This should be a walk in the park, with no numbweed stench and little if any Devil's Club.
EXCERPT:
Piemur almost passed the first clump of bushes before he realized that their leaves were definitely familiar. Familiar, he thought as he reached out to touch one, but so much larger. He bruised the leaf as the final test and sure enough, had to jerk his hand back as his fingers smarted and then lost all feeling. Numbweed!
He carefully broke off some large numbweed leaves, and wrapping their cut stems in the thick blade of grass, returned to the fire. Then Piemur bruised a numbweed leaf between two flat, clean stones. He rubbed the wet side of the stones against his cuts, shivering at the slight sting of the raw numbweed before its anesthetic properties took effect. He was careful not to rub the stone too deep, for raw numbweed must be used sparingly or you could get horrible blisters and end up with scars.
Southerners had come to harvest the numbweed bushes, now full of sap and strong with the juice that eased pain. He wrinkled his nose in disgust: it’d take them days to harvest that field; and each kettleful would require three days of stewing to reduce the tough plant to pulp. Another day would be required to strain the pulp, and the juice had to be simmered down to the right consistency to make the numbweed salve
He sighed deeply, because the intruders would be here for days and days. The camp may have been set up a good hour’s walk from him and undoubtedly he could keep from being noticed. He wouldn’t escape however, even at this distance, from the stench of boiling numbweed, for that smell was pervasive, and the prevailing breeze right now was from the sea.
The previous paragraphs are excerpted from Dragondrums by Anne McCaffrey Copyright © 1979 by Anne McCaffrey