OCTOBER 11, 2022 – (Cont.) The sting was slight, but the sharp tip of the branch—green with microbes—broke the skin on the side of my right ring finger. Immediately, I recalled my BMT doc’s warning: “If you scratch yourself on some pine needles, [really bad stuff will ensue].” I gulped: A pine branch partially buried in fungal-rich, decaying detritus had to be a far worse carrier of micro-organisms than were pine needles four-feet off the ground and washed regularly by the rain.
And to think that leading up to the misstep, I’d been doing so well.
One of my sisters happened to have in her day pack, a rudimentary first-aid kit: a band-aid and a disposable, packaged towelette. I ripped open the package and was relieved to discover that the alcohol-soaked towelette hadn’t dried out, despite the advanced age of the package. I cleaned the nick the best I could, then applied the band-aid.
But now all I could think about was the frightening possibility of developing a fungal infection and losing a finger, a hand, an arm. And where would I seek medical attention? The local hospital ER? The University hospital—three hours away? My mind raced. I couldn’t believe it: a single, innocent step that happened to have landed on a random stick—a stick!—in just such a way as to cause it to snap up and nick me in a finger! This was exactly the kind of risk my BMT doc, in his superior wisdom, had cautioned me to avoid.
I told my fellow hikers that I thought it best for me to abandon the leisure hike and walk as fast as possible, two miles back to the Red Cabin so I could thoroughly clean the wound. Everyone agreed.
Without further hesitation, I bolted, and over my shoulder, called out return directions for the hikers I was forced to abandon. If I’d walked any faster, I would’ve been running—fast. Upon reaching the cabin, I removed the blood-soaked band-aid, washed my hands thoroughly, then scrubbed in earnest the nick itself. In an abundance of caution, I poured hydrogen peroxide into a small measuring cup, stuck my finger into the liquid and headed back out to intercept the other hikers on their return trip. I didn’t want to face alone my growing fear.
As I strode strode along at a blistering pace, I perseverated on the improbability of my predicament—before it had become a 100% certainty. I’d not taken some huge, foreseeable risk; I’d not (yet) begun to bud-cap 1,000 trees and expose myself to thousands of pine needles. I’d simply stepped on an errant stick of the perfect shape, length, and location to jump out of the leaves, attack my finger, and draw blood in exchange for who knows how many fungal agents. I was still in as much disbelief as I was in abject terror.
And what on earth would my BMT doc say when he found out what had happened? (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
2 Comments
Eric, could you supervise others who would work on the bud capping? I am sure I could put together a team to get it done.
Ginny, thanks so much for your exceptionally generous offer! I just might take you up on it. The ideal time is first half of November, though I have done it later–avoiding Thanksgiving Week, however, because of deer-hunting season, though in these parts, the risk of hunter presence is next to zilch (if I alerted our neighbor, “Grizzly Adams,” who has many deer stands on his adjoining property. Let’s keep an eye on the weather, etc. and stay in touch. (It does “take a village,” after all!) Thanks again! — Eric
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