Look Before You Leak

I actually like fishing, but not necessarily for the obvious reasons. It really doesn’t matter to me if I catch anything. I like hanging out by the water listening to the stream, feeling the sun and hearing the birds. Sometimes, when you are still and quiet, the birds forget you are there and will go about their business. It’s cool to watch. The best part about fishing is that it looks like you are doing something. People don’t bother you when you are doing something. 

So, when my friend Patti and my brother David hatched the idea of one last trip up the canyon to our fishing spot before the river closed for the fall, I was all in. 

The fishing spot is about sixty miles away and up in the mountains. (I’m not going to tell you exactly where. It’s not personal. It’s just that when I get there next time with the intent of doing nothing while looking like I’m doing something, I don’t want to find you doing nothing in my spot.) 

The spot is kind of remote. You have to park in a gravel area by the river and hike down the bank a way. There are no restroom facilities within several miles, so we stop a couple of times before we get there just to make sure that we have taken care of everything ahead of time. 

The weather has been warm in the Willamette Valley, so I decide to wear cut-off shorts and a t-shirt.

As we drive up the mountain, my brother tells a story about the Great Crapping Doodilie Bird whose call is, of course, Caca Caca. I burst out laughing. It just strikes me as funny for no reason at all.  David has the amazing ability to make me laugh at the strangest things. I think it’s because we share a similar sense of humor. Mom has always said that we are twins born five years apart. I know this could turn into an embarrassing situation if I laugh too much harder. I am a woman of a certain age, after all. 

We arrive at the fishing hole and I manage to hook a fish on the first cast. This is a key to being able to do nothing later. You must seem to be actually fishing at one point or another so that the people with you don’t catch on when you stop fishing and start doing nothing. Doing nothing must look like fishing if at all possible. The fish does a perfect backflip in the air and manages to shuck the hook. In some ways, this is even better than catching the fish. 

We fish for over an hour, but we don’t get any more bites. That’s ok with me because I’m starting to feel an uncomfortable pressure in the bladder region.

“Maybe we should move to a different spot,” Patti suggests.
“Sounds good to me,” David replies.
“Good idea,” I hear myself say out loud. I don’t want to seem wimpy after all.

“I know a spot that was good the last time I was here,” Patti says. We gather up our tackle and follow her. 

We hike back up the trail and over a bridge, under some logs and through some brush before we get to the new location upstream about a half mile away from where we parked the car. 

We arrive at a small beach where the river curves.  We try to spread out enough on the beach to keep out of each other’s way, but it’s pretty cramped.  The river babbles along tumbling over rocks. This sound is usually peaceful and relaxing, but right now it is the enemy of my full bladder. It is much cooler up here along the river than I expected, and I begin to shiver a little, but I try to hide it. This does not help my situation any.

“I think I’m going to try those logs,” David says as he heads toward some downed trees that are laying across the river.  I had been about to suggest that we head back since the pressure in my bladder, has reached a point of critical mass. I’ve been holding it for a couple of hours now. 

“Sounds good,” Patti says. “I think I can fish for about another hour.”

That’s it! I’m not going to make it another hour. I need to go. 

 I decide that I’m am going to have to do the thing I’ve been trying to avoid. It’s time to head into the bushes to relieve myself. 

Now, not to toot my own horn, but this is something I used to be good at. I grew up in the country and had perfected this maneuver through years of practice on long horseback rides and camping trips. I hope it’s like riding a bike--something you never forget. 

I grab the roll of toilet paper from Patti’s “emergency” kit (she always brings one because you never know when you will need some tp) and head off into the woods. I find a place with the perfect amount of cover and I commence said activity.   

Things are going well! I’m not peeing in my own pants or down my leg.  This is going to work out and I will avoid the embarrassing situation of wetting my pants. I hear a soft buzzing noise and some flying creature passes close to my face.  I swat it away. 

Another flying creature makes a pass and I swat that one away as well. 

Suddenly, the buzzing sound increases and several bees land on my face. They try to crawl under my glasses. I close my eyes tight and try to shoo them away. I realize that I have made a terrible mistake.

The events as they unfold next are a little blurry to me. I do know for sure that there are a lot of bees on me and they are, pardon the pun, pissed and starting to sting me in retribution for my unconscionable act. 

I arrest the activity in which I was engaged and start to pull up my shorts.  I haul them up to my thighs and then realize that my hips are covered in bees.  It would be a bad idea to pull the shorts all the way up and fasten them, so I hold them in place with one hand while I try to bat the bees off of my face with the other. My brain kicks in and I start to head toward the river. I’m using moves that would make even the best break dancer jealous. 

I charge through the stand of two inch alder saplings I was using for cover as fast as a short, chubby woman of a certain age can go while holding her pants up with one hand and fending off a swarm of killer bees (I’m sure they were killer bees as big as a 747 rather than the diminutive wild honey bee as other renderings of this story suggest) with the other. 

I reach the riverbank with the hopes that my faithful friends will jump into action. I can see my brother standing on the logs that crisscross the river. He is engaged in a true tradition of fishing. His rod is bowed into the shape of a question mark and he yanks it back and forth fighting to free his line from a ferocious bush. 

“David! Bees!” I manage to shout all the while slapping myself.

“I know!” he yells back. “Get in the river!” 

Now, I know that this is the logical solution, but I’ve been stung enough times that I can’t quite think clearly. I do know a couple of things for sure. One, the water is cold. Two, I had not actually finished the activity that started this whole mess and I was still determined to avoid wetting myself and avoid embarrassment. Seriously?! This from the person standing beside the river with her pants at half-mast while she’s being mercilessly stung by bees.

I step down into the river. 

Patti and David come to my aid and manage to flick all the bees off of me.  Patti gets stung seven or eight times while David manages to get away Scot-free.  It’s hard to estimate just how many times I’ve been stung but it’s somewhere around forty plus times. Fortunately, as it turns out, I am not allergic to bees, but wearing pants and sitting down were a bit painful for the next few days.

Before you find yourself in a similar situation, I have a couple of suggestions. 

First, you may want to consider getting something like the Go Girl or the Shewee. I have discovered that these are useful not only for your backwoods adventures. They are also a lifesaver at fairs, festivals and music concerts--any place really--where the facilities are either nonexistent or so filthy that you are afraid of contracting some incurable disease just by using them.  They are particularly useful for those of your group at either end of the age spectrum who may have balance and mobility issues since the devices eliminate your need to squat. 

Second, and most importantly, look before you leak.