Memories of Wyoming
I’m literally carrying the memories of my September trip to
Wyoming for a long-awaited, much-anticipated archery hunt for
And, frankly, I’m getting tired of it.
The trip itself was fantastic; I ultimately downed a decent goat in
the final hours of my hunt after a less-than-stellar shooting
exhibition, albeit one my Ranch Creek Outfitters guide said he’d
seen countless times before.
The problem at this point remains in my left pinky, where a few
cactus spines refuse to surface and have left that digit with a bit
of a wound that every once in a while flares up in the form of a
volcanic eruption of sorts that has me leaking blood and messing up
whatever I happen to be doing at the time: typing, toweling off
after a shower, hauling wood, sometimes, it seems, for no reason at
all as I watch TV.
I’m tired of it, Paula is definitely tired of it, and my crude
attempts at removing the spines – I didn’t even know they were
called spines until I carried them home in my finger – have failed.
On the plus side, I have gotten rid of those lodged in my right
knee and left buttock. And no others have made their appearance,
which was the case with those floating around in my pinky, which
didn’t make themselves known for several weeks after my
I’m still, at this point, refusing to traipse into the ER to have a
professional deal with the problem. Surely this is something that
can be handled with a safety pin, nail clippers, maybe a hunting
knife and fish hook in combination and a little peroxide.
But at this point, the spines remain in there, somewhere, able to
evade my best efforts. I wear a Band-Aid on my pinky until I’m sure
it’s healed, then after a few days without the covering it breaks
open again and I’m left to clean up light switches, mail, the TV
remote and whatever Labrador retriever I may have petted.
And if you got a Christmas card from us that looks like someone
bled on it, pay no attention.