As a warning, while today’s post will likely make the majority of you laugh your faces off, if “poop your pants” stories aren’t your thing, come back tomorrow. Everybody else, it’s time to share the worst (and funniest) day of my life. Taken in Fall 2010 The year was 1992. Or 1993. I can’t remember. I just know I was a chubby little Boy Scout in Troop 689. Where we lived, there were a lot of mountains. A lot of mountains means a lot of hiking trails. Let me share an equation with you. Boy Scouts + Mountains + Hiking Trails = Lots of chances for chubby little Boy Scouts to learn about the cruelty of life. As you will probably surmise with little help from me, a 12 year old boy doesn’t often pack on the pounds by living an active lifestyle. When I was twelve, exercise in general was excruciatingly painful (to even think about, really). Walking up a mountain was at the top of my list for most barbaric, and most torturing of all activities. You see, “fit” people don’t exactly understand what it’s like to be fat and hike. The way it always worked was this. The troop and the leaders would hike, hike, hike, merry and happy as ever. “Oh look at that beautiful bird,” I’d hear them say in the far off distance. “Let’s pick up the pace,” I’d hear someone else say. With time, I would lag behind by two to thirty switchbacks. Dying. Wanting to die. Eventually, somebody would look back and say, “where’s Danny?” There would be grumbles and everybody would sit down to rest while I caught up. Eventually I would make eye contact with the group. There they all were, sitting on boulders, drinking from their canteens, laughing, waiting. It was always so embarrassing to walk up to their sighs, their groans, and their rolling of the eyes. I was doing my best. Dying. Wanting to die. As soon as I reached the pack, everybody would immediately stand up. The leader would say, “okay, let’s move,” and away they’d go. I’d pause for a moment, desperate for a break. Desperate to sit down. Desperate to get a drink. Desperate to do anything but take another step. But I never got to because that would put me behind even further which would be even more embarrassing. One particular afternoon, my troop was hiking to a place called Horsetail Falls. The trail to get there is wide and easy to follow, though it’s steep and 3-4 hours by the time you hit the falls. That particular year also brought out the “Bitchin’ brand. Guys wore “Bitchin” shorts that basically looked like cut-off circus pants with drawstring waistbands. I tried to find a pic on google to show you, but I couldn’t find anything close. I always tied mine in a double-knot since depantsing each other was also trending. As I did every day back then, I was wearing those “Bitchin” shorts on this particular hike. Or at least most of it. As always, my troop got so far ahead of me that I could no longer see or hear anyone. I was slowly chugging along, stepping over exposed roots and rocks when it hit me. I had to poop and I had to poop bad. I immediately stepped off the trail and disappeared into the trees to find a place to do my business. Time was against me. I began yanking at my drawstring but to no avail. My double knot had cinched so tight that there was no undoing it. I crossed my legs while I continued working on it. I still couldn’t get it. I had seconds left. I still couldn’t get it. Then, I lost it. My eyes bulged, my mouth clenched, and I lost it. I pooped my pants. The last thing any twelve-year old wants to do is poop their pants while they’re out with their peers. I repeat. The last thing any twelve-year old wants to do is poop their pants while they’re out with their peers. So, I did what any kid would do, and I panicked. I stood there with my pants full of diarrhea and the thought of every wrong thing to do. I could live in the woods. I could walk around the long side of the mountains and sneak home. I could walk around until I found a cougar or a bear and let myself be eaten. It was better than the alternative of anybody ever finding out. Then, I heard it. In the distance I heard raging water. A river. Yes, that was my ticket out. I could just make my way to the river, wash my shorts out, and return back to the group after they dried. My plan was fool proof. I finally worked the knot out and pulled my shorts off. The poop had left my underwear unfixable, so I tossed it under a tree. My shorts could be washed. They were bad, but not *too* bad. With my “Bitchins” in hand, I started walking toward the sound of the water. Naked from the waste down besides some hiking boots and socks. No matter how far I walked, the sound of the river never seemed to get closer. Sticks, branches, and shrubs assaulted my naked legs. I must have walked for more than an hour before I finally reached it… A 100 foot nearly vertical ravine, impossible to descend. What to do, what to do… I remembered a tiny two inch trickle of water that had crossed the trail at one point. That was my only choice. Still half naked, I made my way back through the woods. Back toward the trail. It took another hour or so to get back. I finally found the trail and began walking down until I found the water. My legs were purple and cut. My inner thighs were completely covered in painful rashes. I looked up the trail. The troop was probably at the falls by now, having a good time, enjoying themselves. I knew I’d better hurry if I was to catch them on the way down with clean, dry shorts. I sat down in the middle of the trail and began washing my nethers as best I could. I cleaned the shorts as much as they could be cleaned. I got rid of any evidence of the event, wrung out my shorts, and snuck back into the woods while I waited for them to dry. As it turned out, it takes a while to go from “soaking wet” to “dry without a trace of foul play.” The sun was starting to go down when they were finally dry enough to venture out. I put them on and made my way back to the trail. No sign of the group. I figured they were still above me making their way down. I headed down the trail anyway, not wanting them to have to wait for me when they did catch up. That would just be more embarrassing. On my way down I came up with the story I would tell. I got lost. I took a wrong trail. I could never find them again, so I just headed down. Yeah, it was believable. Nobody would ever know the truth.
