Gentle readers,
I wish that I could say that this tale illustrates the boldness, calm and fortitude of the stereotypical Registered Maine Guide. Sadly, far from it. This is a story of the unfortunate circumstances which sometimes overtake those who spend the majority of their time deep in the woods, far from such luxuries as telephones, refrigerators, and(in this case) indoor plumbing.
Our tale begins one warm,sunny, and somewhat humid June night. It is the sort of night that non-natives (and even some Mainers) dream about. Crooked Tail and I were sitting on the deck off the back of our house, listening to the gentle sounds of cricket chirps and bullfrog croaks. Overhead, nary a cloud in the sky blotted out the view of the milky way's meandering path through the stars. It had been a long day, for CT and I - paddling and exploring our way through a local marsh, gathering some carnivorous plant photos, photographing a loon's nest, as well as doing some summer trapline scouting for muskrat and mink.
Suddenly, there came a rumbling from deep down inside me. An incessant gurgling, like that of a babbling brook turned psychotic by a violent thundershower at the head waters. In an instant, I stood, recognizing the growing revolt of my empty stomach, pleading for food. What to eat? Hmm,that question plagued me. I opened up the refrigerator, and stared at a landscape as barren as Death Valley. I had forgotten to get groceries earlier. Whoops. Now what?
I grabbed the keys to my truck and headed for the door. Fearing what was coming, CT opted to stay staring at the stars. I hopped into Jethro and headed for town,determined to find something to occupy my stomach's attention. Seven miles later, I rounded the last corner, and saw the lights of the "big city" come into view. One of the first lights I saw was advertising a local franchise of the fast food chain "Taco Smell". While I normally enjoy home made Mexican, eating fast food Mexican is akin to allowing weapons of mass destruction onto a subway train...you just don't do it. Well, apparently, I chose to look the other way while my stomach smuggled the WMDs on board.
The next day was a planned hiking day. I wasn't working, but needed to assess trail conditions after a week or more of rain, prior to a hike planned the following day. The trail wound about 2.5 miles, up a mountain of about 3,000', before clambering out of the thick woods onto what geologists refer to as a bald,with gorgeous views of the surrounding mountains. The weather was beautiful,for the first time in a while, and I was looking forward to exploring. CT felt the same, by the way she bounded into Jethro when the time came to leave.
The climb up was a wonderful breath of fresh air for both of us-the sun shining down, filling us with Vitamin D, the burn in the legs from the climb, the view of CT dashing up the trail out of sight, and then sprinting back as if Usain Bolt was fast on her heels, was cathartic for this old guide's soul. Yet trouble was brewing, and would soon strike so swiftly and suddenly that I was left as powerless as a leaf in the wind when it struck.
The trouble began on the descent. CT and I had spent a glorious hour on top, enjoying the breeze floating out of the north, and the brilliant glowing ball of gas high in the sky. We lounged, browsing on some ripening wild strawberries we found among the grasses and scrubby brush. We even split a bottle of ice cold spring water. For the first mile, we moved swiftly, almost at a jog. By now, CT was tiring, and her pace was a bit slower than normal.
As I half walked/half jogged, I became faintly aware of something. At first I wasn't quite sure what was causing the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Was I being watched by another predator? Was it like the time I sensed CT was about to fall through a soft spot in the snow,and disappear into a raging torrent below? I slowed my pace and brought my senses to a focus. What was going on?
Then, at first almost imperceptibly, I felt it. Yes, IT. That feeling that comes with the knowledge that one of mother nature's biological functions is impending. Unknown to me at the time, the timer on the WMD package was in its final countdown. I deliberated for a moment, and decided to push on...after all, it was only another mile or so to the parking lot, and a nice comfy portable toilet. Twenty minutes, tops, and I would be able to relieve myself.
Now, gentle reader, let me take a moment and explain the PROPER way to poop in the woods. First, one should always move at least 100 yards off a highly used hiking trail. This will prevent others from having to deal with your, well, frankly, your crap. Next, one should dig a shallow hole, much like a cat, and (using a well aimed shot), evacuate your colon into the hole. Then push the dirt you dug out back over the top, and wipe your vital areas with toilet paper and put the used paper into a brown paper bag, to be burned over the next campfire. Simple, right? Right. Except when you forget your guide pack, containing my trowel, toilet paper, and paper bags. Well, doom on me.
Well, flash back to my hairy white butt hiking down the trail. At first, going was swift with the added impetus of my impending colon release. Soon, however, in the words of Edgar Allen Poe "came a rapping, a gentle tapping at the door"of my colon. Every step increased the effort of the tapping, as if to say "I will NOT be ignored!". I sweated. I groaned. I moaned. I squeezed my butt cheeks tighter. All of this simply escalated the pressure from the bowels. I was in trouble. My rectum was getting ready to burst like a dam wired with 200 tons of high explosive.
Making a hasty decision, I trotted off the trail as fast as my clenched butt cheeks would allow. I need to find a large tree to shield my furry hiney from anyone coming up or down the trail. Looking to my left, I spotted a large oak tree which would serve the purpose to perfection. Ducking quickly behind it, I yanked my shorts down and squatted, knowing instinctively I wouldn't have enough time to kick out a shallow hole with my hiking boots.
What came next was very much like a volcanic eruption, minus the ash cloud. It flowed. It oozed. I groaned. Then I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. There, situated about 5 feet above my head, was an enormous red squirrel. His expression was a cross between Stu Price's expression when he wakes up from a night of debauchery in "The Hangover", and the typical Chuck Norris "I'm ticked off and you will pay" expression. I could imagine the thoughts drifting through his head (or at least, in my mind he was male). They began with "WTF", quickly transitioning to "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY BACKYARD????", and ending with, appropriately enough, "Death to the unholy". I knew what was coming next.
I quickly plucked a few oak leaves to wipe my nether regions as the first staccato alarm chirps floated down from on high like a Gatling gun warming up. In mere milliseconds, before I could even finish wiping and pull up my shorts, the gun was warmed up and shooting out a rhythm of sound that could be heard in the next county. Quickly pulling up my shorts, I flashed back up to the trail, hoping my dastardly deed hadn't been discovered by more than the squirrel. I swear I heard CT laugh all the way back to the truck.
PS - Every time I go by the tree now, that same squirrel starts chattering. Who knew squirrel memory was so long? At least I've never forgotten my toiletry kit since.
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