If you’ve ever lived with me, or spent any amount of overnight time with me in a shared space, you know I have a morning routine that doesn’t vary from situation to situation. My body has been conditioned for the “shit, shower, shave” routine.

To say that I’m “regular” is an understatement.

Usually within the first hour of being awake it’s time for the biological task for me: bowel movement.

<insert any of your favorite euphemisms of the act here>

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“Glamping,” short for glamorous camping, has become a mainstay of outdoor recreation over the past decade. If your essentials list contains things such as a real mattress, running water or an actual toilet, you can still find numerous options that bridge the gap between traditional camping and the comforts of home.

~ KOA Camping

Last weekend I enjoyed some car camping. If I’m being honest with myself, my days of hiking and camping are behind me. In fact, my back and my other idiosyncrasies indicate I’m qualified for glamping.

I rolled up in the Millennium Subaru (2014 Subaru Outback) to the campsite off of Forest Road 181 in the Mogollon Rim area about breakfast time on Friday. The women had a 16 foot camper, 10-person compartmentalized tent set up. Curiously, I spotted a pop up tent set up a fair distance from the campsite. I deduced that’s the portable outhouse.

I thought, “Smart. A creature comfort that’s almost necessary.”

This is an almost glamping scene. In hindsight, I should’ve ask how their outhouse worked, perhaps a thorough tutorial and mostly what biological act should NOT be done in there …

Missed Marketing Opportunity

Patty and I were discussing the missed marketing opportunity with the Pop Up Tent. Why not, Pop Up Poop Tent? Or Pop Up Poop Privacy Tent? Regardless, their set up was great: toilet paper on a flat rock, a plastic trash bin lined with an used plastic grocery bag, and of course the cornerstone of it all, the porta potty.

However, I didn’t see this until much later.

Saturday SHYT-HOUSE Blues

I woke up before anyone else. Not surprising after you consider I “slept” for 2-hours the night before, drove for 2-hours, hiked for 6-hours (about 6 miles) around Woods Canyon Lake, and slept on a pad in my tent.

The propane powered fire ring, and propane tank were left out but not set up. It was cold even by my standards (48 degrees F) I managed to figure that out, and fire it up. While I stared at my caveman TV, I started sipping on my bottled coffee.

Then my stomach growled like a mountain lion.

I stood up, and strolled over to the pop up tent. I pulled back the door. I surveyed the porta potty.

“Jesus,” I thought, “this is no bigger than a Fisher Price potty training piss pot.”

How does this work, anyways? I mentally asked. My bowels were twisting up inside me, the sounds were no longer a warning but a mere courtesy at this point. This. is. happening.

A mere 70 seconds later the event was over. Time to flush, right? I pawed with my right-hand to what-I-thought was the button for opening the toilet.

NOPE.

On the front of this crap-trap-shon was a lever. I pulled it forward like the eject handle on single seat jet-fighter.

NOTHING.

I stood up as much as I could in this privacy tent that’s only 5 feet tall, so it’s almost balancing on my dome as I have my shorts and underwear at my feet. I stared down at what I had done. I murmured like Dr. Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, “That’s one big pile of shit.”

I wanted to SCREAM. I wanted to CRY. I wanted to screaming WHILE I was crying. My Dad’s Only Two Rules of Life leapt into my mind:

1 – SHIT. Happens.

2 – A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do

I had noticed in the trash bin was toilet paper cardboard roll. A plan started formulating in my panicked mind. I formed the cardboard roll into a make-shift shit shovel. Thankfully there was plenty of room in the plastic grocery bag!

Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but the immediate area didn’t seem to smell that bad. Then again, it wasn’t an air-tight space either. I cursed myself for not asking more questions as I manually removed the fecal matter from the toy-like porta potty.

I tied up the bag of crap tightly. A few of my campmates are awake but they haven’t taken any notice of my activity. I calmly walked over to my vehicle. I had the foresight to bring two garage bags for the “pack in, pack out” process.

I double bagged my mess, and placed it on the side of the Millennium Subaru that is out of sight of the campsite. I retrieved my flushable wipes that my sister inspired me to have on hand, and a 1 liter of drinking water. I strolled back to the black privacy tent of pooping.

I poured enough water to wash away my shame, oh and the handle actually did work and deposited into the porta-potty. I mentally sighed, “Thank goodness, that’s over with.”

I knew that my future Amazon / Bass Pro Shop / Cabela’s / REI would be a spade, privacy tent, and a shit pot with a minimum of 5-gallon capacity. So Spaceship Earth, what’s been your worst case scenario in a bathroom?

My friend, Audrey, will appreciate the following: AS SURE AS SHIT, that was my worst case scenario.

‘los; out.