Somehow, after setting up for a night in Palmer Lodge, I trapped a bee in my sleeping bag.  I left the main room after Nick Gramiccioni began snoring like a 10cc buzzsaw and moved to another room.  While walking in, I felt a stinging on the bottom of my bare foot and assumed I stepped on something pointy.  I lay down on a WW2 era spring cot and I feel a poking into my belt-area flub, assuming it’s a pointy bit from the down comforter I roll over and realize it’s a bee.  There’s a bee in my bed.  I start shifting wildly after being stung in the shin I kick the bee against the wall, killing the bee, and making my foot hurt like hell.

So of the four stings, the flub sting is by far the worst.  It hit the part of my dunlop that goes over the left side of my best, so it gets aggravated as I walk and shift back and forth.  I’m both angry and proud that I nearly smothered a bee to death with my gut.