Being as I can't recall all the names, I have changed them to protect the innocent -- that, and just in case any of them read PoopReport, to save my own arse.

For as long as I can remember, I've gone camping for five days in the summer. Usually I go somewhere in Eastern Washington, as the weather is usually a lot warmer and sunnier. Up until I started drinking beer, I would hardly ever poop during these five days. It usually worked itself out that I got in one good dump before the trip and would not crap again until I got back home. It's not that I would try not to, but rather that my bowels, for whatever reason, would shut off during these trips. Which was quite okay with me -- I was a Shameful Shitter back then and only liked to poop at home.

When I was sixteen, I went with Steve, my mom's boyfriend of five years, and some of his friends to their yearly four-day campout at Icicle Creek. These campouts were mostly an excuse for them to get together and get away from their women. There was always plenty of beer, booze, weed, and gambling. This was my introduction to being a man!

The weather sucked -- instead of the usual warm and sunny weather, it was always raining and always cold. The first couple of nights I only had two or maybe three beers and a shot of whiskey. It wasn't that I was a stranger to drinking then, but it was quite awkward to be sixteen around a whole bunch of thirty-somethings -- I didn't want to loose control and not be invited back. On the last night of the trip, after much pressure from the guys (who were drunk from wake-up to pass-out), I drank a six-pack of MGD and several pulls of whiskey. I was pretty well lit. The next morning I awoke to the telltale signs that I had a crap a'brewing -- my introduction to the beer shits, I would later figure out.

I had it all planed out: we would be packed up and home by one PM, and I could manage to hold off until I got home. The campground we were at had some horrid toilets. Not only did they look nasty, but there was this putrid smell to go with the crap decor. I only ever went in there one time in those four days; after that I took to hiking down the trail to pee. Just remembering that place still gives me the creeps. It was straight out of a horror movie -- the kind where someone walks in and never comes back, only to be found later in a half-decomposed state as some mystical serial killing monster runs loose. I wanted nothing to do with those restrooms.

About halfway home, I found out that Steve wanted to stop over at a friend's "cabin" -- which turned out to be an old single-wide in a trailer park. The urge to crap was getting stronger, but it wasn't that far out of the way, and I figured he just wanted to stop in and say hi. But after being there for several hours and watching Steve drink beer after beer, I finally asked the owner where the bathroom was. He pointed me down a trail.

The scenery was really nice. It was slightly raining and the vegetation was thick and green. The outhouse was a good fifty yards down a winding trail. The outside of the building was yellow and seemed inviting. I walked to the door and opened it.

Now, this was my first experience with a true shithouse -- not just your typical outhouse, but a shithouse. A building constructed around a hole in the ground. The sights and smells that hit me upon opening that door was nowhere near what I was expecting. Still standing outside, I noticed how small the inside was, and how dark and damp. Granted, I'll bet most of the moisture spots I saw were rain from the leaky roof. However, I was not in a gambling mood. Plus, I noticed during my quick investigation that there was no toilet paper, nor even a dispenser for some. I closed the door and walked back to the trailer. I still felt the urge to go -- it was uncomfortable, but not painful.

Upon my return I was informed that we would be staying the night, as my mom's boyfriend had already had too much to drink; plus I'm sure he wanted to stay and party some more with his friend. It was getting to be early evening when a couple of other guys showed up. The owner of the cabin and the two guys that showed up were going to leave in the morning to go on a week-long hiking trip up in the mountains. The night wore on, and the four of them drank until right around eleven PM. Then everyone turned in. I got the bunk located in the front of the trailer.

I awoke to sharp stabbing pains that were telling me now is definitely the time to poop. I quietly got out of the bunk. With only the light creeping in the windows from the porch, I managed to find the two things I needed: a roll of toilet paper and a flashlight. Quietly I was able to open the door, get outside, and close the door. Even to this day I really hate waking people up; and back then, as a Shameful Shitter, I didn't want to have to explain that I had to poop NOW!

The only light was being cast by the front porch light. Off in the distance I could see a small glow from the outhouse light. (Sure, it has electricity, but no plumbing? Seriously, what gives with that?) I was in a crisis mode -- I really had to poop, but I didn't want to stick my butt on the outhouse toilet, hover over it, or generally be in there at all, be the door open or closed. Just the thought of what those wet spots in there *might* be was a huge deterrent. I also had the problem of being still half-asleep and not fully sure where it was located, as the trail there did fork several times. All of these thoughts occurred over a few seconds, and led me to this conclusion: I'll shit in the woods!

I made my way down a path, away from the light of the trailer. As soon as I felt I was far enough away, I found a log to hang my butt over. I let loose a torrent of crap. This was paste! Not diarrhea, not a log, but paste. With the occasional fart.

I felt the stabbing pains start go away. The whole process of pooping was done and over in seconds. I got some toilet paper cleaned up and tossed the used stuff into the brush. I felt so much better. Bleary-eyed, I went back to the trailer. I quietly snuck back into my bunk, making sure to put the toilet paper and flashlight back exactly as I found them. I drifted off into a nice slumber.

I awoke to this: "Who the fuck is the nasty bastard that shit all over my backpack?"

I could hear someone else laughing outside and making comments while Ted just spewed out profanities. Ted's friend Kevin walked outside after hearing this, asking what was up. Ted and the owner of the trailer blamed Kevin for the incident. (Apparently there was a previous incident in which Ted drunkenly peed in Kevin's closet or something. I don't quite recall.) Kevin adamantly denied that he shit all over Ted's gear. A fistfight nearly broke out.

Steve asked me what was going on, and I told him what I had heard so far from the inside. Steve and I walked outside, where Ted and Kevin were in a yelling match. The shock and horror hit me. During the night, when I thought I had gone down the trail, all I'd really done was go about twenty feet from the trailer; and the "log" I'd leaned over was one of those makeshift log benches. The bushes behind it turned out to be Ted's jacket and poncho.

I could not have hit the mark better even if I tried. There was pasty shit all over Ted's backpack and used toilet paper on his jacket and poncho. I was mortified; and with Ted being a huge guy, there was just no way in hell I was going to fess up to this.

Steve said his goodbyes and we left for home. On the car ride back, he swore that Kevin truly did shit all over Ted's gear out of revenge.

It wasn't until when I ran across Steve in a shopping mall many years later did I fess up. He and my mom had broken up years before, and it had been eight years or so since the incident. Steve started laughing hysterically as he relayed to me that those two have been feuding ever since. They were still good friends -- it's just that they would often terrorize each other with pee, poo, garbage, and basically anything else in the sick prank war. Steve told me he was going to go ahead and tell the guys the whole story.

I have not seen Steve in six years. I hope Ted and Kevin are still friends. I still feel bad about it. It was accidental -- I was young and scared. But it's still another chapter in my book of unintentional turd terrorism.