The rain persisted, and we had no choice but to persist, too. We sloshed up Difficulty Hill, then sloshed down by a different route. Much of the vegetation on this route, I noted, had prickles, thorns, spikes, or spurs. One tree, in fact, stabbed me. Butterfly called it a shake-my-hand tree, so named because its thorns seem to reach out with malicious intent and lacerate the passerby. Once lacerated, twice cautious. I studiously avoided a lancetia palm, whose trunk was lined with two-inch spikes, sharp as a surgeon's lancet, and a fuzzy vine whose name Butterfly didn't know but whose hooked spicules, he said, were capable of removing a square inch of flesh in a trice.