The Great Poopocalypse of 2017, Part 3

Based on the amount of whiny text messages I have received in the last week, I would say it’s safe to assume that all of my friends love poop. And they all feel that I have let them down, because the Great Poopocalypse has not yet poopocalypsed.

Patience, my friends! Patience! The thing about Part 1 and Part 2 is that it’s the backstory on what is about to go down. I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily embarrassing (mainly because I have a backbone of steel,) but it’s definitely not one of my proudest moments. So saddle up, because as my friend Eric likes to say, “It’s going to be a wet and wild ride!”

Now, never before have I rated a blog post. But, I would assume they use the same rating system as movies. So I’m going to deem this post as PG-13. If you are easily offended by natural bodily functions, or the words poop and butt, I would not read any further. If the thought of pooping in the great outdoors makes you uneasy, I would not read any further. But if you think, like I do, that all things poop are unexplainably hilarious, then by all means, read on!

Day 1 had ended. We had found numerous cranes, all of which were very elusive or on private property. But today, we are bringing the secret weapon. We wanted to get out to the drug dealer’s field early enough to set up our blind. Oh, yes. We are pulling out all the stops! Of course, in my usual fashion, I can’t manage to wake up early enough to have my coffee at the house. So, it seemed like a good solution to drink the coffee on the way out of town. We also brought some additional coffee in a thermos for warming our hands mid-morning.

We arrived at our stake out, and Jared had the blind erected in no time. (We had previously established during turkey season that I’m basically useless when it comes to setting up the blind, and the saying, “If you want to help, then don’t help,” seems very fitting here.) I think it was ’round about 7 a.m.  at that point. We agreed we would give the cranes until 9 a.m. to show up, then we would go look for them elsewhere.

We were getting settled in, and Jared realized he had only brought one chair. I decided I would take the first shift of sitting/laying on the ground and waiting. I practiced aiming out of the blind a couple times at a few birds that flew past- of course, none of which were cranes.

By 7:30, the count was at 1 rooster pheasant, 10 Canadian geese, 2 coyotes, 1 mule deer of insignificant size, 2 spiders, and 82 antelope. Oh, yes! 82 of them! A number of nice bucks, too! Sadly, I was not in the market for an antelope.

That’s when it hit me. The cup of coffee that I had consumed on the drive out there was having its way with my colon, and I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

So there I am, laying on the ground, and I get this fear-stricken look on my face. With a grimace, I told Jared that I needed to poop. He starts laughing and wants to know, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?” I thought, “Okay, Shallary, mind over matter,” and proclaimed it to be merely a “six.” We decide that’s not too urgent, and we would continue the stake out until 9 o’clock as planned.

As though in retaliation for my underestimation of its power, the coffee took a firm hold and was determined to have its way with me. I lay back in the grass, telling myself it was fine. It was alllll going to be fine. Just breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Well, that lasted for about five seconds before I started to squirm. I was laying on the ground, writhing in pain, and Jared was none the wiser. He was just sitting up there, peacefully watching the antelope, having already consumed his morning coffee and, I assume, defecated at the house. I can’t take it anymore. I shoot up off the ground like my tail’s on fire, yelling “TEN! I’M AT A TEN! I’M GONNA POOP MY PANTS!!”

He looks at me in shock and tries to get the zipper on the blind undone. It feels like an eternity, but finally it’s unzipped. He gives me the truck keys and tells me there’s toilet paper “somewhere.” Well, I had news for him. “Somewhere” was a very vague description, and I was entirely unsure of whether or not I had time to go on a freakin’ treasure hunt right now. He asks me if I can bring back the thermos of coffee, because he’s getting a little chilly. (“A LITTLE CHILLY!? YOU THINK THAT QUALIFIES AS A CRISIS?! YOU SHOULD FEEL WHAT MY INSIDES ARE DOING RIGHT NOW!” I screamed inwardly.)

I bailed out of the blind and ran for the truck, and this kid doesn’t normally run. All I can think is to get there as fast as I can to hopefully find SOMETHING with which to wipe my bottom. Toilet paper. Napkins. Playing cards. $100 bills. I didn’t care what it was, but I knew I was going to need SOMETHING. You know how you can sense if it’s going to be extra messy? Yeah. It was like that.

I leaped across the swamp and the irrigation ditch, and flung open the truck door. I had a vague memory of Jared mentioning something about the back seat. Or had he said back of the truck- as in truck bed? The coffee was clearly affecting my memory, as well as my ability to create functional thoughts. I glanced in the back seat.

I saw a box of rifle ammo. Well that wouldn’t do. I generally make an effort to keep pointy objects away from my bottom, and especially ones that are made with some sort of explosives or projectiles. Then I saw a map. I did debate using the map, but that paper sure is thick, and I didn’t want to damage any of my utilities with the sharp edges or corners that crumpling it would surely produce. There was also some camo clothing back there. “Now that, I could get on board with,” I thought. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my camo, and Jared has expensive taste.  I didn’t think I should test his patience and smear feces on his things. Then I remembered! There were a couple “feminine pads” in the truck*, or as I like to call them in this instance, “God’s gift to mankind.”

*One might wonder why there are feminine hygiene products in a manly man’s truck. And there is only one good answer. I have very, um, determined reproductive organs. They do what they want, and there is no stopping them, I tell you what. So, if anyone hangs out with me more than say, twice, they automatically qualify for my “double top secret stash of feminine hygiene products.” (See how politically correct I’m being? I didn’t even say tampons yet!) Anyway, once a person qualifies, I like to stash a bunch of feminine hygiene products in their vehicle like a squirrel preparing for winter. It really is just better for everyone involved. You never know when nature might call.

So I grabbed all (two) of them, and off I go. Now, mind you, this is the most important part: I have to find the perfect spot to poop, and I have to find it fast, because there’s already a turtle head emerging. (You can thank my father for that mental image, which has been used since I was a child to explain any particular instance where the butt sphincter is beginning to fail.) Remember yesterday? When we were unsuspectingly visited by Payne, in this very field? I couldn’t poop out in the open because WHAT IF HE SHOWED UP UNANNOUNCED AGAIN?! Oh heyyyyyy, Payneeeeee. Don’t mind me…. I’m just leaving a big Hershey’s Kiss right here for all to see! No. I wouldn’t let that happen. So, it only made sense that I had to poop in the marsh where I would have some cover.

Now, I have pooped in the woods before. I mean, I went on a month long NOLS  backpacking course, for goodness sake. After a month’s time, you’re pretty much an expert. But I had not pooped coffee-induced poop for that month, and it was definitely clouding my judgement. I raced to the marsh and thought that if I pooped on the little trail crossing the irrigation ditch, that might be a safe place. But then I worried about the drug dealers. I didn’t know if they used this trail, and Heaven forbid one of them may step unsuspectingly in  my Hershey’s Kiss, or worse, slip in it, and go crashing into the ditch with one big, pooptastic splash.  No, that wouldn’t do either. So now, I’m forced to either poop in the ditch, or in the marsh next to it. I imagined them getting my poop-water on their gloves or on their clothes, and I thought that pooping in the ditch would be equally as bad as on the trail. So the marsh it is.

Now when I say marsh, it’s basically just a bunch of really tall, reedy grasses… maybe cattails or something similar. But wide blades. And very tall. Unnaturally tall. So I rip my pants down and squat, because at this point, I’ve got about 2.4 seconds before forever becoming known as the 26 yr old that pooped her pants.

Oh, sweet Heavenly. Praise Jesus. I can’t believe I made it! It felt like an eternity from the time I left the hunting blind to this very moment. It was probably five minutes or less, but when coffee has a hold of your colon like it did mine that day, five minutes is the difference between life and death.

Okay, so I pooped. I left a fresh Hershey’s Kiss near the trail, all up in the cattails. I unwrapped a pad and tried to wipe, but immediately have to start a battle with the stupid adhesive on the underside of the pad. It’s sticking to my hand (the pad, not the poop) and won’t let go! I bring it around so I can better see what is going on, and am alarmed by the amount of poop already on the pad. Yikes! I kind of half fold the thing, and pat it around a little, trying my very best to not make the mess bigger than it already is. I quickly realize I will need the other pad. I try to dispose of this one. (Sorry Mother Nature, I’m not packing this out. It’ll disintegrate soonish, I’m sure.) The pad sticks to my hand as I try to throw it and gets poop on my hand. UGH! Great. I’ll deal with it later. First, I need to get my butt cleaned up in case Payne stops by.

Where’s the other pad?! Oh, yeah. In my pants pocket. Which is around my ankles. How does a person go about fishing a pad out of their pocket, while squatting, with their pants crumpled in a heap? They don’t. So I stand. I feel the cattails waving all around, tickling my bottom as I fidget and try to get the pad out. I’m trying to only do this with one hand of course, because I have human feces on my other hand.  I know.  I’m disgusting. I’m disgusted with myself, and I’m disgusted for you guys. I’M SORRY, OKAY?! So I fish the other pad out, and get poop all over the wrapper. So much for packing the wrapper back out. I toss it in the bushes too. At this point, forget the environment. I’m just trying to get out alive!

I’m getting better at battling the adhesive on the pad, and I feel I have done an adequate job at cleaning my own butt. (And why does it feel like I have never wiped myself before?!) Toss that pad too. I tried to get my pants pulled back up, with my feces hand doing minimal work, so I can at least waddle over to the irrigation ditch to wash up. There. I did it! I had pooped, and nothing overly terrible had happened. Or so I thought.

I went back to the blind, and Jared asks how it went. (Oh, just mahvelously, thank you, dahling. Now shall we have a cup o’ tea? Do you care for one lump, or two?) I JUST POOPED A BIG, COFFEE-INDUCED HERSHEY’S KISS IN MY DRUG DEALER’S MARSH WITHOUT ANY TOILET PAPER!! HOW DO YOU THINK IT WENT!!? So I told Jared it was fine. It was all fine. Now he wants to know, did I bring the coffee. NO, I didn’t bring the daggum coffee! I’m holding onto life by a mere thread, okay?! I told him I had a real mess going, and he should just not ask about it.

Then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I asked, “Do I have poop on my pants?” I turn and show him my camouflaged bottom. He briefly checks for poop and declares me clean. But I don’t feel clean. There’s a little voice in my head that is telling me to check for myself. Unwisely, I check. I crane my neck right around like an owl and glance down. Poop. I SEE POOP. My heart lurches, and it’s now sitting right inside my esophagus. “What do I do?!” I thought. I decide to announce it“YES, I DO! I HAVE POOP ON MY PANTS, RIGHT THERE!!!!” I point. Jared stares. He laughs, but it was probably just a cover for the vomit I had just induced. My best guess is that the cattails and all their waving in the breeze, had painted a nice poop Van Gogh on my backside. (My very expensive, First Lite backside, mind you.)

I tell him that I’m a disgusting human, and if he never wants to talk to me again, I would understand. He says that it’s just a little poop, and it’s not the end of the world. Awwwe. That’s one of the nicest things that anybody has ever said to me.  I lay there in silence, hoping I don’t smell like feces. After a minute, I sighed, “Maybe I’m just not cut out for The Fowl Life,” and we start giggling like little school girls all over again.  We try to keep quiet, but it’s impossible. We figured we had probably scared off any cranes that had been nearby anyway, so we decide to leave a little early and try a new spot. We packed up the blind and took this picture to document the time that we waged war upon and survived the Great Poopocalypse.

We are survivors!!

Also, to my drug dealers, if you’re reading this, please know that I’m really very sorry, and I have learned my lesson. I promise to never drink coffee after leaving the house, EVER AGAIN. And thank you for letting us come harass you and trample around your fields- poop camo and all. You guys are the best.