G’out My Toe

There comes a time in every man’s life when he discovers that his body has joined the opposition. For some, it is the knees, and for others, it is the back.

In my case, the rebellion began in my right big toe, which is a body part I had never given much thought to. It had spent decades doing its job quietly and without complaint. Then, on Friday morning, my toe decided it deserved more authority.

The trouble started after a period of living exactly the way doctors advise against and old miners regard as perfectly reasonable. There had been too much beef on the plate, not enough restraint at the table, and a generous acquaintance with beverages stronger than common sense.

Such habits seem harmless while they are happening. The bill arrives later. Mine arrived in the form of gout.

I woke up with my right big toe swollen, red, and throbbing like a steam engine trying to climb a mountain with a full load of ore. Every step felt as though somebody had scattered broken glass across the floor and then heated it in a blacksmith’s forge.

The pain was so ridiculous that I found myself staring at my foot in disbelief. It seemed absurd that a grown man could be brought to his knees by something no larger than a bratwurst.

I sat there for a while negotiating with the offending toe. The toe was unwilling to compromise.

Most sensible people would have gone directly to a doctor. But America has developed an impressive system for turning discomfort into paperwork and lengthy wait times.

A man walks into a clinic with a sore toe and emerges with prescriptions, referrals, co-pays, follow-up appointments, and enough forms to apply for statehood. I decided to try a different approach first.

Living in Nevada teaches a man a few things. One of them is that the land often knows more than the experts, and won’t send you a bill later.

Yesterday morning, leaning on a walking stick and limping like an old mule with union grievances, I began searching for whatever help the desert might offer. The first remedy was water.

Not a little water. I drank enough hot water to make nearby wildlife nervous.

The desert has always been a stern instructor in matters of thirst. I filled jug after jug and squeezed lemons into them until my face puckered like an old saddle left out in a rainstorm.

If sourness possessed medicinal powers, I was preparing a military-grade treatment. Then I went looking for stinging nettle.

Now there is a plant with a personality problem. Most vegetation minds its own business.

Stinging nettle behaves as if every passerby owes it money. I wrapped my hands in a bandanna, gathered a respectable quantity, and boiled it into tea.

The resulting brew smelled like damp earth, old hay, and penitence. I drank it anyway.

Pain is a remarkable motivator. It can convince a man that drinking boiled weeds is not only reasonable but sophisticated.

Next came the dandelions. For years, I had watched people wage war against dandelions with sprays, shovels, lawnmowers, and language unsuitable for polite company.

Yet there they were, thriving without concern for public opinion. There is something admirable about a plant that spends its life being hated and responds by multiplying.

I gathered the leaves, mixed them into a salad with onion, and ate them while informing them of their responsibilities. If they were going to help my kidneys and liver, I expected them to earn their keep.

The real champion of the campaign, however, turned out to be tart cherries. I drove to the nearest store and bought enough cherry juice and dried cherries to make the cashier suspect I was preparing for either a health crisis or an unusually specific holiday celebration.

Back home, I settled beneath our Aspen tree, consumed cherries by the handful, and crushed juniper berries into my water. The berries tasted exactly the way Nevada looks: dry, sharp, rugged, and not especially concerned whether you approve.

Meanwhile, I rested the foot, packed it with ice, stayed off it whenever possible, and generally behaved with more wisdom than I had shown in causing the problem in the first place. That is often how wisdom works: we spend years making mistakes and a few hours congratulating ourselves for correcting them.

Friday night passed into all day Saturday, and by this morning, the swelling has begun to retreat. The redness has faded, and the pain loosened its grip.

The toe continued to complain, but it no longer sounded as though it intended to overthrow the government. By this morning, I am limping only slightly.

The gout isn’t defeated forever. Gout is like a dishonest politician, who disappears during periods of public scrutiny and returns the moment vigilance relaxes.

Looking back, what amuses me most is the source of the help. The water, the nettles, the dandelions, the juniper, the rest, the cherries, and a generous helping of stubbornness had all done their part.

Nevada had supplied nearly everything I needed.

Now, the desert is not a gentle place. It does not pamper anyone.

It has no interest in motivational speeches or self-help seminars. Most days, the desert appears determined to discourage habitation altogether, yet every so often it quietly provides exactly what a person needs.

It is one reason I love this country. The answers are often there if a fellow slows down long enough to notice them.

And should my toe ever decide to stage another rebellion, I will be ready, though I may cut back on the beef and whiskey beforehand. There ain’t any sense in making life easier for the enemy.