By Buck Horton
I seek out adventure and dream of spending my days hunting wild things in wild lands. However, if you had told me a year ago that a Rio turkey hunt in the panhandle of Texas was going to be the trip that tried to have me pushing flowers, I would have laughed in your face.
I set this trip up with a friend to introduce my girlfriend to turkey hunting. Rios are notorious for being more forgiving for novice hunters, so it should have been game over.
Central Arkansas to the Panhandle is right at 8 hours. Caffeine-fueled and heavy-eyed, we started our journey after I got off work, with plans for my hunting buddy Mace and me to try to kill a bird while my girlfriend caught up on her sleep.
We rolled into Texas about 4:30 a.m., just enough time for me to change clothes and get my gear into Mace’s truck. We attempted to position ourselves in front of the flock. As the north Texas sun poured over us with a scorching, dry heat, each step began feeling heavier than the last, and soon after, I was deathly parched and out of breath. “I really need to get into better shape,“ I mumbled, thinking that I’d slacked off too much between my backcountry elk hunt in September and turkey season.
With no turkey the first morning, we headed to the fine establishment of Allsup’s gas station, which is well-known for its “gut bomb” burritos. After scarfing a burrito and washing it down with a Red Bull, we headed back out with hopes of bagging our feathered quarry.
We walked for a mile, stopping and letting out a few yelps every 250 yards or so. Mace and I decided to set up and see if any birds would use the shelter belt we found between two large meadows. I was desperately dry-mouthed and parched at this time and began to go downhill.
We walked out, and as soon as I made it back to the truck, I projectile-vomited more violently than Mace or I have ever witnessed in our life. “Damned gut bomb burrito,” I muttered to Mace..
Agreeing that I was either a wuss or had a case of food poisoning, we headed to camp to take a brief siesta to grab my girlfriend to take her to a different location we saved that we knew had unpressured birds.
With Mackenzie in tow, we headed with two of the three of us feeling hopeful. I still felt like I was nursing a 3-day hangover, but I tried my best not to show it. We found a gobbler by himself at the base of a sand dune over a small cattle tank. Working our way to the bird, I began feeling significantly short of breath and lightheaded. Keep it together, dude, this is what we came here for. I got my girlfriend set up, and the alphabet loads in that little 20 gauge crushed him. Thank the Lord, she killed one. I can go home now. I felt conflicted. I’d been looking forward to this hunt for months, but I was not enjoying it.
Something was off. No previous bouts of COVID or flu made me feel like this and I’d never experienced food poisoning this severe. On our way to find another bird, we had a flat tire which ultimately saved me. After dark and back at camp, we agreed to sleep in and drive back to God’s country, the Arkansas Delta. Once we arrived home the vomiting came back; something wasn’t right, and this definitely wasn’t the result of a bad burrito. After three bags of field IVs with hopes of replenishing my electrolytes, I could finally sleep. With a family of nurses, I’ve never been much for going to the doctor, so I hesitated to agree to do so the next day.
On the way home from having labs drawn, my doctor called. “ Your blood glucose is 546, and your potassium level is 2.5. You need to find an emergency room now.”
For those who don’t know, your blood glucose should be between 70 and 140, and your potassium should be at 5. Potassium is very important to your heart’s ability to function and my heart would have more than likely stopped without the field IVs. It turns out I was in Diabetic Ketoacidosis. How could this be? I’m 23 and in reasonably decent shape. Type-1 is usually caught and diagnosed in childhood, and Type-2 is for the obese.
Well, my friends, I learned from my week in the intensive care unit that viruses such as the flu can attack your pancreas, causing it to stop producing insulin. It’s also probably not a smart idea to run a coyote trapline while you’re pushing a 103-degree fever and influenza, which I happened to do the February before this trip, ultimately leading to my untimely diagnosis.
Now, I live a life filled with insulin pumps, glucose meters, and unsweet tea. I still thirst for adventure, and I’m not letting this diagnosis control me. However, it opened my eyes to the fact that you should always be prepared for the worst. Even the most mundane trips have the opportunity to turn into a life-or-death adventure.
