Hi. This one comes with a warning. If you read my toenail post and got grossed out, you should probably skip the next few paragraphs. Look for the picture of me being surprised by a birthday banner and start reading there. Otherwise, hang on. I'm about to use some words that might make you uncomfortable.

As I write this, I'm enjoying a blueberry muffin and a cappuccino at the local beanhouse. Two hours ago I was crouched in my bathtub transferring my own runny diarrhea from one sterile container to another. Welcome home, my body says. Let's counter that smug sense of accomplishment with two full weeks of sputter-butt.

My first uncontrolled shit occurred on the penultimate morning in the Hundred Mile Wilderness. I awoke with the sun as always, climbed out of my tent as always, walked a few steps to pee (it's so good to be a guy) and released about 90% of what I thought was a fart. "THAT'S NOT A FART!" my panicked brain shouted. I had barely enough time to pinch off the stream before thrusting my pants down to my ankles. The brown spray began mid-squat and by the time my cheeks were on my heels I had given birth to a soft serve monstrosity. The relief was instant. Well, the physical relief. I'm used to at least a ten minute warning; this came out of nowhere and was a bit jarring to say the least. Then I remembered that for dinner the previous evening I had added one half of a gigantic greasy pepperoni stick to the menu. That and the three ultra mega protein bars were surely the root cause. Now all I had to do was Groucho-walk back to my tent, clean myself and -- oh yeah, I just left a trace. What to do about that.