My college years differed from the stereotypical routine. While all of my friends were getting propaganda from left-leaning professors shoved down their throats, and then shortly after doing the same thing themselves but with cheap alcohol at frat parties, I had a more hands-off approach during those four years.
I had a terrible habit of taking advantage of my freedom years with virtually zero responsibility by ditching class, loading up my Tacoma, and heading west to kill some big game animal. One particular trip brought me to western Montana, to chase mule deer on some farmers' ranch that I had only spoken over the phone with based on the recommendation from a friend.
After nearly thirty hours of driving and a quick nap in a Scheels parking lot, I pulled onto a narrow gravel road that led to an old log cabin, settled perfectly between two mountains. Jesse, a third generation farmer who loved to be vocal about his racism, met me at the front door and welcomed me in.
I unloaded my gear, took a quick shower, and sat down at the dinner table with Jesse and his family. I thanked them for welcoming me into their home, and allowing me to use their ranch as if it were my own to go after some muley bucks. After listening to Jesse rant about how a certain president's victory would lead to the end of America as we know it, his wife set a plate of what appeared to be a thick tenderloin in front of me.
“Thank you so much. Is this from the cattle on your ranch?” I asked.
“No sir. This is the backstrap of a black bear my brother shot. Ever had it?” Jesse butted in.
“Can’t say that I have. Does it taste similar to beef?”
“Better. That’s the cleanest meat around. You’ll never want to go back to beef again.”
It was just fine. It shared a similar flavor to pork, and it was over seasoned, I’m assuming to mask some of the gamey taste that I have now come to expect from bear meat, years later. But the guy was letting me stay at his house and hunt his property for next to nothing. I would have eaten coyote if that’s what was on the menu.
Fast forward a week later, I was sitting in my Business Ethics class listening to my professor discuss Bernie Madoff when I felt a stabbing pain in my lower abdomen. I brushed it off as nothing, finished the lecture and headed back to my apartment.
The next few days consisted of nothing but muscle pain, piercing headaches, and horrible shits. Which felt like euphoria compared to the 103 fever I spiked before finally accepting that an emergency room visit was inevitable.
After several vials of blood take, a stool sample given, and a miserable couple of days waiting in agony for my results, I finally got a call from the doctor.
“Mr. Mai, it appears that you have eaten something that has led to some of the most concentrated numbers of parasites I have ever seen in a patient. But that’s not the bad news. The bad news is that I can’t even get the medicine you need to eradicate all of these worms until tomorrow. Which I know makes tonight a little unsettling.
“I mean, this phone call probably could have waited until the medicine was in. I would have been the same person. But thank you. Any idea what could have caused this?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“When we see levels this high, it’s almost always from either undercooked pig or bear. Had any of those lately?” He asked.
“I was told it was the cleanest meat around.” I responded.