Why choose to poop in the woods?
Harsh sunlight speared over the mountain, washing the campsite in aggressive lines. The campfire had been burning my exposed shins for nearly half an hour, and my stomach gurgles had grown worrisome. Canned beef chili with wild rice was probably a bad call, but I managed to dig a proper cat hole in time.
Yawning, I squint out towards the Alpine lake, catching the glimpse of orange nestled between the trees. During the night, my hammock rocked in the wind. If I closed my eyes, I could have been on a rocky boat at sea. Sleep evaded those first few hours into the night, the howling wind another harsh attribute.
Woodsy camp fire is crackling as I sip my second cup of bitter instant coffee, and I reminisce over the incredible weightlessness of my poop the night before. It makes me think of all the subpar things that befriend the backpacking process.
Harsh light. Bitter coffee. Burning fire. Cat holes. Bleary eyed.
A smile tugs at my lips as my thoughts bounce between these wonderful things. The morning light cuts through the night chill, and instant coffee tastes better than the finest espresso. Smoke clings to my hair, and the smell of fire lingers long after I’ve extinguished her flames. I swayed with the wind as she sang me to sleep, the moon guiding my slip into dreams, and I have never been more satisfied by empty bowels.
Perspective is the true god of happiness, and the simplest of things become the greatest joys when you’re life is condensed to an overnight pack and a gorgeous view.
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