Poop and water should not mix

"How do you poop in the woods?"

This is one of the most common questions I get asked.  And the answer?  You just do it.  Some people have to have toilet paper with them, other people use leaves or rocks or whatever they find.  My favorite brand of tp is the striped maple leaf.  The leaves are big, soft, and common.  I feel better about leaving them behind, anyway.

What frustrates me most about this process is seeing other people's sodden paper draped over tree roots and sticking out of the dirt.  Leave No Trace ethics suggest going 200 feet from water sources and trails, digging a hole at least 6 inches deep, then packing out or burying your toilet paper.  It's a matter of keeping the trails looking nice, but more importantly it's keeping the water safe to drink.  As much as I loved the Smokies, there were times when I was extra careful about my water because of the piles of horse poop that I'd find near the shelters' water sources.

Yesterday I was frustrated with trash and paper I saw near a campsite, and started singing about Leave No Trace ethics.  After a few miles I ended up with a song, "Don't be an ass, just dig a hole."  It's pretty dumb, but it kept me entertained.  One of the lines was, "please don't go near the water, I must drink from there too.  Acquiring Giardia would stink worse than your poo."  

If you do it right, pooping in the woods can be a really great thing.  Pick a spot behind a nice tree, maybe find something to sit on if you'd like, and enjoy the view.  Cover it all up with dirt and leaves when you're done, mark it with a stick, and walk away.  It'll decompose and everyone's happy.  It's a great thigh strengthener and actually an ideal position for your body to get rid of that burger you enjoyed in town.

In the woods, everything balances out.  My hair is greasy but stays untangled, my skin sweats but doesn't smell among the trees and open air.  My food ends up going back to the ground where it came from.  In town, suddenly I'm aware of all of these things, and aware that  it's not socially acceptable to smell and look like I do.  So when I stayed at a hostel last night, I showered and changed into clean clothes, and made my way to the toilet.

It was strange.  I sat there and momentarily panicked when I felt water splash back up onto my skin.  I'M POOPING IN MY WATER SOURCE!  Of course, as soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew it wasn't true.  Yet, as the water droplets dribbled down my butt, I was horrified at the realization that every day we flush gallons and gallons of drinkable, beautiful water down with our poop.  I'll be thinking of that the next time I run out of water. 

I understand that waste disposal is a human health concern, and modern plumbing is a godsend.  Not everyone can hang out in the woods, and the ground couldn't handle it if they did.  But can't we find a more efficient way to get rid of our waste?

Maybe I'm just a nasty, smelly hiker.  But I have to go, and the library is about to close.  

I'm off to the woods.             

Wildlife

Mountain Laurel

Having Owen around is great for plant identification.  We both have some plant knowledge and have been able to identify over 70 plants.  They include blood root, partridge pea, poison ivy, striped maple (great for toilet paper), and a bunch of oaks.  There are still a ton of plants that we have no idea how to identify. 

We see a lot of mice and chipmunks around the shelters, songbirds, turkey, deer, and a good amount of small snakes.  One day we almost stepped on a three and a half foot, beige snake that we're pretty sure was venomous.  A lot of folks we run into have seen rattlesnakes, especially at some of the lower elevations (3 or 4 thousand feet).  So far we've seen one bear cub.  

My interests are in the smaller organisms.  I love seeing brightly colored fungi pop out of the dirt, or yellow slime molds that cling to rotting logs.  Some of the lichen out here is incredible-- large and leafy, textured and undisturbed.     

Owen's favorite:

Getting lost

When I had to carry all of my possessions up mountains, I quickly learned what was and wasn't worth the weight.  I thought about buying a different hammock -- one that is less bulky, lighter, and easier to set up.  I tried out Owen's hammock with my rain fly, planning to send my Hennessy hammock home at the next town.  I climbed in, glad to be away from the spiders (was that a brown recluse?) and the wooden floors of the shelter.

I woke when I felt water on my face.  Rain pelted the tarp that was whipping in the wind.  Raindrops attacked my sleeping bag from all directions.  I pinched the edge of the hammock to the fly, then realized I had no way to keep them together against the force of the wind.  This wouldn't have happened with my Hennessy.  I drew the hammock more tightly around myself and attempted sleep despite the spattering of droplets partying on my face.  My outside of my bag was wet.  I decided to run for the shelter.

I shoved my sleeping bag inside my shirt, crouched under my tarp, and adjusted my headlamp.  I ran.  Immediately I was soaked.  The rain violently contacted the earth, pelting my neck and roaring in my ears.  I could only see a few feet in front of me through the solid sheets of water.  I didn't see the shelter.  I ran in a different direction and still didn't see it.  Is my bag going to stay dry?  I continued running, occasionally seeing a tree trunk.  They all looked the same.  My light caught the reflective strips on Dan and Jess's trekking poles.  I was going the wrong way.  If worse comes to worse, I thought, I could crouch under their tarp.  Maybe I could ask for help.  Later I would laugh at the thought of knocking on their hammock.  "Hey, umm could you give me directions?"  I decided against it and continued running.

My hair was plastered to my face and I was sure my bag had soaked through.  I tripped over something -- Ian's hammock.  Damn.  Wrong again.  I ran and thought of being out here all night in the cold, lost in an unfamiliar woods.  Could I get hypothermia?  What would happen if my headlamp went out?  When I felt myself panic I stopped.  I was still in the campsite.  That was good.  I walked to where I thought Dan and Jess's hammock was.  I found it.  I faced the direction the shelter should have been in and counted my steps.  One.  Two.  Three.  Before I reached twenty my light caught the wooden beams three feet in front of me.  Thank God.

My feet crunched on the gravel floor and I birthed my sleeping bag onto the wooden platform.  I grabbed my pack from the wall and found the spare outfit I had been ready to send home.  I flung my sodden clothes on the ground as headlamps went on and I shakily got into dry clothes.  When I turned around I found that the boys had unfolded my (dry!) bag out onto a sleeping pad.  That small gesture would have made me emotional had I not had just one thought in my mind: getting in that bag.  I climbed in and pulled on some socks.  Sweet, sweet, glorious dirty smelly warm woolen socks.  I was dry.  No longer lost.  Among friends.
I curled up on my side and put my wet hair outside of my bag.  My shoulder and hip dug into the wooden floor and my full bladder squirmed as I lay there in blissful comfort.  My heart beat furiously against my ribs.  The rain continued, so loudly at points that it masked the sound of thunder that shook the shelter floor.  If I hadn't woken everyone up, this would have.  I was grateful to be there, even among the spiders, mouse turds, and snoring men. 

Maybe my pack was worth its weight after all.