Wilderness Latrine

 

Latrine photo courtesy of  https://bwca.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=forum.thread&threadId=110645&forumID=12&confID=1

Campsites within the BWCA consists of a U.S. Forest Service iron fire grate, somewhat flat grassy tent area and a the all important fiberglass latrine.  The BWCA wilderness latrines are typically some distance behind the campsite.  Usually a short walk; however at times, the walk can seem long.

A definite trail is readily visible leading to this relief oasis in the woods.  Its not difficult to find.  Follow the path at the back of the campsite away from the lake.  At the path's end you will find the green fiberglass implement you seek.  Some latrines have beautiful views of the surrounding woods.  Some are up high on a small hill, or down low in a knoll.

Some have stellar lakeside views.  Which can be unsettling.  On one trip as I was sitting in the woods with a nice view of the lake to my left.  A couple canoes paddled by not more than 50 yards away.  I could clearly see them through the trees and hear their conversation as I sat there in my altogether minding my business.  Glad I didn't wear my red plaid shirt on that necessary walk in the woods.

Other latrine locations are surrounded by low brush and ferns.  Continually shady and damp.  Mosquito havens.  We learned the hard way to always bring bug repellent on our walks into the woods.  Our tender, never seeing the sun backsides are a beacon to blood sucking mosquitos and biting gnats.  Keep the bug repellent handy when you drop your pants.  Give your backside a healthy dousing of repellent to give yourself some time to sit and think.

When nature calls we would announce, "I need to take a walk."  This declarative statement let everyone in camp know that the green stool in the woods is about to be occupied.  This announcement quelled any embarrassment by having someone walk in while another was tending business.

Later on, we hung a roll of TP on a tree branch at the trailhead to the latrine.  This worked quite well to replace our nature call announcements. If the roll of TP was missing, you new someone was at the office consulting business.  After an overnight rain, we had to modify our tree hanging TP roll.  A gallon sized Ziploc baggie proved a worthy rain guard to the precious roll of TP.

Roll care while using the latrine is essential to prevent roll mishaps.  Typically, there is not an optimal place to set the TP roll.  Usually a flat rock near the feet worked fine.  Unless it had rained, or was raining.  A wet rock lent a soggy roll. Reaching for the roll must be taken with care.  Reaching too far to only knock over the roll will send the TP roll into a spin down the dirt trail.  Nobody wants to do the quick walk of shame to retrieve the wayward roll.  

On one occasion, Bob took his nature walk only to hurry back in a panic.  He explained he needed paper towels and the pot of hot soapy dishwater we used to wash breakfast dishes.  Perplexed, we followed Bob to the latrine.  There we saw that a squirrel or some poor rodent had gotten itself into the latrine and proceeded to climb out, covering the latrine seat and sides with little paw prints of whatever was down in the latrine.  We had a laugh about that poor happless rodent.  Yet we felt bad for the critter.  Worse was cleaning up after the fouled rodent.  ugh.

The 1999 Blowdown was disastrous.  Hundreds of acres with trees blown down, campsites were damaged. Forest crew spent time clearing portages and campsites from downed trees. The trip a year after the Blowdown was a memorable latrine experience. Surrounding the latrine was a wall of logs, almost like a three sided log outhouse; but without a roof.  I did not notice the crack in the latrine's seat as I sat down to do business.   Once seated, I experienced a sharp pain on my backside; a severe pinch on my right backside cheek.  

This pain had no end.  However, standing up was impossible.  The latrine seat had my seat in its tight grip.  The damn thing was goosing me and would not stop.  I could not stand.  And calling to my fellow campers was not an option; at least not without extreme embarrassment.  To free myself, I had to push on the back of the seat, behind my behind while pushing the outside of the latrine stool inside.  Free at last, but with quite a sore welt on my backside.  Once back in camp I warned my fellow campers.  We all learned to hover on that trip.

Grandpa’s Folding Knife

I finally replaced my old folding knife I lost decades ago.  I do carry a small lightweight pocket knife daily.  But its no replacement for what I had lost.  

 

Long, long ago while cleaning out my Grandmother’s garage, I found the old worn out folding knife.  It was missing both side skins showing only the rivets.  The non stainless steel blade was rusty and black; it was four inches long.  The knife, or what was left of it was a large heavy beast of a knife, despite no side skins.  It was in terrible shape and nobody wanted it.  

I kept it, and got to working on it removing the rust, dust and grime.  However, the blade kept its greyish black appearance but took a wonderfully sharp edge. It was a carbon steel blade rather than stainless.  Scrap oak was used for the side skins.  I simply oiled the oak side skins with Hoppes gun oil  to protect the wood a little and give them some color.  Though it was not a locking blade, it took some effort to close the blade. 

 

I had this knife for years, and used it often, not only as a knife, but a screwdriver and a prybar.  I even used the butt end of the knife to pound a tent stake in place during a rain and wind storm in the BWCA.  And sadly, that is where I lost this knife.  

I had it in my jean jacket pocket behind the front canoe seat as Paul and I fished for walleyes.  We were along a rock island over about twenty feet of water.  The sun was setting bringing on an evening chill.  Reaching behind me for the jacket, I heard a “ploop” and watched my Grandfather’s pocket knife sink out of view into the inky depths.  I guess if there was a good place to lose this knife, Lake Three in the BWCA was a better place to lose it. He spent considerable time there long before it was designated as the BWCA.

 

I lost that knife in the mid 1980’s and after years of procrastinating, I finally ordered a replacement; the 110 Hunter Buck Knife.  The dimensions are a bit smaller than what I lost, it has brass ends rather than nickel.   I wonder how brass will hold up the way I will be using it.  It has a locking blade, which is a safe feature.  The price was right, so it will be a good replacement.  

Knife Lake Two Step

Knife Lake Two Step

 

The evening progressed after a fine dinner of lake trout and walleye. The dishes were washed, hung to dry in a lingerie bag on a Norway Pine branch. Firewood gathered, bourbon poured, time to relax around the evening fire. 

 

This is something we look forward to each night; sitting around the fire, chatting, drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. Usually a snack of some sort is involved. This night was no different, except for a treat of peanuts in the shell. And a “floor show”.

The sun was sinking fast as the bag of shelled peanuts dwindled. Our empty peanut shells were erratically tossed towards the fire. Most of the shells made it into the fire. Many littered the ground around the fire grate. The orange glow from the campfire took over as our main source of light as we sat on log benches. Each of us was cast in the warm tones from the fire. Stars popped out from the heavens through the canopy of pines. A loon sang nearby. An answering call sounded from across the lake. 

 

Our conversations dwindled as the night grew long and the bourbon in our tin cups emptied. We sat in silence for a few moments enjoying the crackle of the fire. The lake lazily lapped on the rocky shoreline. I pointed out a satellite crossing the night sky on its endless orbit across the zenith. I began to feel the sleepy affects from the bourbon and cigar, fighting the urge to fall asleep.

 

Without warning our floor show began. Bob jumped up in a torrent of “Yee, haw hoowie!” Our serenity was shattered. Up he jumped hopping on one foot then the other. He began slapping his lap. I looked at the faces of Ron and Pop in the dim light of the fire. We looked at each other in utter bewilderment, not quite comprehending what was taking place in front of us. Bob danced, darted and jumped around the campfire whooping and hollering. 

 

Just as suddenly as Bob’s two - step routine started, it stopped. Moments passed as the three of us tried to comprehend the origin of this impromptu display. Perplexed, Pop asked Bob what was the matter. Bob, still shuddering, half giggling, explained the situation. He felt something. He felt something furry on his leg. He felt this furry thing scramble further up his leg reaching his swim suit area. As he jumped up, the furry thing crossed his nether region and scooted down his other pant leg. 

 

A mouse! 

 

In unison, the three of us clicked on our flashlights illuminating the ground surrounding the campfire. Four of those little buggers were scurrying about with the peanut shells we haphazardly threw toward the fire.

 

 

 

Aurora Borealis

Our last trip into the BWCA, Fourtown Lake

 

Aurora Borealis

 

Our camp was on a large granite shelf on the northern end of Fourtown Lake deep in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, (BWCA). The evening was hot and humid. Night proved to be stifling inside the tent; Pop and I slept on top of our sleeping bags in our undapants. Sleep was difficult laying in a sweltering tent while sweating profusely. 

 Around 1am Bob woke us up. Bob was usually the first one up and out in the wee hours of the night to take the walk of relief. Pop was usually next. The commotion of unzipping the tent flap for nightly relief always woke me to make haste to take my own walk. This breathless night was no different. I not so reluctantly gave up the comfort of the rolled up sweatshirt pillow and Duluth pack wedged against my back like a shim. Both Pop and I were quite pleased to escape the tent oven to find the hot, humid, but fresh outside air refreshing.

 

In the dim light, we met both Bob and Ron standing on the granite ledge in their undapants. My need for relief was great, but Bob delayed relief pointing toward the north end of the lake. Bob pointed out the most intensely vibrant neon green veil of iridescent color of light dancing above the tree line. We grew weary standing on the granite barefoot straining our necks looking up. We lay down on the cool rock out cropping. Cool was a relative term, it was cooler than the air. The four of us lay there on the granite in our undapants enjoying the light show. 

 We watched the Aurora Borealis for over an hour. The light display danced across the heavens. Stars and the Aurora reflected off the glass smooth lake surface. Our discussions were brief and hushed. Eerily it seemed we could hear, or perhaps detect the magnetic electric field from light show.

 

Sometime after 2am off to the right of our campsite we heard a wolf howl. More wolves chimed in. An answering wolf came from not too far to our left. Their mournful howls seemed to keep in time with the shimmering neon green aurora. We lay there for a long while enjoying the light show and wolf serenade. The thought of crawling back into that blast furnace of a tent repulsed us, But wearily, sleep began to overtake. 

 

We reluctantly braved our tents.

 

Not Caffeinated

To Caffeine or not to Caffeine.

 

The previous night’s spaghetti dinner mishap was only compounded by the morning’s coffee kerfuffle. I had the water heating up on the Coleman two burner stove in anticipation of camp coffee. Which is the best coffee. To build the pot, you throw out the coffee pot percolator parts and boil lake water and coffee grounds together. Anyway, I ransacked the food pack looking for the bag of coffee grounds. I asked Paul if he had brought the coffee. He simply stated, “ah, no, I thought you brought it.” 

 

We had this discussion about who brings coffee in this trip’s planning stage weeks prior. Neither one of us remembered who was to bring coffee. The correct answer should have been both of us. We braced for what lay ahead for us; we were both one pot a day coffee junkies. 

 

We prepared for our day and the coming days deep in the BWCA caffienless. We each popped a handful of Excedrin and set out for a day of walleye fishing. While in the canoe fishing, we debated the merits of canoeing/portaging back to the truck, drive into town, buy coffee and paddle/portage back. We estimated if we left at that particular time, we’d be back before dark. 

 

Our answer was in our heads. Our heads pounded with caffeine withdrawals. We were crabby. We were irritable. We hated the world. That and we were doing so well with canoe tied up to an old pine tree half submerge over an eighteen foot dropoff. Well, we estimated it to be eighteen feetish deep, we really didn’t know for sure. Nor did we care. From this spot during our “flee for caffeine debate”, we were catching walleyes. We quit counting after a couple dozen and managed to put 6 nice filleting sized walleyes on our stringer.

 

Our two companions, who were non-coffee heathens, paddled by. They had brought in the latest electronic gadgets to hone in on the fish. They stopped by noting the depth in front of us. They knew our caffeinless addled brain plight and took pleasure in it…or so we believed. They mocked us and bragged about their fishing adventures on the north side of the lake targeting specific depths. They annoyed us greatly. But we got the last laugh. Well we really didn’t laugh at that particular moment in great pain. 

 

They were smiling as big as life when they raised their stringer of two little walleyes. Paul scowled and hefted out our stringer of seven beautiful walleyes, he had caught one more during their annoyance parade secretly adding it to the stringer.

 

Funny, they paddled off in a huff not saying a word. And for a moment, the dark caffeine mind fog was lifted as we triumphed in our delight of out fishing our island mates and their electronic gadgets.

BWCA Spaghetti Dinner

 

BWCA Spaghetti Dinner

 

Paddling across Lake Polly in the BWCA, we were surprised that the island campsite was available. We beached our canoes and claimed the island as our temporary home for the next several days. Within an hour, camp was made; tents erected, kitchen established, hammocks strung between trees.

Our mini tent city was ship shape.

 

I began the business of preparing dinner for the portage weary crew. The two burner Coleman stove lit; boiling water for the spaghetti noodles and heating marinara sauce. 

 

The marinara aroma wafted through camp mingling with the campfire. Marina now sufficiently warmed and the noodles nearly done, I had good friend Paul tend to draining the spaghetti noodles as I readied the plates and cutlery.

What I heard was not promising. “Oh shit” is what I heard. Something one does not like hearing from a sous chef. Then a “Dammit!” I asked what’s up. “Nothing” was the reply as I looked over to see a heap of spaghetti noodles laying peacefully on the campsite floor.

 

One thing for sure about starchy pasta noodles; things stick well to it. And in this case, deep in the BWCA, what seems like the entire forest floor is now stuck fast to the spaghetti pasta noodles. Time for quick action. I relit the burner as Paul scooped the noodles back into the pot with nearly half the forest floor.

Pot of noodles and forest debris in hand, I waded bare foot out into Lake Polly submerging the pot to skim off dried pine needles, tree bark, lichen and moss. Most of which floated right off! Paul got a second pot and we spent time scooping and dumping into each pot of fresh Lake Polly water. It was a fine attempt to wash the dirt and fastly stuck forest debris from the starchy noodles.

 

Somewhat satisfied with our cleaning process, I reheated the already al-dente noodles, tree bark, pine needles and lichen. As it re-boiled, I swirled the concoction skimming off the remaining forest debris the best I could. Once done, the two of us carefully drained the now overly mushy noodles and small particles of forest debris. A quick dump into marinara sauce and I call out “Bon appetite!”

 

The four of us ate in silence and the mushy noodles took no time to dissolve into nothing. Each of us picking out re-hydrated pine needles, tree bark and lichen from our teeth. Now and then we spat out sand and other unidentifiable forest amenities that was stuck to the starchy overly mushy spaghetti noodles. We were tired; we were hungry. Nobody complained. Yet, nobody spoke either. 

 

I gotta’ say that pine needles are a poor substitute for Rosemary.

 

Stay tuned as Paul and I can’t find the coffee.