“I’m used to carrying your sh!t….” he affirmed, his words trailing off.
When backcountry hiking and camping, it’s true, Nekky often carries a greater share of our communal items (he carries the tent, I carry the poles; he carries the food, I carry the stove). Mostly because his backpack is bigger than mine (this is what I tell myself, anyway). I am a minimalist packer (sometimes I ‘forget’ my toothbrush to lighten my load by a gram or two). Nekky, however, snubs his nose at pack-weight recommendations and doesn’t hesitate to bring along things he simply considers essential. Like his electric toothbrush. Every. Single. time. (The added weight notwithstanding, this is a commitment to oral health that I simply do not possess).
But, as long as he’s willing to pack it in and pack it out (and continues to carry the lion’s share of our communal sh!t), I try not to interfere with his system. Pack out what you pack in – be it food wrappers, banana peels, Kleenex – these are the tenets of the backcountry.
And, typically, one packs out less than they pack in. Less trail mix. Less bug spray. Less food. Less water-weight. Less sunscreen. Quite simply, less.
In the case of our top-down hike of The Narrows in Zion National Park, however, hiking out after an overnight in one of but 12 campsites spread out along the banks of the Virgin River roughly midway along the 16-mile route, less would prove to be, well, decidedly more.
The dust was still settling from our shuttle ride pulling away from the trailhead when I discovered the distinct absence of our only supply of sunscreen and one of my neoprene socks (mental note, place essentials inside pack, not tucked into outside pockets, during transport). And so, under full sun and with 100-degree temps in the forecast, I embraced my sure fate of hiking out the following day as red as the canyon walls we would soon encounter and with canyoneering-boot blisters on a single sockless foot.
Despite what we did not have, what we did have tucked into the recesses of our packs (as per National Park Service regulations, rule followers that we are), was at least one personal wilderness toilet bag per person. Say what?!
Although a well-placed composting outhouse or the use of a trowel and biodegradable TP (in a pinch) typically facilitate a human-waste exception to the pack-in/pack-out rule in the backcountry, sometimes (just this once in my personal experience), leave no trace means packing everything out. And I do mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.
We had picked up our permits just that morning, and in addition to reminding us that there is no maintained trail in the 2,000-ft deep gorge, that 80% of the hike would be spent wading, walking, and sometimes swimming in the river, that the water is cold, the rocks are slippery, and the canyon narrow, the ranger looked me square in the eyes and requested confirmation that we were in possession of wilderness toilet bags. He fell short of asking me to raise my right hand and solemnly swear, but I could tell he meant business when it came to, well, our business.
No problem. I was undeterred (at least less so than Nekky, who had deterred written all over his face, but who at the same time could sense that I probably considered this a true test of his ourdoorsy-ness (he wasn’t wrong)). Besides, I remained confident that in the time span of a single overnight hike, I would surely pack my wilderness bag out empty. Afterall, I know my body.
Except, it turns out, I don’t.
And as I surveyed the campsite at the end of the day for a fallen tree with just the right crook to steady this handy little sack, I wasn’t so much rattled by the prospect of the impending balancing act – let’s be real, we’ve all copped a squat in unfortunate places in a pinch (haven’t we?) – but more so, by the thought of adding this particular item to my ‘pack-it-out’ possessions in the morning.
Now, let’s be clear, Nekky and I have never been one of those doors-open kind of couples. Despite the longevity of our relationship, certain privacy boundaries have been maintained sacred to preserve but a little magic.
Later that evening, I happened upon Nekky (who was feeling undeniably outdoorsy at this point) creeping back into the camp, gingerly holding his own foil bag between a finger and thumb and lowering it and raising it the way one gauges the weight of apples in the produce aisle. With a raise of his eyebrows and a shrug, I can only assume he satisfied a curiosity he never even knew he had. I pretend not to see. For the sake of the magic (no matter how little now remains).
In the early morning, we packed up and were fortunate to relish the most magical and spectacular parts of the canyon with not another soul to be seen. We had walked; we had waded; we had navigated waist-high waters. We had packed out what we had packed in. And then some. Well, Nekky had anyway.
“I’m used to carrying your sh!t….” he affirmed, his words trailing off. “But today, I am literally carrying your sh!t!” And he was. Quite literally. Carrying my sh!t.
I had lumped our heavier-than-when-we-started wilderness bags in the ‘communal camping items’ category, and Nekky was now carrying his (and my) fair share (because, his backpack is bigger, obviously). Literally, carrying our collective sh!t. Like a gentlemen. An outdoorsy gentlemen.
My takeaways from the trail are three-fold.
No sunscreen required.
A single neoprene sock alternated back and forth over the miles is just smart blister prevention.
And, chivalry, as it turns out, is decidedly not dead. Even when sh!t gets real.
2 Comments
Trevor
February 1, 2023 at 10:09 amAnother great story, well told. I do appreciate, yet do not envy, your proxy for these adventures.
I must ask: upon your return, was there an audit? Did the ranger provide receipts for your wilderness toilet bags?
p.s. I agree with Nekky re: electric toothbrush. You, Nicole, are a barbarian.
Nicole Farn
February 6, 2023 at 7:44 pmA receipt! Lol. Imagine?! No evidence was required. I appreciate your thoughtful consideration of this, however!
Signed,
Nicole the barbarian