Players putt on the front half of a 21-hole course set up for the Rocky Mountain Championships at Sward’s Ranch near Norris, Montana. The temperatures on the mountain course reached into the high 80s last weekend, causing distress and heat exhaustion for some players.

Tribune photo by Mark Davis

Before I fill you in on my most recent stupid move, let’s get the most important part of the story out of the way.

Call 911 or your local emergency number if someone faints from heat exhaustion, becomes agitated, confused, has a seizure, is not able to drink, or has a core body temperature (measured with a rectal thermometer) of 104 degrees Fahrenheit, which indicates heatstroke, according to the Mayo Clinic.

First of all, if you’re carrying a rectal thermometer around, you win the prize for being prepared — like an Eagle Scout — or are maybe a little creepy. Secondly, I am often agitated and confused during all seasons of the year.

They continue: Symptoms of heat exhaustion include cool, moist skin with goose bumps when in the heat, heavy sweating, faintness, dizziness, fatigue, a weak, rapid pulse, low blood pressure after standing up, muscle cramps, nausea or vomiting, headache, extreme thirst, mild confusion or decreased urine output.

Untreated, heat exhaustion can lead to heatstroke, which is a serious, life-threatening condition. Please, don’t ignore the warnings. Take heat exhaustion seriously. Powering through the early symptoms could end up causing multiple issues including death, or worse, a huge hospital bill.

Unfortunately, I’m an idiot.
At 60 I need to keep moving. Let's face it, I’m a senior with multiple health issues and it won’t be long before I won’t be able to compete in athletics. I love competition despite very rarely winning.

You might have seen me in a number of Powell fields throwing disc golf discs year-round. I used to do field training three-to-four times a week and play twice a week. But this year I’ve slowed down after surgery on my arm and back problems.
That’s right, I’m that old, fat guy throwing frisbees around town, especially at Dee Havig Disc Golf Course, Northwest College’s course.

I’m a slow learner.
Last April I signed up to play my first sanctioned Professional Disc Golf Association tournament, the 60-plus amateur regional championship. On the day of the tournament it was cold and raining with high winds typical of the High Sierra course in northern Billings.

Every person in the tournament was wet and the windchill cut through my two Carhartt rain coats and pants at the treeless, unrelenting venue. By the third hole, the temperature had dropped and the rain turned to a heavy, slushy snowstorm.
We got about 4 inches of snow by the time the tournament was over. Some, who had come unprepared, dropped out as hypothermia set in. It was hard to get a proper grip on the wet discs and by the ninth hole I could barely feel my hands anyway. The worst part, besides shivering so hard that my back ached, was the discs would get lost under the snow. If you lose a disc you have to re-tee, which meant long walks back to the start of the hole — prolonging the agony.

The good news is I finished in first place and received an invitation to play in the national championships with about 50 other regional qualifiers. The news I hate to add when I tell the story? I was the only 60-plus player dumb enough to play through the mess.

Finishing at the top was guaranteed before I teed off — as long as I finished.
After the tournament I had to get out of the wet clothes and warm up, but my arms and legs weren’t working well enough to do so in the privacy of my truck. I had seen many “Running Wild with Bear Grylls” episodes, so I’m an expert in hypothermia in my undersized, inflexible mind.

I was forced to open the front and back doors (like my parents did on the side of the road when one of us kids had to pee on long trips) and disrobe to get into dry clothes in view of the world. I’m sure a few people had nightmares that night after catching a glimpse of the frightening spectacle.

Fortunately, I wasn’t the only naked guy in that parking lot on April 6 struggling to get out of wet clothes. I continued to shiver for about an hour until the heater in my 13-year-old F-150 and a hot cup of coffee from Micky D’s warmed my core.
I remember hoping my next tournament would be a little warmer.

Wouldn’t you know it, my next tournament was this past weekend at Sward’s Ranch near Norris, Montana, for the Rocky Mountain Championships — featuring temperatures in the high 80s and 90s on the steep, mountainous course.
Be careful what you ask for, I remember thinking.
Why haven’t I learned the warning at this point in my life? Where is that wisdom sexagenarians are supposed to have after learning from a lifetime of mistakes?

I was throwing the discs pretty well at the beginning of the tournament — considering the difficulty of the course. But by the 12th hole of the brutal 21-hole course, I was getting sick.

I played through the dizziness and constant regurgitation (nicest word I know that means puking) until the 18th hole, when I dropped of heat exhaustion and two strong Montana men were forced to carry me up a steep hill to a waiting truck.
The embarrassment continued as the driver had to be quick on the brakes as I opened the door to get sick again, and again.

Back at tournament headquarters they gave me a special electrolyte drink which only stayed down for a few minutes. I stabilized after tournament volunteers used ice on my head and neck to cool me down.

Then things started happening on the other end, at which point I will spare you the truly horrid, embarrassing details. Let’s just say I need a new pair of pants.

A half of a sandwich made with cheap, thin-sliced Buddig meat and mayo finally stayed down, chased with a Mountain Dew. Then I slept for about 10 hours. That’s when I should have gone to the nearest hospital — 37 miles away in Bozeman — to be checked out.

I learned when I got back to Powell that not seeking medical attention was a huge risk. I could have faced kidney failure, my primary doctor said.

To be honest, several people suggested I drop out of the tournament prior to my passing out. I was stubbornly determined to finish. After sharing the story with my doctor, I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot rather than a dedicated athlete at this point.
Actually, he has probably known I’m a hopeless nitwit for a few years now.

The last time I presented him with a disc golf-related injury was last year after returning home from a trip to Indiana. I tore my right bicep away from my elbow on the 18th hole at Washout Woods Disc Golf Course in Lafayette. My bicep rolled up in my shoulder as I launched my drive through a canopy of trees.

It wasn’t a bad shot, but very painful.
I finished the round left-handed, narrowly winning the match. Then I immediately returned to Powell for doctoring and surgery.

It took several months before I could throw again, but I refused to give up.

I got serious about the sport after losing a significant portion of my sight in my right eye in 2020. The specialist said I’d never get my sight back, but I should be more concerned about a life-altering stroke if I didn’t get in shape.

I wanted to tell him losing most of the sight in my right eye was life altering, but I’m pretty sure he charged more by the minute than I make an hour.

I started my exercise regimen by pulling my mountain bike out of the garage. Unfortunately that ride ended poorly with an accident. Soon after I gave away my bike, not wanting to ever wake up on the pavement again covered in blood and finding someone I didn’t know staring down at me, asking if I wanted a ride to the hospital.

I decided disc golf would be a nice walk with some competition thrown in to keep it interesting. I’ve since played the Dee Havig Disc Golf Course at NWC more than 100 times. It’s a slow 3-mile walk with an upper body workout. Just my speed.
Several of the players in Powell are hoping for the same; to have fun while getting some exercise. Some are in their 70s.
I’m fairly obsessed with it, but mostly as an excuse to continue occasionally eating strawberry Wilcoxson’s Ice Cream (made in Livingston, Montana) without thinking about having a stroke with every creamy, delicious bite.

If I die while eating a bowl of the heavenly concoction, I’ll meet my maker with a smile and a smudge of strawberry on my face. Meanwhile, I owe my doctor and wife an apology.
According to the Mayo Clinic, the correct way to deal with heat exhaustion is: Move the person out of the heat and into a shady or air-conditioned place. Lay the person down and raise the legs and feet slightly. Remove tight or heavy clothing. Have the person sip chilled water, a sports drink containing electrolytes or another nonalcoholic beverage without caffeine.

It can begin suddenly or happen over time, usually after working, exercising or playing in the heat. Please don’t be a dolt (like me). Be smart, safe and listen to your family physician.