Bees, bees in my tent!
I've been stung by a bee three times in my life. Once when I was six or seven, I was watching a parade and eating a jelly donut. My arm was raised, because I was taking a bite of the scrumptious doughy treat and as I lowered it, a bee stung me in my armpit. I don't think I've ever liked jelly donuts much since then. The second time I was fifteen, I was bushwhacking a trail in Vermont, some bees flew out of a hole in the ground and one stung my forearm. My arm swelled up like Popeye's. I don't think I've ever liked Popeye much since then. The third time was Saturday morning, camping alongside the south fork of the American river. I was climbing into the tent and had just sat down when I felt a stinging sensation on my thigh, and my brain working as it does on Saturday mornings thought, "Ow! Why are my pants stinging me?" When I looked down, I saw a yellow jacket, stinging me right through my pants. I'm wondering if I'll ever like my pants much after this?
Other highlights of the rafting weekend: 45 minutes into the trip, near overheat of my '87 Honda Civic in Richmond; two hours into the trip, realization that plates, forks, knives, pillows and sleeping bags were forgotten at home; twelve hours into the trip, the aforementioned bee sting; fifteen hours into the trip, a glorious run of class 2 and 3 rapids in the bright sunshine with a great group of friends; twenty four hours into the trip, s'mores around the campfire on the banks of the river. It was all worth it.