The town where we had our class on wilderness first aid has a bronze works. So the streets and corners are lined with bronze statues. There's the prominent pronghorn up on a rock, and the life size horse and rider herding the life size longhorns which always get the heelers so excited. And Indian chiefs, elk what-have-you.

In that town, they have statues of everything.

Early in the afternoon of the second day, we were finally getting into the procedures most of us know as "First Aid". During a demonstration, the female instructor asked if anyone had a knife she could use to cut some tape.

Immediately almost every man in the room shifted to reach towards his hip. I imagine in her normal venue, teaching young urban adults, most students aren't packing a blade on their belt. Another one of those adjustments they had to make for teaching our outfit.

"Yours are all so big! she complained kindly, without even the slightest hint of innuendo in her voice.

One fellow reached out to hand her his knife across the table, deftly flipping it open one-handed to reveal a shiny, bright maroon blade. Taking it, she looked down to see a blade only a little over an inch long.

"It's so small!" she announced, surprised. Again without even a hint of sexual suggestion to her voice.

"It's not the size that counts", he replied, in a clearly offended tone. "It gets the job done."

We were laughing too hard to hear her response. But her face got a little red.

Our last scenario of the session had six of our members outside by the pool. (We were supposed to have ten inches of snow on the ground by this time. Instead we had patches of blue in the sky, with 50 degrees.) Upon entering the scene, we six pairs of rescuers each found our victim standing upright, flailing wildly into the wall, his LOC (Level of Consciousness) at A&O X4 (That's "Alert and Oriented, aware of the events that had just transpired", for all of you except TwoLumps), with a chief complaint of a wasp sting on his neck.

Okayyyy, my partner and I did most things right. (Although we forgot to check to see if the scene was safe, as in, "Are the wasps gone?" But don't worry, we remembered to check for safety in the grizzly bear scenario.) We got our patient calmed down and laid on the patio, checked his sting, and then began the full patient assessment, just in case he had done injury to himself whilst swatting at wasps.

As my partner checked his ABCs, I SAMPLED our victim, asking about his Symptoms, whether he had any Allergies. I should have moved on to asking about any Medications, Previous conditions, etc, but he mentioned he had an allergy to bee stings.

Gee. What a surprise. A scenario with insect sting as the injury, and lo and behold, we have a patient who is allergic to bee stings. Coincidence?

We're looking for an epi-pen.

For those of you fortunate enough to not have to know what an epi-pen is, it is basically a sealed, one-time use hypodermic filled with epinephrin. A drug that behaves the same as adrenalin. In a severe allergic reaction like we were simulating, a flood of histamines is making the bronchioles of the patient swell, cutting off their breathing. Treatment is simple, a dose of anti-histamines like found in Benadryl. Problem is, that takes too long in severe cases, and you're suffocated before your histamines are blocked.

Hence the epinephrin. Opens the airways until the anti-histamines can do their job.

Now, I knew all this, but had never seen an epi-pen. And as I asked our patient if his doctor had given him anything for his sting allergy, his only response was that he was having trouble breathing.

Ooookay. I flip open his jacket and start checking his pockets. Finding a long, black and white cylinger in his right hip pocket.

An epi-pen.

Cool. Now what do I do with it? I turn to ask our victim, but find he has gone unconscious. My partner still holding his wrist and silently taking his pulse. Is she right? Should we complete the proper assessment before charging in to apply a treatment?

Airway.

In the ABCs, "Airway" is at the top of the list. No air, no patient. I look at the pen. And there, in tiny black print, is a list of instructions. Five in all. I went through them all, although right now, the only one I remember is number five.

Slam the black tip into the patient's outer thigh.

So I did.

And then, only then, did it occur to me to ask...

They wouldn't give us real epi-pens for a training exercise, would they?