This article is part of SELF’s 2024 Guide to Getting Outside, an editorial package that explores the connection between nature and well-being through the lens of awe. SELF will be publishing new articles for this series throughout October. Read more here.
The early December sun beats down overhead. The breeze rattles the dry Nevada scrub. The birds sing their morning calls. The not-too-distant voices of hikers and climbers echo around me. I have wedged myself behind a semi-circle of waist-high rocks, and I am taking a shit. It feels great, but also kind of terrible; dangerous, yet freeing. It’s my first time pooping outside. I’m using a WAG bag graciously supplied by the Southern Nevada Climber’s Coalition, and I’ve never felt so present.
What I usually ignore as background noise has come to the foreground, and I no longer feel like I’m at the center of my own experience. In fact, I feel pretty damn small.
That moment happened several years ago, but I still think about it all the time. I hadn’t planned on needing to poop in the great outdoors that day, but there I was, crouched down at the crag and trying to stay as still as the boulders around me. The need came on quickly (I blame the large coffee I guzzled on the drive over) and it sent me into a panic: I had to find a somewhat secluded location, consider who might see or hear me, and position myself in a way that kept me hidden (and afforded me some leverage).
There was no time to explain what was happening to the rest of my group. I threw my boyfriend a pale, resigned look before darting off the trail and downwind. After a brief, sweaty search, I found a good spot, opened my WAG bag, and went. My stress melted away, morphing into something resembling serenity. I was so focused on being quiet and discreet that my mind went quiet too. I tuned into all the little goings on in my corner of the canyon and, for at least a few minutes, became a keen observer of the world around me.
I’ve always thought of myself as someone who knows how to take a beat and marvel at the natural world: take in the fresh air, appreciate the sun on my face, all that good stuff. But I’m usually outdoors for a specific purpose like rock climbing or walking my dog—activities I love because they give me an excuse to get outside, but ones that also demand most of my attention, especially when I’m trudging uphill with a bunch of gear on my back.
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