I grew up loving the outdoors, and when I decided to go to college, a large part of my campus selection was the abundance of outdoor activities local to the university. As soon as I arrived, I fell right in with a group of friends who all had the same interests.

The crew was about 20 or 30 people, with maybe six or so of them being close personal friends. I still stay in contact with those boys on occassion. There were a couple guys who were hardcore whitewater paddlers, some climbers, and a decent number of mountain bikers. All of us were avid campers, hikers, and backpackers. It was kind of nice, because nobody was involved with all of the activities, but everyone did at least two of them. There was always something to do and somebody to bring along.

Anyways, I got up one Sunday morning and decided I'd hike the profile trail up to Carraway or maybe all the way to Grandfather. I'd had a good deal to drink the night before, and I figured the fresh air would do me good. You know, cleanse the mind as well as the body. So I throw together enough stuff to spend the night, if need be, and head off.

About a mile or two in, I begin to get that familiar and decidedly urgent gastrointestinal rumble that usually follows any decent binge. There's only one thing that strikes fear into the heart of any outdoorsman, and it goes by a name that is whispered by even the roughest of the rough: The Beer Shit. It was at this initial junture that I figured if I held it long enough, my intestine would absorb the excess moisture and there would be no great disaster. I mean, I was too far in to make it back to the car, then survive the drive in time to get it into a toilet, so I'd end up shitting in the woods even if I turned around. I figured ceteris paribus, I'd rather shit further up the trail than suffer the ego trauma of shitting in retreat, like some scared puppy.

I imagine it was probably my fourth mile in when I knew two things: 1)I was right to assume that I never would have made it back without having to shit in the woods, and 2)I really needed to shit. I scampered up the scrub-covered slope about 20 yards, sweating like a whore in church and pinching the god-blessed quarter like a trained champion. You ever notice that the closer you get to the actual place you're going to shit (whether that be a toilet or a designated tree), the worse the urge becomes? Mid sprint, in one graceful (yet obscene) fluid motion, I unclipped the hip belt on my pack, shimmied down my pants, and put my back against the uphill side of a large pine tree.

Freedom is releasng the first wave of explosive diarreah. I've no doubt it's horrible to watch; but it needs to happen so bad that when it does, it feels like a high.

As I leaned against the tree, still sweating and trying to catch my breath from this bathroom biathalon, I heard voices coming down the trail. I should have known. Paranoia snatched my breath like a kick to the chest. You can do this, I told myself. Squeezing my but together like a vise and quieting my gulps for air into mere sips; I listened intently as the voices became louder. Oh Jesus, please don't let them smell it. What if they smell it, or I can't hold it while they're close? What if I get a leg cramp? Oh crap! Can they see my pack!? Can they see me?? How am I supposed to explain myself? It's not like I can run away or anything! Christwagons, what if they report me for indecent exposure or something? I'm going to jail for shitting in the woods!

The voices dwindled off into the distance, and I returned to the exorcism of my colon. When it was all said and done, I decided maybe I should head home. I figured there was no way in hell I wanted to spend the evening repeating this every hour or so, especially given the fact that I was eating trail food. Naturally, everyone wanted to know why I'd come home early. I thought about telling them some story about bears or something, but none of them would believe that crap. I told the truth and one of the guys asked, "What'd it look like?" Seriously, these are my truest friends. For a long while after that I sustained some pretty consistent shenanigans. Everytime we went out on some trip or overnighter, someone would sneak a bottle of Pepto into my gear. Like I'd roll my sleeping bag out and there'd be a bottle inisde of it. Of course, this would cause a stir, at which point the story would be retold for all in attendance. The bastards.

Posted by: shank at 03:58 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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