A Monkshood Misadventure

In the Fall of 2021, my hunting buddy and I set out on a 10-day sheep hunt into the heart of the Yukon-Charley Rivers National Preserve, a wild and sprawling 2.5-million-acre wonderland that looked like something out of a Jack London novel. As a Southeast Virginia kid who grew up in the city, the idea of gallivanting through untouched Alaska wilderness felt like a dream come true. The trip started with a bang… or rather, a howl. Just before our bush plane touched down on a remote airstrip, we caught a glimpse of a pack of wolves trotting across the tundra. Their distant howls would echo through the valleys over the coming days, eerie, yet oddly comforting. We pitched our tent by a crisp little stream and spent the evening exploring the immediate area, while soaking in the wild beauty of the place. All around us were rugged ridgelines, endless sky, and no signs of humanity for miles. As I bent down to fill my Nalgene, I noticed a delicate purple flower on the bank called Monkshood, also known as Wolfsbane. I’d just learned it was poisonous from a friend, which only made the wilderness feel more alive and mysterious. I shrugged it off and crawled into my sleeping bag, my head buzzing with anticipation for the next day’s adventure. At first light, we climbed a nearby ravine to search for sheep at the top. Tracks and sign were everywhere, but no sheep in sight. We blamed the wolves. Smart sheep, I thought. The plan was to push farther out the next day. Early the next morning, we strapped on our packs and trekked over the mountain into a neighboring valley. The landscape was jaw-dropping, rolling alpine meadows, jagged peaks, and a silence so deep it was only broken by the squawk of ptarmigan. If you’ve never heard a ptarmigan, just imagine a Tauntaun from the planet Hoth. As we skirted the valley wall and surveyed a saddle between two peaks, we still hadn’t spotted any sheep. Just as we turned back toward camp, we caught movement in the distance… a caribou. A good one, too. Without a word, we dropped below the ridgeline. My buddy had first shot at caribou; I had dibs on the first sheep. He moved carefully and quietly, weaving his way from boulder to boulder, until he found a good position and took the shot. Now came the real work. The caribou was the size of a small horse. We quartered it, carefully placing the meat in game bags and stacking it on boulders away from the brush. Just as we finished, the sky lit up with a double rainbow, nature’s own victory banner. We snapped a few pictures and began the long, heavy haul back over the mountain. The next day, we returned for the rest of the meat, which was a full day’s mission, but worth every step. That night, under a sky bursting with stars, we grilled caribou tenderloins over an open fire. We made plans to go out deeper into the wilderness the next day for sheep. We went to sleep with our spirits high and bellies full. And then... disaster struck. Sometime in the early morning, both of us woke up feeling awful. I felt like I was dying, but in the most undignified way possible. My heart was pounding, trying to escape my chest. Meanwhile, I had explosive diarrhea, the kind that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made. At one point, I sprinted from the tent like a man possessed, and let’s just say my long johns didn’t survive. I went through two weeks’ worth of toilet paper in three hours. By the end, I was eyeing leaves with the desperation of someone who had truly seen the abyss. Meanwhile, my buddy was vomiting every half hour. Together, we were a tragic symphony of bodily betrayal. Weak and dehydrated, we realized we couldn’t continue. As the sun rose, we made a desperate call to Tok: “Please, come get us early. Also... bring TP. Lots of it.” Even then, my heart was still racing like it was training for a marathon I never signed up for. We kept wondering, was it food poisoning? We’d cooked wild game over fires countless times without issue. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, we heard the faint hum of salvation. The Super Cub! We tossed our gear into a pile and took one last look around camp. That’s when we saw it, clusters of purple blooms around the fire pit. Monkshood. Charred remnants of the plant lay at the edges of the fire ring. It dawned on us that we had made a serious mistake by relocating the firepit into a sheltered ditch the night before to escape the wind, unknowingly setting our fire in the middle of a patch of highly toxic plants. On the flight back to Tok, things started to calm down. My heart palpitations eased, and the nausea subsided, but we were exhausted. During the drive back to Anchorage, we pieced it all together: we had likely burned Monkshood in the fire, releasing its toxic compounds into the air or worse, contaminating the tenderloins we cooked over the flames. I called poison control. The specialist confirmed what we now suspected, our symptoms were consistent with aconite poisoning. Aconite is the toxic compound found in Aconitum species like Monkshood. It has a half-life of 5 to 15 hours and is typically eliminated from the body within 24 hours. There is no specific antidote; treatment is primarily supportive, focusing on managing cardiac symptoms and stabilizing vital signs. Even a tiny amount, just 1 to 5 milligrams, can interfere with the heart’s electrical system or cause nervous system failure. All parts of the plant are toxic, especially the roots and flowers, but the potency of the toxic alkaloids can vary depending on various environmental factors, such as soil, moisture, or sunlight intensity. We were lucky. Our exposure was likely limited to inhalation or minor contamination from the fire. As we rolled back into Anchorage exhausted, dehydrated, and humbled it hit us how close we’d come to real disaster. In the wild, even a seemingly small decision, like where to build your fire, can have serious consequences. We’d made that call in the dark, unaware we were settling into a bed of poison. Since then, I’ve learned how to properly identify Monkshood, and I’ll never shrug off a plant ID again. It grows in moist alpine meadows, along streams, and forest edges often right where you want to camp. Its flowers are deep violet to bluish-purple, though some varieties can be white or yellow. The upper sepal forms a hood, which gives it its name. Its leaves are dark green, deeply lobed, and a maple leaf with deep divisions. Looking back, the irony isn’t lost on me. I had admired that very flower on the first night mesmerized by its beauty, unaware it would nearly wreck our trip. But that’s the wilderness: beautiful, indifferent, and always ready to teach you something if you’re willing to pay attention.