A thorny experience

"Well, I can numb it and then dig it out, or I can just dig it out and then if it gets a little too intense we can numb it," the Doc says.

I shrug.

"Dig away Doc."

He starts digging at the black spot in my knee. This is on Father's Day. I can barely walk. My knee feels like someone hit it with a hammer. And not just a love tap, either. This is Nancy Kerrigan pain. But I'm glad the doctor's office is open. Urgent care is a really good idea. Guys like me who don't really have huge emergencies can still get looked at without lounging around the hospital.

So here I am. It all started the day before. I volunteered this year to do some loon surveys for the Park. Picked out a lake I'd never been to (and I don't think anyone goes there, either).

The hike in and out isn't awful, but it's not fun, either. Pretty much straight up, then straight down, then another mile or so off trail. There's a big old waterfall on the way, which makes the off-trail stuff that much more pleasant. Actually, the off trail stuff isn't so bad anyway — the brush isn't too thick and the terrain is easy.

Thing with doing loon surveys, however, is you actually have to get a good look at the lake in order to see the birds. The last 50 feet or so, from the woods to a lake view was a mass of hawthorn trees.

You know hawthorns. They're those pretty little trees with pleasant blossoms. The birds love them, but the branches have spikes on them, some of which are about an inch long.

I put my head down and bulldog through a patch to a point where I can just see the water about 25 feet out in front.

Bingo.

The loons are right in front of me, a pair of them. They don't see me and I watch them for about an hour-hour and half and take my obligatory notes.

Then I leave, head for another lake which is easier to get to.

At that lake my knee seems a little cranky. Nothing too serious. I lift my pant leg and check it out. There's a little round hole and a black dot. I give it a squeeze.

Nuthin.

But the pain persists and I get the idea that maybe I should soak it in the lake. The cold water feels good, but the knee gets worse. Way worse. Stiffens up like a board.

I slog out of there, gimping along. Up and over the big nasty ridge. Down the other side. The downhill is way worse. By the time I get to the truck I'm literally lifting my leg up to stuff it into the cab.

Something is definitely not right. After a shower, some wine and some pain killer the knee still feels awful and the wife takes a look at it.

"You idiot," she says. "There's a thorn in there."

She tries to get it out, but can't. She makes me take a hot bath and I go to bed. No doctors around at this hour unless I want to go the emergency room route.

Nah.

The next morning I'm a cripple. The leg is useless. I drag it along, call urgent care and make an appointment.

The good doctor gives my knee a squeeze and pus oozes out.

"Yep," he says. "It's infected."

He digs around with a needle and gets the thorn out. It was pretty much just the tip in there — maybe the size of a pencil tip sharpened good and sharp.

I get an antibiotic and I'm out the door, feeling significantly better by the next day. If I had left it, Doc says I would have gotten major sick. Hospital sick.

I hate hospitals.

People get worked up about bears in Glacier. Everyone's big fear is being eaten by a bear. I don't mean to diminish that, folks.

But I'd be more worried about the thorns than the bears.

Chris Peterson is the photographer for the Hungry Horse News.