Fall 2026
By DaWayne Spires
It is inevitable. You maybe perched in a deer stand, sitting around a deer camp, or just hiking a wooded path, when one of the worst feelings an outdoorsman can have occurs. It may start as a grumbling from the lower reaches of your stomach followed by the sound of a buck grunt and the smell of a two-day old gut pile.
You know what is fixing to happen, but are you truly ready. I have worn those shoes on more than one occasion. I would like to say I was prepared, but there have been times when “preparedness” was not on my action register. I have found that I am not the Lone Stranger when confronted with gastrointestinal distress in the outdoors, so let’s investigate the “do’s” about what has happened to people when nature has called.
Twenty feet up in a deer stand is not the ideal place to be when nature suddenly calls! Photo by Jimmy Jacobs.
Personally, I believe all coveralls, be they bib, insulated, or whatever should come with emergency operating instructions for when your butt goes to DEFCON 4 and a flashing neon sign appears in front of your eyes saying “Everyone out. One exit. No waiting!!”.
In the race to evacuate, the simple act of gathering the upper half of your coveralls and pulling it back through between your legs can be forgotten. When the act is done and one relinquishes his or her hold of the pine tree in front of them (yes, I have to hug a pine tree sometimes. Some of our knees ain’t what they used to be), one stands and pulls the upper half of your outdoor apparel up. Everything you just did is now splattered against your back and running down your legs.
An old hunting buddy of mine once told me that rule number one when heading to the woods is to always have some “emergency striking paper.” I asked him what in the heck is “emergency striking paper?” He reached into his pocket of his hunting vest and pulled out a clear rectangular package of toilet paper.
Confused by the name, I asked why he called it that? He replied without blinking an eye, “In case I have to strike off to a nearby pine thicket for an emergency.” Truer deer camp wisdom has never been spoken. Wisdom that I have on occasion neglected.
Most of my camouflage t-shirts that had pockets now only have the faded outline of where a pocket once resided. On that one occasion that I had no pocket on my shirt, I pulled my trusty hunting knife and did what all outdoorsmen everywhere fear. I cut up the both sides of my tightie-whities and finished the job at hand. I left them laying in that patch of bushes as a testament to my unpreparedness.
I once had an old timer tell me about a natural calling he had experienced. The Baker Climbing Deer Stand was one the first climbing stands on the market. Unlike the high-tech models of today, it was just a base that locked on to the tree. It had an adjustable blade that reached around the back of the tree and metal teeth that were opposite the blade, but at a lower level.
Once attached, you would step onto the base and your weight would lock the stand in place. To climb the tree, you would reach up and bear hug the tree with your arms. Next, you raise your feet, which were attached to the base with a bungie cord. The motion was like trying to bring your heals to your butt. You would pull your body up while your feet moved in a backward up motion. Your foot motion unlocked the stand from the tree and you would slide the stand upward. Returning your weight to the base would lock the stand back to the tree. It was a job inch worming your way up a tree. Coming down, one just reversed the process. It is a wonder that we did not die of just pure exertion from using that dark-ages torture device.
So, this old timer said that he had Mexican food the night before. He woke the next morning feeling less than desirable, but decide to go hunting anyway. It was cold and very windy that morning. He made his way wearily to a tall pine that he marked earlier in the week. On arrival, he hooked up to the tree, slipped his boots into the stirrups, and began to haul his body up the tree. At about 20 feet, he carefully turned and sat down. Safety belts or harnesses were not invented yet, so he took a length of nylon cord and ties himself to the tree.
The wind really had really begun to blow causing the pine to sway mightily. All that motion in combination with the Ole Bubba’s Habanero Death Burrito he had eaten the night before started a pressure cooker in his stomach. Knowing he was on a short fuse, my old friend got to his feet and turned to face the tree. He dropped his pants, grabbed the tree, and squatted just as a fire hose erupted from his backside. He survived several more aftershocks and relaxed breathing heavily. After taking care of all of the paperwork and pulling pants back up, he decided to go home. Point of interest, this entire event took place into a 20-mile-per-hour wind. Everything he just did had spray painted the pine for about 10 feet below where his stand was hanging. Remember, you have to bear hug the tree going up and going down. On his decent, he was forced to traverse up close and personal down through an expanse of pine tree coated in deconstructed nuclear waste that smelled vaguely of Tijuana.
Another incidence of emergency biological necessities happened at my hunting camp a few years ago. The morning hunt ended without success. A hunting partner of mine, his teenage son, and I had just finished our meager country boy lunch of Vienna sausages and saltines. I was contemplating a nap before heading out for the evening hunt, when my buddy said that he needed to answer nature’s call.
He paused while rubbing his chin. He asked me if I still had that toilet seat that I was saving for that outhouse that we failed to build in the preseason. I said sure and retrieved it from my truck. He said thinking out loud, “I need a base?” He began scanning the entirety of the hunt camp. His gaze fixated on a folding dove stool that had been leaning against a tree for at least a year. He took his knife and cut a large square from the center of the canvas seat. After he finished, I shook my head with concern.
“Dude,” I said cautiously, “That thing has been out in the weather for a while”.
He placed the toilet seat on the old dove stool, then plopped down on it and bounced a few times. “This is going to work fine,” he replied confidently. Proudly with the old dove stool under one arm and the toilet seat under the other, he headed to a pine thicket downwind of the camp.
After a few minutes, we heard my friend yelling for his son to bring him a towel and some water. With a puzzled look at me, his son gathered the requested items and went in search of his father. It seems, as the story was related to me later, that my friend after finishing the job that he had set out to do was sitting peacefully on his makeshift throne when the weathered canvas of the dove stool without warning gave way and directly deposited him unto his kingdom’s assets.
After a lot of good-natured razzing, a change of clothes, and a blood oath of secrecy, we made our way out for the evening hunt. Rule of thumb – never swear a hunting partner, who happens to be an outdoor writer, to a blood oath pertaining to a hilarious potty moment.
There are far too many stories about the adventures of going to the bathroom in the great outdoors to tell in just one article. I have not even gotten to the fishing aspect of this problem. Trying to poop off the poop deck is worthy of a story of its own.
With the upcoming season soon to be here, you need to keep a few things in mind. First, be sure you have all the amenities that you need, then know how to operate your equipment properly when the moment arrives. Lastly, do not get creative. Keep it simple. When nature makes that dreaded call, know that you can answer, “I got this … maybe?”
DaWayne Spires is a freelance writer who makes his home in Toccoa. He is a member of the Georgia Outdoor Writers Association. He can be contacted at redneckironchef@gmail.com.