MAIN SECTIONS
MAIN SECTIONS
Stories About Poop Intellectual Crap Consumer Reports Fun with Feces Poop at the Office Techniques Travel Logs The Captain's Log Academic Poop Home  
RESOURCES The PoopReport Gift Pack Poop Culture: The Book The PoopReport Store The Skatole Shirt PoopReport FAQ Best Of PoopReport Press Room Advertise! PoopReport on Myspace PoopReport on Facebook NEWS AND ADVICE The BM News Wire Ask PoopReport Ask a Poodiatrist Eternal Debates FEATURES Special Reports Movie Poop Archive Toilet Paper Survey Pooetry Comics Poop Contests MOVEMENTS I Poop and I Vote!  Shameless Shitting Poop For Peace The Summer Stoolstice DISCUSSIONS Shit Of My Career Childbirth Poop Book Of The Shameless First Memory of Poop More... REPORT POOP Poop Forums PoopReport Chat Submit 
NavigationPoop Comics Our BuddiesLower left rotating ad most recent poll -- formattedPoop at the Movies |
 Too Near The Beaten PathPosted 08.18.2003 by Crap4All (44)
I am all for comfortable-on-toilet-in-my-own-bathroom-lots-of-spare-paper pooping 100% of the time -- but when nature calls, nature calls. Throughout years of camping, I had never crapped in the woods. I am not sure if I subconsciously planned it that way or what, but until I was 23 years old I never had to deal with it. Was it fear of being seen? Fear of being smelled? Just plain fear of not having a good supply of cleanup materials afterwords? I'm not sure. Now, thirteen years later, I always camp and hike with a fresh roll of paper, and yearn for the opportunity to make my own mountains in the great outdoors.
My newlywed wife and I were on vacation in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It was July 5th, and we planned a long, all day hike up Mt. Madison via the Daniel Webster Trail. All was fine and going well when, about two hours into the hike, a strange, somewhat quirky bowel dance started deep inside. Up to this point in my hiking history I had never tried to dump in the woods, let alone perform so many miles away from civilization in front of a woman I've only known for a year and a half. I think the part I worried about most -- and why I never ventured into this unknown -- was not knowing how I would wipe my ass. About a hundred yards later all hell was breaking loose around my sphincter, which was now working overtime to keep the mud inside. As calmly as possible, I broke the news to my wife that I needed to have some private time, and that I was going to attempt something I never tried before. With a strange look of bewilderment -- and a question in her eyes of "What the hell did I marry here?" -- she proceeded to give me the nod of approval, like your mom on your first day of school or your dad letting you go your first time without the training wheels. I eyed a large tree that had fallen across the trail about twenty-five feet ahead, and approached it, thinking of how I was going to pull this off. The tree was about three feet around. I hopped on it and walked down the trunk about ten feet off the trail. At this point my wife offered the suggestion that I should move farther away from where people would be, but I shouted back that the sphincter was not going to hold, and decisions needed to be made, and made quick. I can't remember all the details anymore, but thirteen years later I haven't forgotten much. I squatted and pressed out a pile right on top of the log. (Please don't hold this against me -- I was young at the time and I realize now the proper etiquette of pooping in the woods.) It came out quick, very light brown and a little mushy, like mashed potatoes cooked just right. For clean up, I was forced to sacrifice a beloved bandanna for this previously-unattempted task. To me, this was the end of the story. No great clincher or monumental crescendo like the other great stories on PoopReport. It wasn't until hours and days had passed that this story became worthy of the archives here. About four hours later, we were descending the summit of Mt. Madison when we approached people running up the mountain trail. Inquiring what happened, they exclaimed that some a-hole took a shit on a tree near the trail below, and that there were about a thousand blackflies all around a 50-foot perimeter of the shit! They said you have to run as fast as you can, and even then you'll still get bitten. I started smirking, and these people looked at me, bewildered and confused, and hiked on, probably thinking something was wrong with me. As we approached the death zone we started running, and as I got stung I started cracking up, knowing I had created this environmental disaster. My wife, of course, was totally unimpressed by the whole scene. The next day we went to the ranger's cabin to see the weather reports. There, posted front and center as a warning, next to the bear and moose sightings, was my first poop report. "Blackflies warning on Daniel Webster Trail: large swarm of black flies three miles up trail near fallen tree. Consider using alternate routes or wear proper netting." In hindsight, I should have asked for a Xerox copy of the posting for posterity. -- Crap4All Post new comment
|
Ad 1
Ad 2
Text Ads
Recent comments
Who's onlineThere are currently 0 users and 367 guests online.
Thong ad Highest Users
Browse content by author View some statistics Learn more about userpoints |
