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 A Rocky BreakfastPosted 05.02.2008 by gus (16)
It was New Year's Eve, 1998. Early in the morning, my cousin Britton, my friend Greg and I woke up to go climb to the top of the Superstition Mountains east of Phoenix. The hike is about three miles straight up and three miles back again -- challenging enough for even the healthiest of hikers. We hadn't walked fifty feet from the car before my stomach told me it was time to vomit.
"Go ahead," I told my companions. "I'll catch up in a second." At that point in my life, I had made a habit of mixing six-to-eight egg whites with some orange juice in the blender and drinking it as part of my breakfast. It's a quick and easy way to consume protein. And so I passionately wretched out this quick-and-easy protein. I wiped the corner of my mouth, swished some water, put a piece of gum in my mouth, and jogged to join Britton and Greg. I felt somewhat better than I did just a few moments ago, so I decided I could make it the rest of the way, no problem. About halfway up the mountain, I felt the infamous rumbling in my stomach. "Just a little gas," I thought to myself. But I was hesitant to expel any for fear of sharting. I decided to brave a fart anyway. It burned both my butthole and my nostrils. To my relief, though, it was just air. Rare are the times when I am offended by my own stench. This was one of those times. The aroma was instantly evident to both Britton and Greg as well. "I beg your pardon," I explained. "It won't happen again." We arrived at the top of Battleship Rock, where we briefly rested and had a bite to eat. Our appetites were lost after I defiled the fresh air once again. The cramping in my gut was almost unbearable. The pain was my bowels telling me it was time to go home and find relief. About a half-mile down the mountain, there was a rumble, a sharp pain, and what felt like a bubble of air trying to escape. To my dismay, it was not air, but liquid-hot diarrhea. As soon as I realized this, I surprised my fellow hikers by immediately dropping my shorts to my ankles and assuming a crab-walk pose (face-up, with my hands and feet holding my butt off the ground). They did not ask what I was doing, because it was obvious. Explosive bursts of waste splattered against the rock I was straddling. I could feel wet drops on my calves and forearms. Groaning, I stood and removed my shorts from my ankles. I had no toilet paper, so I wiped as well as I could with my socks. I left my socks and my boxer shorts soaked with crap on the trail. I used the last of my drinking water to rinse the drops of brown from my legs and arms. Just as I was cleaned up enough to continue hiking, the second wave of eruptions began. I knew there was no holding it back. This time, though, I had time to remove my shorts all the wayand squat in a proper poop-in-the-woods posture. The only thing I had left to wipe with was my Metallica Justice For All t-shirt. It, too, was sacrificed. By now, Greg and Britton were teary-eyed with laugher. I literally thought I was going to die, and we still had several miles to hike. I had no water and nothing in my stomach for fuel. I could barely move my legs. I don't think I have ever been so miserable in my life, and hope I never am again. What a way to welcome the new year. I haven't pulled a Rocky since. Post new comment
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