It’s been a while since I have written about poop, so I guess it’s high time I brought up the subject again. We are back in Colorado right now and everybody is getting in their last weekends of camping. The last vestiges of summer are being clung to by those who wish to leave their comfy beds, erect a flappy tarp in the middle of the God-forsaken woods and sleep or not sleep on rocks and roots while freezing their extremities. Seeing them race for the hills has been reminding me of my own camping history. As you can tell, I may have some woundings in the area of camping. I have been camping plenty. Every time I tell myself this will be the time that I finally like it. But I don’t. I hate it. This story is likely part of the reason why.
Once Sam got “pretty well potty trained” (that IS a category) we decided it would be fun to take the kids camping. We couldn’t really afford any other kind of excursion and since kids still think camping is fun, I was willing to take one for the team. We borrowed some gear and started packing up the car. And here is where I discovered that my idea of camping and “Barry Grylls’” idea were two completely different scenarios. I was thinking of bringing things like camping chairs and a table and Mr. Grylls had something a little more minimalist (read: torture) in mind. He wanted to take us somewhere really special (read: remote and Deliverance-ish), away from people (read: drive six hours, two on a gravel mining road) and really be “one with nature” (read: poop in the ground in holes we would dig ourselves). He said we “couldn’t fit” all of the camping chairs and the camping table. I fussed and fumed but he insisted it had to be this way for it to be “real” camping. Whatever. I just wanted to be able to sit down on non-organic material and I snuck one chair in.
So we did it his way. We drove for hours beyond all signs of civilization to a gravel road (can you call it gravel if the rocks are golf ball sized?) that I am pretty sure he found by calling up the Forestry Service and saying, “Hey, so where can I take my family to dump them in the woods where they will never again be found? And make it a place with lots of dangerous wildlife please.” He picked a “spot” where the grass was only a foot high. That way, the kids could have a fun time stomping us out a place to put the tent, he said. We got the tent up and then…the mosquitos. Like a thick fog of blood sucking insect hell, they descended upon us with a fury. They must have passed it along the mosquito text thread that there were real live human beings with no fur and exposed spots of skin. I dare say millions of mosquitos who had never before seen a human descended upon our camp. I had snuck some mosquito spray into my bag but it really did nothing. We just put as many clothes as possible on our kids and then ourselves and told them to move around a lot.
Now it was dinner time. I am surprised that Barry Grylls permitted us to bring a one burner tiny fuel bottle type stove. I looked around and asked him where exactly I should put it to cook stuff since there was no picnic table at this “campsite”. He said we could just do it on the ground. Me not being so good at cooking while seated on my haunches, I got to work turning the dog crate into a table. I covered it with a blanket and a tarp and then wondered what we could do about chairs. I snagged the two carseats out of the car for the littles and the bigs rounded up some stumpish seats. I pulled the one camping chair out of the car and told Barry that he was not going to be sitting in that, I was.
Over dinner, the kids asked Barry where we would be going to the bathroom. He informed us, in a whimsical, charming voice that “Here in the deep woods, there are no bathrooms! We have to dig our own holes to use and then cover them up when we are done. They were enchanted by the notion of no bathrooms and each wanted a chance to hold the pointy “bathroom shovel”. I was utterly unimpressed by this scenario, for several reasons. Firstly, the obvious ones: no toilet, no walls and mosquitos on my butt. Secondly, my daily elimination ritual is predictable and consistent. You could set a world clock by it. It goes like this: 1) I wake up 2) I drink coffee 3) within 7 minutes I run to the nearest bathroom and am out usually within 45 seconds. It’s not a choice and God help anyone who is in my way. When I pictured that scenario taking place the next morning and me trying to fit “dig a hole” into that lineup, I knew it would not work. For me, there is no room for deviation. So, as soon as dinner was over, I grabbed up the shovel and went to prepare for the next morning’s ritual. I picked a spot that wasn’t too far of a jaunt but still allowed me the illusion of privacy. I put some signs along the path so it would be easy for me to find, post-coffee. I felt safe and secure with my choice and boy-scout prepared.
That night, the kids and I slept in a tent while Barry slept in an enclosed hammock outside, like some sort of chrysalis. Now I know that he chose to sleep in that hammock purely for self-preservation. I awoke at about 2am to the sound of some giant animal snorting and then stamping it’s feet, a foot from my head. I sat bolt upright, scared it was a bear. I yelled out to cocoon boy and he said it was just elk and wasn’t it beautiful? Not, it was not. It was terrifying. They could stomp our heads! I scooched us all into the middle of the tent so no one would get elk-stomped and laid there shivering in the dark.
When light broke we emerged to find Barry sitting around a little fire, looking happy as a clam. He said I should try making coffee with the little coffee press attachment he had bought for his one-burner-tiny-fuel-bottle-stove. I needed the coffee and since that’s the only way it was gonna get in me, I gave it a try. Well, it came with no instructions and within 8 minutes the jet-boil coffee press exploded with a bang I was covered in coffee and coffee grounds. After Mr. Grylls had a good laugh, he took over and I went to sit in THE chair.
He produced better results with the jet boil and I quickly downed what he brought me. True to form, within 7 minutes, I was ready to roll. When the alarm went off, I was calmed by the well-thought out poop action plan I had implemented the night before. I told Barry where I was going, grabbed the pointy shovel (for the covering over) and set off to follow the signs I had left for myself, delighted at my own foresight. I got to the spot just in time as the airplane hatch was about to open. I could see the sign I had left for myself above the hole I had dug but there was no hole to be found. I panicked. I squeezed my cheeks together with a terrified resolve whiIe anxiously looking all around, in case I had misplaced the hole somehow. I knew this was the spot! Wait…was that fresh dirt? Spread over top of my hole? MY hole??? The one I had so geniously prepped 12 hours before, so that this very scenario would not happen?! Who could have done this??? There was no one else out here but us! Barry Grylls, that’s who. He had split open his cocoon hammock with the very first light and wandered out here to relieve himself (he is one of those who can choose when this happens). He had stumbled across this perfectly positioned hole and had decided it was God’s provision for him. And now here I was, about to poop my ever-loving camping pants and having to bend over and dig a brand new hole. I. Was. Livid. I’d rather not go into detail about how the next few minutes went. Suffice it to say, if you try with all your might to keep all your sphincter muscles closed while doing something like jumping jacks, dancing or digging a hole, you will likely not be 100 % successful. I marched back to camp and punched him in the arm.
“What the heck???? Why did you poop in my hole???”
“Oh, that was yours?”
“Of course it was mine! Do you think holes with markings above them just HAPPEN in the deliverance woods? I almost crapped my pants you jerk!”
“Oops, sorry” he said, with the same grin he gave his aunts when he was three and they discussed the possibility of him landing in jail someday. He fully knew that was my hole. And if he’s so dang experienced about deep woods camping, then how come he doesn’t know the unwritten rule about pooping in someone else’s hole????
The rest of the trip went pretty much the same and it helped me decide that I hate camping. That kind of camping. No chair, elk-stomping, dog-crate-table, exploding coffee, Barry-Grylls- who-poops-in-your-hole-camping is not for me. If you want to haul me out to the outhouse woods (different than the deliverance woods) in a camper with a bed, a roof and a stove – I’m game.
In an effort to end on a positive note, I’d like to wish all of you camping-types well. You be you. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank Barry Grylls for helping me to really get in touch with myself and to know what sorts of things I really like doing. Thanks to him, here are a few things I know for sure I like.
- My elk-hoof-free bed
- Chairs
- Guys who don’t poop in someone else’s hole
So funny!!! Love this story 😍