A month or so prior to the hunting trip, though, I was worried. I wasn’t worried about my gear – I had accumulated plenty of turkey calls, camouflage clothing, a decoy, and had watched hours and hours of turkey hunting shows. I’d been to a turkey hunting seminar and talked with people who had successfully hunted turkey in Colorado. I wasn’t worried about my shooting ability, I shoot skeet and my record is 75-straight (without a miss). However, turkey hunting is typically like aiming like you would a rifle – but I wasn’t worried about that – I had shot targets with my 7mm RUM out to 960 yards. No, my worries were a little closer to home; a lot closer. My problems were internal. Well, they were external. I think more that it was something external that should be internal.
Now, when you have a combination of heat, sweat, friction, and hair, on a daily basis, and something that is even more unpleasant than that introduced to that environment at least once or twice a day, something is bound to go wrong occasionally. Often that “wrong” can be an itch. Now, none of us like to admit it, but, we’ve all experienced an itch in those nether-regions. Usually it goes away after a few days without having to do much on our part. Maybe we shower a little more (morning and evening, and maybe at lunch if we’re so lucky), maybe we have other coping skills, but typically it doesn’t turn into a problem.
I wasn’t so lucky, and it wasn’t going away. That hole of mine was clean as a whistle; spotless. So, I thought maybe I needed to do something more. I found a “Two Week Organic Cleanse” where I was taking supplements 3 times a day for a fortnight. Activity increased, to say the least, but at the end of it, I still had a nagging issue.
“Fine,” I thought. I had three weeks before I was going turkey hunting. “I’ll take care of this: Neosporin!” So, one night before I went to bed, after my nightly shower, I applied a dab to my finger, and, well, applied it to the affected area and crawled between the sheets.
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!!! I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and it felt like fire ants had found their arch-enemy in my event horizon! I jumped out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom. Hobbled because I’m also experiencing plantar fasciitus in my left foot and, if you’ve ever had it, you know that the first step out of bed in the morning just about makes you cry. Talk about a double-whammy! I grabbed some toilet paper and desperately tried to wipe the Neosporin off my balloon-knot. If I had some coarse-grit sandpaper, I would have gladly used that as well! Next was a hop in the shower with my favorite friend: a Dial Unscented Anti-bacterial Soap Bar. Then out of the shower and one leg up on the bathroom counter, one on the floor, and the hairdryer was set on low, pointed directly at an area that I seldom see. But the itching and burning still persisted. I simply squatted and cradled my head in my hands, not sure what to do, which is where Audrey found me as she sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Leif?”
“I think I need to go to the store and get something.”
“What do you need to get, and why?”
I’m not one to use euphemisms, typically, unless I’m writing for a public audience, so I explained in very coarse terms what my problem was. She asked what I was going to get. I replied that I didn’t know, but, I was going to get something! Thankfully our local super market was open, and, there weren’t many people shopping at 5:30 in the morning. I found the section in the pharmaceutical isle where you don’t want your friends or neighbors to walk up to you and ask you how you’re doing, only to see that can of jock-itch spray hurriedly passing from the shelf to your hand to your cart. I found the tube Preparation-H Maximum Strength, and some Tuck’s medicated wipes. I figured that was a good place to start. I also bought a Guns and Ammo magazine to put over the top of the items in my basket, just in case I did encounter someone I knew on my way to the checkout counter.
Thankfully the self-checkout was empty, and I was able to get right through. I contemplated applying the cream in the parking lot (inside my truck) but, I really didn’t want anyone calling the cops for suspicious activity, so, I desperately waited out the stoplight preventing me from leaving the parking lot before I raced home. Well, I didn’t speed, as I didn’t want to have to explain to the cops that I was going mach-10 because my ass was on fire.
Ahh – blessed relief! Well, not really, but it subsided to a dull roar. While I was waiting for the smoldering ruins to die down, I researched “anal itching” on the internet. I learned two basic things: 60% of people experience it constantly (!) and that it could be caused by Pin Worms or Hemorrhoids. Pin Worms typically wiggle their way outside of your sphincter in the early morning and lay eggs in the folds of skin around the sphincter. How the worms know when it is morning, and how they know their way around when spelunking in your colon is probably going to be a topic of a doctoral thesis someday. The hatching eggs make everything itch.
Pin Worms? Early morning itching? What-what-in-my-butt? I was starting to freak out! Okay… what was the other one? Hemorrhoids? Let’s look and see what the symptoms are of that. Apparently if you push/strain too hard to evacuate your system, you can push the hemorrhoid tissue (which is the tissue/veins just inside your brown eye) out and make it exposed. I didn’t know what that meant or what that looked like, so, I did an image search. Wow… you could write horror movies for a lifetime based on the images shown. It’s worse than using Google image search for “Blue waffle.”
So, I guess I had to do a little investigation. It was early morning still, and Audrey had gone back to sleep. I went up to the bedroom and turned on the bathroom light. I bent over in front of the mirror (with my back to the mirror) and spread my cheeks. I haven’t done that since I was signing up for the Marines and was in MEPS. Except then it was kind of funny to have the doctor walk down the aisle with his flashlight looking up your crevice. But trying to do it yourself? I was dearly praying that Audrey would not wake up and see me all bent-over double straining my neck trying to get a good look at my mangina. The light really wasn’t bright enough to see much, so I grabbed Audrey’s magnifying lighted mirror and duck-waddled until it was in the right position to get a good view of my cornhole. Checking out my pow-pow, sure enough, there, on the south side of my chocolate-starfish, was a bump. Thank GOD, no pinworms! I probed all around it with my fingers, without touching it. No problem. I touched the bump. The itching that ensued made me want to grab the closest Brillo pad and go to town on my frosting bag.
After it calmed down, and applying much more Maximum strength Prep-H, I was able to go back to bed. After waking up, I made an appointment with a proctologist. But they are now called colo-rectal surgeons. Whatever. I just wanted someone to check it out and make it go away. I initially made an appointment with a guy who seemed especially talented… graduated from John’s Hopkins, was president of the Colorado chapter for guys who professionally look at buttholes, etc. But, it was going to be a couple of weeks because he was moving offices. So I searched for someone who could see me sooner. I found a guy, Dr. Buttlooker (or something like that), and I perused his website. It looked like he could see patients, and so could his assistant, an attractive redhead.
Talking with Monica, I made an appointment with the Doctor. She suggested that I could get in sooner if I wanted to see the highly trained cute redhead. I declined. I mean, back in my single days, if I was close enough with a cute redhead that she was in a position to see the ejection port of my poop-chute, that was one thing, but to have it examined by such a creature when I had a dingleberry hanging out the south end… well, I just didn’t want to go there. I decided that I could wait a little longer for Dr. I.C. Butts.
That night, before walking the dogs, I gave an extra wipe with the Tucks medicated pads. But my entire walk felt like there was something hanging halfway out – as if I didn’t wipe good enough after my last time on the royal throne. But as I stated before, this wasn’t the issue. The dogs got a short walk as I had to take another shower, apply more cream, and go to bed.
OH MY DEAR GOD AND ALL THE SAINTS!!! What is it with waking up at 5:00 in the morning with your bunghole feeling like a raisin in the sun, but with a magnifying glass directing the sun’s beam to a fine point, igniting the cinnamon bark sprinkled with cayenne pepper attacked by a million mosquitoes? I resisted the urge to dig my fingernails into the business end of my used-food-tube, squeezed out a half-tube of Prep-H cream, and applied it where the sun doesn’t shine. I then hopped on the internet to see what else I was missing in my treatment of this miniature pea-sized-itch-pod hanging out on my south end.
I gleaned four things from my research. I was off, again, pre-rush-hour in Highlands Ranch, to get Benadryl, Epson Salt, Hydrocortisol (Aveeno) cream, and BeneFiber packets. This time I went to Walgreens. There was no self checkout, but, the contents of my basket were pretty inconspicuous, and the clerks there never ask you about your purchases. My ass was in the bathtub as soon as I could strip off my clothes, with 2 cups of Epson Salt slowly dissolving. Ahh… blessed relief.
Later that day I called Matt to tell him about my situation. He was wonderfully supportive. I could practically hear him laughing from his office across town without the use of my iPhone. He then asked me if he needed to do anything on our turkey hunt, because if he had to wipe me, that was a deal breaker. I assured him that I wouldn’t need him to perform any immoral acts, at least where my slot machine was concerned.
Quadrupling my fiber intake, 2-3 baths daily, wipes with Tucks (with Witch Hazel), and extra strength Prep-H cream seemed to be working. By the time my doctor’s appointment came around, there was no itch, there was no bump. Thankfully everything was back to normal. Or, at least I assumed that it was, but, I wanted to get the doctor’s A-OK. I have an aunt and an uncle that had diverticulitis, and another uncle with anal polyps. These things I do not choose and I wanted to ensure everything was ‘normal.’ I don’t want to put that part of my body through any more abuse than absolutely necessary, but getting things checked out was a high enough priority that I would struggle through the examination.
On the day of the examination, I let my colleagues know that I would be out for a little awhile for a doctor’s appt. I didn’t feel the need, just yet, to tell them why I would be out. There are some things that just aren’t appropriate to share, at least until they get posted on my blog. Then everyone can read it and laugh, cry, or stop reading. But I am sure that even the best of you are still reading to this point because of the sheer horror of it all. Or, if you’re female and reading this, you’re probably thinking, “Yeah, Leif, we go through this type of discomfort every time we go in for a pap smear.” Okay, you have me there, but at least after a while I imagine you get used to it. Or, something like that.
Freshly showered, I made my way to the Doctor’s office and checked in with Monica. In the waiting room was a woman sitting with her legs crossed, putting most of her weight on one side. No pressure directly on her seat. She was eventually called in, and through the door from the hallway came a gentleman, who was mentally handicapped in some form or fashion. Following was his assistant. He was called before me back to the examination room. I was just fine with that. It seemed that I was to be the last appointment for the day.
Monica eventually called my name, and instructed me to follow the beautiful tall statuesque blonde back to the examination room. I’m sure she told me her name, and I’m sure my brain didn’t register the information. I followed numbly and she pointed me in the direction of the examination room. I sat down in a chair, and she said she would be with me in just a few minutes.
In front of me was obviously the examination table. There was a small padded area that I could see that one would probably put their knees on, and be able to lean forward onto the rest of the examination table. That feeling in my stomach was starting to knot up. I suddenly remembered a hundred places that I’d rather be.
Almost more disconcerting was the fact that I could hear the entire conversation going on between what I believed to be the doctor, and the mentally challenged (mild Down’s Syndrome, I believe) patient in the next room. The doctor spoke in a loud voice, and the gentleman was speaking equally loud. Great. He was being told to do this, do that, turn over on his stomach because the doctor needed to check out his… well, you get the picture. Then the Tall Statuesque Blonde (TSB from now on) came in to interview me. What happened, why I thought it was a hemorrhoid, what have I done about it so far, etc. Trying to talk to this TSB about my brownie factory was not the easiest conversation to have. I was looking around for a place to order a beer, as I’m sure some liquid courage might make the topic more palatable. No such luck. Not even medicinal brandy. So I suffered through the interview, trying to look calm, cool, and collected, as if I have this kind of conversation every day. She smiled and nodded and tried to look at me sympathetically with her big blue eyes. It didn’t work. Maybe I should have followed the path of Charlie Brown, and would have been better off with the cute red-headed girl.
The doctor came in next and reviewed with me the answers I gave to TSB. He essentially wanted to know why I was there if I didn’t have anything wrong with my mud-whistle. I told him that because I did have something wrong, I wanted him to check it out and give me two thumbs-up.
TSB then walked in and gave me instructions: Put my knees up on the pad, drop my pants and underwear down past my crack, and she then handed me a gauze sheet that I could use to maintain my privacy. Privacy? What privacy? Oh, well, they did make sure that my back was facing towards the door, so that any other patient walking by when the doctor or TSB opened the door wouldn’t see my humiliating position.
I climbed up on to the knee-pad, dropped my drawers and put the gauze sheet on. TSB came in and laughed. That is the last sound you want to hear, as a man, when you have your pants down in front of a woman. She then asked, “playing Superman?” as I had one end of the gauze sheet wrapped around my neck, hanging on my back. But, it apparently didn’t cover the area where the good Lord split me. She told me to bend over the table and she pulled the sheet lower down on my back. I rested my hands on my elbows. I had to maintain some control. She told me to lower my elbows and lay my cheek down on the pad, angling downward away from the highest point. I felt like I was at a 45” angle, my moon-pie angled high in the air. She then left the room to get the doctor. No control.
I heard the knock and he came in. He said something. My mind was focused on something else. Mostly about why I was there when there was nothing wrong. I was hoping that TSB wasn’t in the room. I couldn’t turn around and look.
“I’m going to first put a 1-inch scope up your rectum to check for any abnormalities.” I then heard the squelch of the anal-lube being squeezed out onto his finger, I felt one hand on my left cheek, and he said, “Now just take some deep breaths.” At least he was kind enough to lube the cavity first.
His finger then slipped into the heart of darkness. “Oh, fantastic, absolutely fantastic,” I said as I felt his finger go around in circles. “Does this hurt?” “No, Doc, it’s just uncomfortable.” “Uncomfortable?” “Yeah,” I responded, pulling out a Kevin Smith line, “like having sex in the back of a Volkswagen.”
I then heard TSB laugh. Great – she was in the room? That made it even better. He withdrew his fist, er, I mean, finger, and I wondered if he was going to lower the privacy gauze. Not a chance. I puckered my brown eye, trying to make it wink. I mean, what else was there to do? If she had some Corona to ease the tension, she could use my last-resort bottle opener that was staring her in the face. I tried to think up all the clever lines I’d ever heard about other people going through this, and maybe make up some of my own.
Next I felt an object trying to work its way into my wormhole. It was the unholy union of one man’s anus and another man’s tool. “Oh, yeah, this is great.” “Are you okay?” “Well, Doc, this usually only happens to me when I’m drunk.” Another laugh from TSB. At least she was enjoying the commentary, and maybe she was enjoying the show. What the hell, I’d go for effect, “Doc, I said I wanted two thumbs up, not two thumbs up the butt.” I couldn’t see his face, but the nervous laughter from TSB made me wonder if maybe I was pushing my limits.
I then assumed the anal-probe was done, but, as he withdrew (was that the sound of a trap door snapping shut?), he said, “Next I’ll check your prostate.” Again with the finger! Then his wrist. Then the elbow deep inside the border line. I coughed as he tickled the back of my throat. Was that his bicep and tricep? Shoulder? I’ve never stuck my finger up my butt and coughed, but I wondered what kind of reaction happens down there, as he jumped a little with the explosion from my throat. “Everything okay?” he asked me. “Well, Doc, I’m bent over a table with my ass in the air and a man’s appendage up my butt. You tell me.” At least TSB enjoyed my humor, but I think I’ll keep my day job.
He pulled his arm out and dropped the gauze privacy screen over my manhole cover. He came around to the front as he was removing the examination gloves. Eww. I mean, really, did he need to show me that? TSB handed me some paper towels and he told me to go into the bathroom adjacent to the examination room and told me to clean up, then lie on my back with my pants undone and my shirt up, as there was evidently another procedure he needed to perform. Did I really ask for this?
They left the room and let pull up my shorts in peace. Not quite feeling violated, but feeling something, I wasn’t looking forward to the next step in the process. Walking into the bathroom, I read the sign above the toilet: “Flush more, use less toilet paper.” I wasn’t about to be the guy to clog the toilet. Plus, there was a door on the other wall opposite the one I came through. It was slightly cracked, and, I could hear women talking and giggling on the other side of it. Was I supposed to close the door or leave it cracked like it was? Was I supposed to close the door I just came through? That I did, but, I didn’t do anything about the slip-slidey feeling between my cheeks. I would take care of that later, in private, where I wouldn’t have to worry about TSB walking in on me as I’m wiping butt-slime off on yards of toilet paper.
The doctor walked in without knocking, and he caught me standing up, nonchalantly leaning against the examination table. It took awhile for him to come in… I guess he was waiting for the sound of the toilet to flush. He motioned for me to get up on the examination table. He pulled up my shirt. “Help! I need an adult!” He just smiled. I’m sure he’s heard every line in the book. He tapped my stomach in four places, asking me if anyone of the places hurt when he tapped. I was guessing he was checking for blockages in the large intestine. No pain, just a hollow sound every time he tapped. He said I was normal to near-normal, then handed me a sheet of paper that listed all the high-fiber foods known to man and told me to keep up the high-fiber diet and come back when I turn 40 for a colonoscopy. I would be sure to put that high up on my priority list…
With a clean bill of health from the Doctor, the day finally came to leave for Turkey hunting. This time Matt drove his Dodge 2500, the “Meat Wagon.” It has a few missing parts from the undercarriage when he decided to play Dukes of Hazzard and fly off an icy road down an embankment, the right-side fan in the cab only works if you are accelerating, the electronic door locks didn’t work, and it’s as noisy as the La Guardia tarmac on Monday morning. It may not be the newest or shiniest truck on the road, but it has never let us down in the field. We loaded up our gear into the back and headed to La Junta, which is about an hour and a half east of Pueblo, CO.
I told him about my recent violation. He was as sympathetic as before, maybe even more so. At least his laughter was partially-drowned out by the sound of the wind streaming in through all the holes in the cab. At the McDonalds in Pueblo, I ordered a salad. I poured a packet of Bene-Fiber in my iced tea. I didn’t think there would be any end to the grief I received as a result.
Finally arriving in La Junta, we checked in to the Super 8 and asked Brandy where the best place was to eat. She recommended a joint called “Boss Hogg’s” steak house. Good enough for us. I had (another) salad and the cheese-steak sandwich with marinara sauce drizzled over it. Matt had the same without the sauce. We compared notes and decided that was a draw as to which one tasted better.
The next morning was an early one. We had to be out of there by 4:30 to meet the hunt coordinator, Jay, in Kim, CO (yes, the town’s name is Kim). I asked Brandy how long it took to get from La Junta to Kim. She indicated she had only been to Kim once, and that it was at night, and both she and the driver were drunk as skunks, and it was when she was 18, so, she guessed 20 – 30 minutes. My Google Maps directions indicated it was about an hour. I trusted Google Maps’ estimations more than Brandy’s drunken recollections (she looked like she was in her late 20s).
We arrived in Kim just a little after 5:30, after passing deer, elk, and antelope along the road. No wonder its called Animas County. Matt pulled up to a likely vehicle where Jay told us to meet him. We powered down the windows and made introductions. He told us to follow him, and off we went on a dirt road south and west of Kim. I didn’t recognize the area from the maps I had studied, but I guessed that Jay knew where he was going.
After driving for 30 minutes, he pulled over and we pulled up next to him. He asked if I wanted to ride with him, so he could tell me about the land, the type of hunting that we should expect, what the boundaries were of that section of the ranch, etc. It was a lot of information to digest. Pulling in on a dirt road, he pulled off to the side and pointed out some bear tracks – the bear had been walking in the road, and Jay reckoned that it was a 200-250 lb black bear. Stopping at an overlook, he indicated that we would be able to look over the roosting tree. Sure enough, as we walked up to the edge, about a half-mile away, through binoculars, we could see turkeys walking around the base of a large cottonwood. Jay explained that the tree was on someone else’s land, but that he could set us up close to where they might cross the fence, walking through a creek bottom. He then indicated that I could either hunt, or, we could go see other options about where to hunt. I told him that I wanted to hunt. Apparently I was emphatic in my response, as he chuckled and we ventured down towards the creek bottom. He drove us up to just about where the creek flowed into the ranch land, and pointed out where the turkeys might cross, where to set up, etc. He then said he would meet us back there between 10 and 11 to get us set up for the afternoon hunt. It wasn’t my intention to stay there long enough to “afternoon hunt” – I wanted to get a turkey that morning. I thanked him for guiding us to the right spot, and hopped in Matt’s truck. He wished me good luck and went back to go help guide another hunter on a different section of the ranch.
I gave Matt the skinny as I guided him back to where Jay told us where to park. We grabbed our gear and made our way over to the creek bottom. I sat in a shooting lane that would give us plenty of cover for any turkey walking down the dry creek bed, and both Matt and I got out our turkey calls.
The box-call came out first. We chucked and scraped it with precision, and early on we heard an answer to the north (the roosting tree was to the south) so we took that as a good sign that there were more turkeys on the property than just the ones we saw from the overlook. But after awhile with no further answers, I switched to my disk call, and also popped in my mouth call. No response came from anywhere. So, we ventured up and out of the cover we were in to go see where the turkeys were. Maybe they saw us. We saw that the turkeys were heading to the west, not crossing onto the property at all. They started climbing up a hill, one after another. Well, crap. Then they were gone, and try as we might, they would not answer our calls, purrs, clucks, or gobbles.
Breakfast time! Cold Popeye’s chicken awaited us back at the truck, but we decided to walk along the creek bed as far as it would take us paralleling the parked truck. We would walk 10-20 yards, make what we thought were turkey hen noises, then walk another short distance and do the same. But, it was all for naught, and we found ourselves meandering back to the truck. It was a familiar walk… we had been walking back to the various vehicles empty handed for four years straight. But just because it was familiar didn’t mean that I didn’t feel a little dejected. Looking on the positive side, though, at least we saw, and heard, turkeys. Never before had we even gotten that far.
As I was tearing into a drumstick, Matt asked, from the driver’s seat, “What’s that?” I looked up, and here were two black bowling balls, 60 yards out, making their way through the sagebrush. Turkey!
I had left my door open, and my Winchester Ranger 12-Gauge Model 140 with full choke outside, just in case something like this happened. When hunting, one never knows when opportunity meets preparation. I carefully snaked my way out of the door and low crawled to my shotgun, which was leaning against the side of the truck, and upon grabbing it, I moved into position near the right front side of wheel well. I couldn’t see the turkeys, but I knew they were headed our direction. Matt, from the cab, in a projected whisper, gave me the blow by blow. “Forty yards, coming our way, thirty-five, they both look like hens, thirty yards, wait, one might be a tom, 25 yards, get ready.” Then silence fell over the scene, not wanting to risk the sound of his voice disturbing the forward motion of the noble bird once nominated to represent our country.
At about twenty yards I could see them start making their way out of the sagebrush. They then walked past my field of vision without me determining which one was the tom. I scooted slightly to the right to get them back in view. The turkeys paused, and the tom stuck its blue head up. I could see the beard clearly, so I put the front bead just below its head and squeezed the trigger. With the sound of the primer igniting the gunpowder, and the number 4 shot pattern leaving the barrel, my four year quest ended with a flurry of flapping feathers beating the ground. The hen took one last look at her mate and ran as fast as fast could be, leaving the scene of carnage and destruction.
I said a prayer thanking the bird for coming my way, and tagging and bagging it, we drove back to where we said we would meet Jay between 10 and 11. It was 8:15.
At 11:15, with no Jay in sight, we left the ranch. When I received a cell signal, I called his cell to let him know not to come to the ranch – we wouldn’t be there. We also left a note on the entrance gate, telling him we had left, plus a note of thanks. We drove back to the hotel, picked up more provisions, and took off to an area west of Pueblo to try our luck with a turkey for Matt.
Arriving at the hunting area, about 2:00, we hiked up into the trees to find more Merriam’s turkeys. But, all we heard was the rustling around of something large in the valley below us. We were in bear country, and, the last thing we wanted to do was disturb the ursa. So we made our way back down to flatter, grassier country and made our way to what we thought looked promising. We were hunting this area based on a tip from my chiropractor, but we weren’t quite sure exactly where to go. Our attempts at finding turkey that afternoon were largely in vain. None answered to our calls; we didn’t find any turkey feathers, tracks, or other signs. At 6:00 it started raining, so we hopped back in the truck and headed back down the road. Along the way we saw a hen, and stopped to hunt the nearby State Wildlife Area, to no avail. We did, however, spot a herd of elk, which is always a great sight to see (unless you live in the mountains and they are tearing up your garden).
Back to Pueblo, we had a victory dinner at the Texas Road House, and then back to the La Junta Super 8. The next morning, Matt decided that, as we had already spent about $150 each (hotel, food, gas), and he could buy a turkey in the supermarket for $20 or less, we could just head home and try our luck the following year.
The best thing about the hunt, outside of getting a turkey, was the fact that I was slowly regaining my dignity. There was no twitching from the itching, nor squirming from the burning. It was all good, in all departments. Plus, Matt didn’t need to “help” me out with anything. There are some experiences that you just don’t want to share with your friends.
