There are few things as tranquil and breathtaking as a summer morning in the boundary waters. The lake softly licking against the shoreline, the occasional loon call, and summer sunshine flowing through the tent fly makes for the perfect way to rise from a nights slumber atop the fresh pine loam of northern minnesota. My family and I make it a point to surrender to the BWCA at least once every summer. These trips are not only marked with the obvious beauty and splendor of Minnesota summertime, but also with the attempt to take a shit as infrequently as possible.
In the boundary waters, the comforts of the modern lifestyle are few and far between. Showers don't happen nearly as often as loved ones hope for, meals often consist of the same old stale tasting freeze dried or dehydrated tackery, and tempers often rise above and beyond the boiling point due to such inconveniences. Regardless, there is something in my families' basic nature that drives us to return to the lakes and woods each year, partly due to the feeling of oneness with nature and also due to the way in which the BWCA can make people feel alive with human instinct and the drive for survival. However, some trips contain experiences that kick a being into situations that surpass anything one might expect.
After my junior year in high school, my family and I ventured back into the woods for a little family bonding. I have two older brothers, one Blaise and one Roscoe, both of whom have gone into the environmental field in one way or the other. My parents, Sue and Jesse are both "recovering" hippies. And then there's me. I too will be going into the environmental field and I happily anticipate these BWCA adventures beyond everyone else in the family. I love the way in which nature grips my heart and makes it weak. I love the way in which my family has to come together with nature, and bond with the wild. I don't like pooping in the latrines out back behind every designated campsite, so naturally, I limit this activity to the bare minimum. For me, this is dropping the trousers once a day after breakfast. This bodily rythm means I don't have to deal with the urge to go when physical activity gets intense, and I also have the whole day to recover from what I might see in the bottom of the biff.
Roscoe is what we could call the strong and silent type. What I've come to see about such people is that often times, underneath the standoffish exterior lies a gentle and squishy heart. They also might not be quite as brave as one might imagine. The campsite we were residing at looked like it had been touched by the finger of God him/herself. It was the type of morning that made you think magnificent things were about to happen. There had been a gentle rain the night before and in nature this leads to mornings of clean, sharp air, gentle waters, and trees stretching towards heavens of sunshine as deliberatly as their root structures may allow. Such a morning means that its time to cook the holiest of holy breakfasts: pancakes. However, BWCA pancakes are often doughy in the middle and burnt on the edges, to the point of indegestion. So Roscoe, whose silent and resilient stomach was all of a sudden not so silent and resilient, and my stomach, which was ready for the daily deuce, headed out back.
The latrines in the BWCA are unlike any other latrines that the current camper might encounter. They generally resemble a hard plastic 5 gallon bucket with human fecal matter at the bottom. It is my guess that they were installed a very long time ago, during some type of prohibition from comfort, possibly during WWII when plastic was scarce leading to a limit in the amount of satisfaction one can get from squatting on a shitter. They are in essence, plasticly primitive. I let Roscoe go first; the looks on his contorted face wrenching at my heart and after a few painful minutes of indescribable noises, aromas, and cries of pain, he was done. It was my turn.
I just finished reading How To Shit in the Woods by Kathleen Meyer. Meyer accurately describes to the reader the technical aspects of camp crapping. One must first dig a hole with a spade, followed by the lowering of the drawers, and then comes the aiming of the dropoff itself. If you've just made fire-in-the-hole so to speak, you can clean up and spade the dirt back into your hole. However, in the book, there never was any mention of possible intruders that might interrupt your deed.
So I get going. I'm dropping and squatting, my stomach feeling off-color due to the fact that I haven't relieved myself in the last 24 hours. Luckily for me, my stomach responded gently to breakfast, quite unlike Roscoe's response to the flapjacks he ate, and I was still able to take in the Minnesota beauty that surrounded me. The sun was shining brilliantly; there were birds chirping and squirrels bouncing around somewhere close to me. Maybe even a raccoon or two. Or, what is that? One thing you must know about me is that I'm very trusting of my surroundings. I tend to seek only the best in the souls that are in my proximal vicinity, including animals. So, I decide to turn around and see some wildlife. I turn to gaze over the edge of the hill that the latrine was located on, but I can't see beyond some downed trees. Oh well, I have business at hand.
Fast forward a few minutes. I'm still squatting; enjoying the morning and the memories of dreams that rest just an hour before pancakes and poop, completly forgetting about the noises in the distance. But then, there it was again, the crack of a branch and the shuffle of last fall's leaves, some type of animal, sounding closer than the last time. Maybe a deer? The hair on the back of my neck prickled delightedly, for in my mind there are few things closer to the true definition of a spiritual being. I turn and wait. Nothing. Sighing, and deciding to quickly finish up so I can peer over the trees and try to glimpse the deer, I begin to rush through the last few moments of my duty.
Then, there was a thump-thump-thump-thump of padded feet behind me. Heavy padded feet. Feet that only come attached to carniverous beasts of wildlife that eat teenagers. I whip around, pants still at the ankles, and see an oversized black beast bitch of a bear running behind my bare behind. Bear!!! Roscoe, white as a sheet sprints for camp, leaving me alone with my butt, business, and bear all alone blowing breezy-style in the wind, ready to have it out in the woods (I should add that Roscoe's eyes change color whenever he's livid or scared, but to this day, I don't think I've ever witnessed them to be glowing as they were at that moment). I wish I could say that I was a brave and strong camper, prepared for all possibilities, and ready to scare the wild bears away from the dangers of campers and civilization. But, I too am a chicken when it comes to animals as ominous and fabley dangerous as the bear. So, I haul bare ass back to my campsite, screaming like a stuck pig, pants being pulled up along the way, trying to manage stumps and rocks and my own heart hammering away in my chest. To my surprise, I'm still here to write this today. Bears are supposed to chase, maul, and kill anything that runs from them. But luckily for me, the bear must have been scared away from either my screams, or possibly from the latrine nasty business that I had just added to. No one will ever quite know why I'm still alive to share this story with you.
The lessons to be learned here are threefold. First, How To Shit In The Woods clearly doesn't prepare a person for all aspects of business. This time it was a black bear, but next time it could be a pack of wolves, a moose, or a hyena. Kathleen Meyer is full of shit when actually preparing you to be a latrine soldier in the middle of battle. Secondly, never trust your surroundings with a blind faith. Even your own brother may leave you out to burn in the great outdoors. Third, when encountering a bear, either scream and scare the bear away, shoot the damn thing with a massive gun and a 15 pound bullet, or take a shit upwind of the animal. Any one of these tactics are battle tested and proven to work with varying degrees of success.
The boundary waters can prove to be a place that steals your heart, soul, and spirit. I personally will continue to return to the BWCA as often as my unfolding life will allow. I encourage you all to pay heed to the great outdoors and its many facets. The woods are often a place of peace and surrender, a place where we can experience an escape from civilization and a rebirth into something greater than ourselves. However, you never know what you may encounter. Out there in the wild, all forms of the animal kingdom are in each others' business and interacting on a daily basis. A little fear and respect for the unknown can go a long way. Especially when your pants are down and you're taking a healthy shit in the woods.
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