This isn’t a climbing story. This is a story about an emergency.
We were almost to Longmont before Sam realized he had missed our turn to Estes Park. Our mindless banter to stay awake at 3:30 in the morning had distracted us from that crucial turn, costing us an hour on our day.
Much wet and failure on the retreat. Photo by Justin Koback
Less than a year ago, we made the same drive to Bear Lake to climb Hallet Peak via the Culp Bossier route – a classic in a park full of classics. That day had a 30% chance of good weather, so we went for it. By the top of pitch 4, with 4 more to go, it was clear that was the wrong call – the skies opened with rain, hail, and lightening moving in several hours earlier than forecasted. We bailed, lips blue, with each rappel acting as a rope squeegee dumping icy water onto my crotch.
With that last experience in mind, I chugged my coffee and we sped through the darkness. Properly timed coffee, I will argue, is the most under rated tool in your alpine kit. When you’re cragging, you can pretty much poop whenever you want – pop out that beautiful silver wag bag, do the deed, and set it aside til the end of the day. In multi pitch alpine, though, there’s no trees to squat behind, ledges are far and few between, and you will be intimately carrying that wag bag the rest of the day.
The automatic coffee maker had done its job and we headed out with loaded mugs. It’s about a two hour drive to the lot, which has several pit toilets. That’s usually enough time for the coffee to work its way through my system, I can poop at the trail head, and enjoy a nice light day on the rock. Our missed turn actually gave me an extra hour to let my system do its job – I was stoked.
Sam on the approach
Everything felt like it was going right. We pull in, hustle to load our packs, and… nothing. I sat in the dimly lit latrine, reading informative posters on bears and COVID-19, but nothing was happening. What the hell? I thought. I had the whole damn mug… I started doing the math on the breakfast burrito I had earlier, the mac and cheese I had for dinner the night before. Oh yeah, I should be making a GIANT deposit!
With both dawn and the Sunday crowds approaching, I couldn’t wait any longer. We had to move. I realized then that I had made a massive tactical error – I didn’t have a wag bag. I stuffed a handful of tissues and a few doggie bags in my pack, my thought being to get VERY far off trail, bury the poo, and doggie bag out the TP. Not perfect, but it was a plan.
Maybe we can poop behind this?
Two hours of hiking and boulder hopping later, still no movement. ‘Dammit!’ I called out to Sam. ‘I guess I just don’t have to go!’ He shrugged, smugly, and tied in to start the 1,000 foot route. I was ok for a bit, until we hit the lunch ledge atop pitch 4. This was the now or never stop – poop here, as the rest of the climb was hanging belays. The problem was, there isn’t a place to bury it here, so I was looking at bagging my own shit in the blue doggie bag and trusting it to jostle in my pack for the rest of the day. *Gulp*. I can hold it. Sam set off, and my gut began to roil. An eternity later, I heard ‘climb on!’ and I passed the point of no return.
Midway through the pitch, the alien inside of me decided to abort the escape mission and crawl back uphill. Relieved, I pulled up to belay, excited to finish off the next three pitches. I’ll poop on the summit! I thought to myself, knowing the climb was topped by a massive boulder field, full of places to hide a turd.
Climbing and clenching - photo by Sam Sala
I pulled through the final weird roof offwidth move to the summit, and the alien retreated even deeper. “I’m, uh, gonna go for a walk,’ I told Sam, leaving him to coil the rope and gather the gear. I wandered a ways, found a rock and just…sat. Nothing was moving, but I felt a deep hard pit in my gut. I didn’t even bother to drop trou and pretend – shit was sticking.
This is my poop face - photo by Sam Sala
I started to do math, thinking of the row of pit toilets back at the lot. I think, at this point, I can just hold it til then. Maybe sitting on an actual can will get this moving… We hustled down the raps and scree field back to the boulders where we’d left our packs – another point of no return. From here on out, our descent would be on a crowded trail, mobbed with tourists and climbers with no real way to avoid packing out your steamer. But I had already made the fatal error – I focused on how pleasant and easy it would be to shit at the outhouses and I got poop tunnel vision.
Even if it weren’t for my impacted bowels, I would have been stumbling down the approach trail. Awake since 2 am, dehydrated, feet swollen and bruised from 8 hours straight in climbing shoes – I looked the disaster that I felt inside. Racing past tourists, I was cramped from my ribs to my knees. I started thinking of how, in the height of summer, lines form at these outhouses, sometimes dozens deep. Gritting my teeth and sweating, I pledged to push and claw my way through a throng of Texan grandmas in order to get to that porcelain throne – or explode trying.
There wasn’t a line, there were no grandmas. Shaking, I entered the cool room. I’ll spare you the gritty details, but it wasn’t a fun experience. I usually love pooping, it’s one of the best feelings in the world. But this dehydrated creature made of poor diet choices and coffee was no pleasant beast, and it exited my world as cruelly as it had existed in it.
Sam was waiting by the truck when I excited, pale and unsteady.
‘Ooookay,’ he said. ‘Maybe two mugs next time?’
Turtle near touching cloth - Photo by Sam Sala