knife to the fight, but, whatever. Now I have a (stylish?) sideburn curl in manner of 20’s French flapper girl.
(2) Was nearly attacked by a salty bird.
Bobby and I were hiking down a trail, minding our own damn business when this brown hissing maniac came crashing out of the woods. By the time we realized it was a grouse we were already backing up. By the time it started charging at us full speed we were already running down the trail, shouting, and looking for sticks with which to beat it.
(Note to animal lovers: even though these heart attack chickens suck, I have not beaten any with sticks, or feet, to date.)
And speaking of being assaulted…
(3) Was stung in the eye by a mysterious winged insect.
Again, minding my own business, hiking out of the glorious Fifty Mountain meadows with Coy after four days out, when out of nowhere this kamikaze bee or bee-like creature jets directly into my face, gets caught between my sunglasses and eyeball where it madly buzzes and slams against my face, ultimately stinging me just below the eye. Naturally this swelled up nice and pretty. Luckily, we stopped for lunch soon there after, where I was able to put a slice of still night-chilled cucumber on my eye, in manner of zany backcountry spa treatment.
And speaking of being stung…
(4) Was bitten, stung, and soundly violated by a host of vicious nettles.
For real. Those hairy green bastards got me good. Again and again. And it wasn’t even the stinging and resulting diseased-leg look that was the worst of it. No, the worst was when I nearly scratched my legs bloody while being kept up all night long with the diabolical itching. All. Night. Long.
5) Was coerced into drinking beer out of a funneling-device shaped like a boob.
What can I say… It was a relic from a recent bachelor party, and apparently I cannot resist peer pressure. Prior to the boob-tubing incident I literally jumped off of a bridge because, you know, everyone was doing it.
I love summers in the field.