It was a cross between an unrehearsed rain-dance and trying to put out a piece of crumpled up newspaper which has spontaneously burst into flames by stamping on it with my left foot, with a lot of action replays. Before a mild freak of panic set in, a numbness appeared to creep up my left leg like forked lightning and after several muted grunts of pain, which became longer and more drawn out, as did my confusion, I took another life saving sip of beer and tried to decide which was the best way to unfreakout, as I didn’t want to alarm my wife and son, for two reasons:

One:

They would hear all about it on our 7 hour journey back to Austin, in fine detail, with careful considerate elaboration and sound effects.

Two:

Jake was sleeping on the floor. (where the predator was found. So no need for unnecessary extra panic which would result in three to a queen sized bed which doesn’t add up to a good nights sleep due to the fact that Jake plays swing-ball in his sleep then sporadically does a series of star jumps, every five minutes, followed by an impromptu session of break dancing.)                                                

I would like to say it happened on our trek through the Palo Duro Canyon. Resting on Goodnight Peak, overlooking beautiful multi-layered rock formations, one of which is aptly named ‘Spanish Skirt’.

I would like to say it happened as we stopped to watch the sky gather clouds of long dark silk swirls, fanning over us in vast trails, leaving behind a classic wide plain sunset, a glow of hazy orange. Earths nightly halo. 

I would like to say it happened as we meandered off the beaten track following the ghost trails of Ancient Pueblo Indians and the dust paths of wild horses, standing for a moment in time, to take it all in, to listen to the dry crackle of small autumn leaves above and below a steady stream of water that continues to carve this gorge into existence.

I would like to say it happened as my ears picked up the throaty gurgle call of a solitary crow, making sounds i’d never heard before, a language all of its own making and talking to who knows who, then watching it glide and disappear into the canyon below.

But it didn’t happen like that. 

It happened just after I stepped out of the hot tub.

Who was that said: ‘never let truth get in the way of a good story’?

I knew it was some sort of a sting, due to the instant large needle like stab and endless searing pain, so when I hobbled back into the small kitchenette to see if I could find the offender, I was half expecting to come face to face with a Bengal tiger with two harpoons – one loaded and the other speared into my now ever expanding giant foot (or so I thought, which you do when you fear instant death after a brief  survey of a near fatal injury). Still wondering what the hell just happened, I looked down to see what it was that tried to end my existence and there it was, a little skitter of a thing, semi-translucent like a freshwater prawn, a watery dweller like the star sign Scorpio, my star sign! is this a sign? Yes! A great big sign in big bold letters: 

“IT FREAKIN’ HURT LIKE HOT HOLY HELL!” 

‘Holier Shit! This could be the most venomous creature on the planet and its venom is shooting through my veins making a beeline towards my youthful weary heart!’ (It’s a natural instinct to fear the worse and as you can tell, I did.) In fact my short young life flicker flashed before me in a series of random freeze frames: 

a shadow of a bucket and spade on blazing white sand; crouching low in a dark forest with car lights sweeping past; rows and rows of single file kids standing outside a factory sized school; a spinning waltzer with the smell of candy floss and diesel: the crackle spit of a wood fire; a tin clock ticking on an old tiled mantlepiece; my first pint. 

Then big words snaked through my head like; anaphylactic; onomatopoeia; cheeseboard…shit!….maybe this is the delirium daze before the fevered seizure takes hold and leads to an instant deadly death! I managed to calm myself down and open another beer as I thought: ‘If I drink this in quick succession, I might dilute the poison’. Then I thought of calling Liz who co-owned the cabin with her handle bar moustachioed husband, who makes a mean baked breakfast, a true rough and tough Texas Gal will know what to do – probably tell me to hold a cold beer to it and sit on my butt – but I declined that notion and carried on regardless, coming to the realisation that my pain threshold knows no bounds. I welcome your collective sigh of concern. Thanks. 

As I was writing this, I was listening to Tom Waits narrate fascinating, unknown facts about a handful of insects and one above all tweaked my attention; “if you drop a droplet of alcohol on a scorpion, it will go crazy and sting itself to death” – now he tells me!