An Angry Bee

The creek is called Kuskanax. It runs out of the mountains of British Columbia down into the Arrow Lakes (Columbia River) to feed the never full Pacific. Each spring the snow melt engorges the creek, carrying with it the flotsam and jetsam (wonderful words) out of the forests it passes through. When the waters recede great piles of this debris, this disorganized chaos of mountain forest, are deposited at various points along the creek. It was one of these piles that I faced on my hike up the creek from the lake to the highway bridge. Yes, I can get over this, no problem. I have to admit the stories of unhappy hikers slipping off logs and lying with a broken leg until their bones were picked clean by ravens did pass through my mind. I made it to the top, no turning back now, when I heard it, the angry buzzing of a disturbed wild bee hive. They poured out of the depths of the tangled tree trunks. Oh, My! It’s me that they are angry at. Ravens be damned, I hopped down the pile and ran up to the bridge waving my arms before they relented. It felt as though someone had hit me on the top of my head with a hammer. A bee had gotten tangled in my hair and let me have it. Boy did that hurt. I was still panting in anger and exertion when the worst happened. As I stood in front of the toilet ready to pee, the last bee reminded me to never disturb its hive again. It had crawled all the way up my pant leg and when it could get no further let me have it.