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Interesting article here (even if the writer seems like a bit of a moron):
Emergencies turn pocketknife skeptic into a believer
By FLOYD FRANK
June 21, 2007 - 11:35PM
A friend, Gary Horton, used to have a Swiss Army knife that I enjoyed ridiculing. It had a dozen blades all of them too small to do any useful work. A little stainless knife, a tiny pair of scissors, a miniscule saw (Im running out of synonyms for little). They folded into a streamlined, red plastic and steel sheath that slid into your pocket.
I suppose that if you are caught outdoors without a toothbrush, you could whittle yourself a toothpick! Gary carried it everywhere.
Anyway, Gary and I hiked to the top of the small mountain behind his Goldfield house.
It was early summer, and we needed to get into the woods. An hours hike through aspens got us to the summit, in the pines. We set up camp, and I gathered squaw wood to get a fire going. I kicked a branch from a dead pine, but underestimating its toughness, I sprained my ankle. They say that a sprained ankle is more painful than a broken one. Its true. I spent all night moaning a song of misery to Gary, who tried to ignore me.
The next morning was nice, except that I could not put any weight on my right foot. By the time I was out of the tent, Gary had sawed a 3-inch-round aspen into a crutch. The knifes saw blade went through the small tree like a warm knife through butter. Hmm, I said. Not bad.
We had no trouble getting back home.
Another adventure took us toward Crestone Needle. Garys son and my son made four of us.
Driving along, we saw a small rattlesnake sunning itself on the gravel road. I considered myself a fearless mountain man, so I stopped, pinned the snake down with a stick and caught it.
Holding it tightly behind the head, I walked back to the truck to show it to our kids. I was nearly there when I felt a sharp sting on my index finger. I had been bitten.
I tossed the snake into the sagebrush.
Sorry, guys. Were not going to the mountains today. Were going to the hospital.
I knew the way, so I drove to the hospital in Cañon City.
It took 20 minutes.
I drove with the same philosophy that got me through college: Pass everything.
I borrowed Garys knife and cut a gash or two around the fang hole, then sucked poisonflavored blood out and spat it out my window as I drove 80.
At the emergency room I told the receiving nurse my problem, and she got me started. By the time I was done, I had been hooked up to antivenin, painkiller and epinephrine. Still, the pain in my right hand made it feel like I was roasting it over a campfire.
The swelling was enormous all the way to my shoulder. All this from an 18-inch rattler who bit me with only one fang!
The poison that I sucked from the wound caused a tingling in my gums.
Thank goodness for Gary and his sharp pocketknife.
Gary was always a good hiking partner, easygoing and wellprepared. I dont see him often, but I think about him especially when I am relaxed, sitting by the campfire and chewing on the toothpick I just whittled with my Swiss Army knife. Floyd Frank loves to hike in and write about Colorado and the West.
TELL US ABOUT IT: If you have a story or photo to share with other outdoors lovers, send it to: Life editor Dena Rosenberry, dena.rosenberry@gazette.com or P.O. Box 1779, Colorado Springs 80901.
Emergencies turn pocketknife skeptic into a believer
By FLOYD FRANK
June 21, 2007 - 11:35PM
A friend, Gary Horton, used to have a Swiss Army knife that I enjoyed ridiculing. It had a dozen blades all of them too small to do any useful work. A little stainless knife, a tiny pair of scissors, a miniscule saw (Im running out of synonyms for little). They folded into a streamlined, red plastic and steel sheath that slid into your pocket.
I suppose that if you are caught outdoors without a toothbrush, you could whittle yourself a toothpick! Gary carried it everywhere.
Anyway, Gary and I hiked to the top of the small mountain behind his Goldfield house.
It was early summer, and we needed to get into the woods. An hours hike through aspens got us to the summit, in the pines. We set up camp, and I gathered squaw wood to get a fire going. I kicked a branch from a dead pine, but underestimating its toughness, I sprained my ankle. They say that a sprained ankle is more painful than a broken one. Its true. I spent all night moaning a song of misery to Gary, who tried to ignore me.
The next morning was nice, except that I could not put any weight on my right foot. By the time I was out of the tent, Gary had sawed a 3-inch-round aspen into a crutch. The knifes saw blade went through the small tree like a warm knife through butter. Hmm, I said. Not bad.
We had no trouble getting back home.
Another adventure took us toward Crestone Needle. Garys son and my son made four of us.
Driving along, we saw a small rattlesnake sunning itself on the gravel road. I considered myself a fearless mountain man, so I stopped, pinned the snake down with a stick and caught it.
Holding it tightly behind the head, I walked back to the truck to show it to our kids. I was nearly there when I felt a sharp sting on my index finger. I had been bitten.
I tossed the snake into the sagebrush.
Sorry, guys. Were not going to the mountains today. Were going to the hospital.
I knew the way, so I drove to the hospital in Cañon City.
It took 20 minutes.
I drove with the same philosophy that got me through college: Pass everything.
I borrowed Garys knife and cut a gash or two around the fang hole, then sucked poisonflavored blood out and spat it out my window as I drove 80.
At the emergency room I told the receiving nurse my problem, and she got me started. By the time I was done, I had been hooked up to antivenin, painkiller and epinephrine. Still, the pain in my right hand made it feel like I was roasting it over a campfire.
The swelling was enormous all the way to my shoulder. All this from an 18-inch rattler who bit me with only one fang!
The poison that I sucked from the wound caused a tingling in my gums.
Thank goodness for Gary and his sharp pocketknife.
Gary was always a good hiking partner, easygoing and wellprepared. I dont see him often, but I think about him especially when I am relaxed, sitting by the campfire and chewing on the toothpick I just whittled with my Swiss Army knife. Floyd Frank loves to hike in and write about Colorado and the West.
TELL US ABOUT IT: If you have a story or photo to share with other outdoors lovers, send it to: Life editor Dena Rosenberry, dena.rosenberry@gazette.com or P.O. Box 1779, Colorado Springs 80901.
