Dan had just finished MacGyvering my Remington 870 16-gauge shotgun to my bird vest, allowing me the use of a trekking pole for the climb. We hadn’t given much thought on how we were going to clamber up to the summit while carrying shotguns. It was an impromptu solution.
“How’s that feel?” said Dan.
“Oh yeah, that’s pretty damn comfortable.”
Dennis, our Colorado host, slammed the door to his little white, yet nimble Toyota Tacoma. The truck had performed flawlessly driving up perilous switchbacks at a snail’s pace, with its aggressive rubber barely gripping the crumbling edges at times. It had taken us over an hour to drive up to the elevation we were at, yet we still had more than another thousand feet or so to reach 13K by foot. It’s at that altitude where ptarmigan call home which makes for some treacherous bird hunting. He took our chitchat as a signal that we were ready to start the hike up.
“We have to keep an eye on the weather. If it changes, we’ll have to get off this mountain in a hurry. Does everyone have oxygen? Let’s go.”
We slowly began our ascent. Dennis went first, followed by Dan’s son, then me, with Dan bringing up the rear. We walked single file on a rocky trail no wider than a foot. Everyone’s breath was heavy, except Dennis.’ We’d only arrived the day before, setting up camp at 10,850 feet, allowing no time to acclimatize. After about thirty minutes, Dennis yelled from up front, as he pointed upwards to a rocky cutout, “We’ll stop and take a breather when we reach the saddle!” Things appeared to be going well for everyone, until Dan bellowed out,
“I gotta go back! I need to go now! Dennis, do you have toilet paper in your truck?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the keys!”
I knew immediately what had come over him, as he pushed past me to grab the keys.
“Dan, I’ve got some toilet paper. It’s in the main compartment of my bird vest.” I said.
Before I knew it, he had spun me around and was pulling and tugging as he looked for my emergency stash of TP. I always carry a package of eco-friendly wet wipes and one of those on-the-go pull-out plastic tissue dispensers of biodegradable toilet paper. You know those cheap rolls that boast a whopping 10.4 feet, and 84 individual 2-ply sheets, that you can see through and tear just by handling them. Definitely not something that anyone wants to use contemplating a blowout in the backcountry.
“This is the smallest roll of toilet paper I’ve ever seen.,” Dan exclaimed as he took off back down the rocky slope with the quickness and agility of a mountain goat. As he shimmied down post haste, we continued our climb until we reached our stopping point. 12,296 feet. There, I steadied myself on a boulder and looked out towards the mountainous vista that encircled us. Somewhere out there amongst the mountaintops were ptarmigan.
I also took notice of the wide open, rocky terrain we had climbed up. Nothing but small boulders and rocks. Certainly not a place where a person could have a little bit of privacy with nearby onlookers. My serene moment was interrupted by a tiny figure descending towards the trailhead. Dan had finally made it down in record time. The three of us watched in amusement from our high perch as he fervently ran over to the truck and unlocked the driver’s door, only to run over to the passenger side and hastily searched the inside of the cab looking for the precious white paper he so desperately needed.
I would later learn that Dennis had told Dan where a roll of TP was in the truck. However, it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Dan eventually found it, but it was a less than partial roll, squished flat. Nonetheless, he must’ve known he needed more than my skimpy package as he took off with an awkward scurry and additional tissue in hand.
“He’s not gonna make it.” I mumbled.
Dan took refuge behind a nearby willow bush. With no time to spare to hastily dig a cathole, he unleashed a mound of human fertilizer.
We all chuckled at what we had witnessed and hoped Dan had plenty of TP. From our vantage point, we were rewarded with an astonishing view of dark green pines in the lower country, highlighted by towering peaks with the thought of ptarmy’s waiting for us to shoot them. The strong updraft that was blowing was interrupted by the sound of approaching engines below us. Cresting over the plateau, a pair of UTVs appeared and stopped just short of where Dan was conducting his business. We could see that it was two couples. These party crashers were oblivious to someone dropping a deuce just feet away.
Several minutes passed, and Dan emerged from his pooping stoop and politely waved to the trailblazers as he began his trek back up. His exasperated face said it all as he climbed. He arrived panting a half-hour later, but we weren’t sure if it was the onslaught of altitude sickness, or if it was just a residual effect leftover from relieving himself.
With jagged, heavy breaths, Dan remarked while gasping… “Whew. That was close.”
We all laughed and reengaged in our journey to find ptarmigan. I turned to look down and saw one of the female’s walking “danger close” to where Dan had set up his porta-potty. Lucky for her, Dan had practiced good backcountry stewardship and left no trace.
Author’s note: (4) ptarmigan were shot at 13,793 feet. Dan and I had to use our O2 Oxygen Boost canisters on the climb out several hours later.