Walk, interrupted

I was enjoying my morning hike at Desonier State Nature Preserve right up to the point when the yellowjacket stung the back of my thigh.

At first I didn't know it was a yellowjacket. All I knew was that something had stabbed the back of my leg and that the best thing to do in the moment was to jump in the air and shriek--not that anyone could hear me out in the woods. Then I had to drop my pants to make sure that whatever had bitten me wasn't stuck inside my pants leg--not that anyone could see me out in the woods. Then something started buzzing around my head and trying to crawl into my ear canal until I swatted at it with my baseball cap, at which point I realized that the trail had taken me too close to a yellowjacket nest and they were out to get me.

This was just over halfway through a two-mile hike, and there was no way to get back to the car but to keep hiking. I had already slogged a mile up a steep, narrow path next to sheer dropoffs--and let me tell you, if the yellowjacket had stung me while I was walking on one of those cliffsides, I'd be toast. But I survived the frantic get-this-thing-off-me dance and went on to hike the rest of the trail, not without some renewed vigor and the constant urge to say something a little stronger than ouch.

It hurt. Hours later, it still hurts. It hurt all the way through the rest of the hike and then on the short drive to Strouds Run State Park, where it hurt as I sat in the shade watching wading birds  fishing in the marsh, goldfinches and hummingbirds buzzing among the tall wildflowers. The long walk in the quiet woods followed by a rest next to a quiet lake were supposed to fill my cup with calm before the next round of hectic campus mess begins, but the calmest moments played out against a backdrop of ouch.

Maybe that's good preparation for the coming academic year, which is bound to be well seasoned with painful moments. I am supposed to train my colleagues on how to discourage plagiarism in the era of AI while steeling myself once again to read reams of student handwriting (since I'm requiring more in-class writing to counteract the dominance of AI) while bowing to the demands of the Powers That Be that I "fix" faculty morale while trying to keep my courses fresh and relevant and prepare my students for success in a world I don't quite understand. And meanwhile, at every moment we'll all be waiting for the next phase of our ongoing budget crisis, although crisis seems utterly inadequate to the situation. 

It stings, I tell you. It really stings. But at least the woods were lovely.