We’ve all seen it in recent years. Since the COVID-19 pandemic drove Americans outside to find recreational opportunities, our woods and waters have become more and more crowded. Where I spend most of my time, we’re awash in a new generation of outdoor enthusiasts who, for good or ill, are sticking around. Our rivers are burgeoning with new drift boats, and our campgrounds are full of new RVs. Trailhead parking lots are bursting with cars, and ATVs are turning up on every Forest Service road and trail they can access.

For many of us, just the thought of a doctor’s visit—a regular, standard-operating- procedure checkup—is an anxiety-provoking way to ruin the week leading up to the appointment. When you are sure that the visit will involve a frank discussion of your reproductive organs and the act of pulling down your pants, that anxiety turns to pure, 100-proof dread. True to form, I wasn’t at my best leading up to the appointment. Not only was the embarrassment of the visit bumming me out, but lurking behind that bogyman was the real fear—the thought of what might come out of the doctor’s mouth regarding my condition.

He breezed into the examining room with that unbothered combination of busy and friendly so many doctors have perfected. We shook hands, and he picked up the tablet in the room and began reading about me as I stood there dumbly, waiting for him to ask me a question or to issue a command—stick out your tongue, turn your head and cough, drop your trousers.

“So,” he said, “What’s up? What’s going on with you? How can I help?”

“Gotcha. How long have you noticed this problem?”

I began explaining. Telling him the whole story, using only the word testicles.