When cities fail and the forest calls, here’s what you do.

You will need to poop.

Not now, of course. Right now you’re scrolling, maybe sipping coffee, confident in your intestinal fortitude. But somewhere down the line, far from rest stops and flush handles, nature’s gonna make the call. Maybe it’s a double-shot espresso in Spokane. Maybe it’s that greasy tamale from a roadside cart outside Taos. Maybe it’s just your body betraying you at mile six of an “easy” hike.

You won’t have a plan. You won’t have a bathroom. But you’ll have this article.

URBAN PANIC MODE

First, let’s talk about cities. You’d think a place with twelve Starbucks per block and more baristas than school teachers would have a toilet somewhere. Wrong. Urban centers across America have declared quiet war on the public bathroom. Liability. Loitering. Junkies. Pick your excuse. The bottom line is this: if you’re out exploring a city—on foot, full of tacos, and a little hungover—you’re on your own.

So where do you go?

Here’s the hit list:

Upscale Hotels: Walk in like you belong there. Headphones in, sunglasses on, slightly annoyed expression. Do not ask. Do not make eye contact. Walk like you’re late to meet someone named Chad who’s “in from London.” The more pretentious the hotel, the less they question your existence.

Target, Nordstrom, Macy’s: Department stores still cling to basic human decency. They’ll let you use a bathroom without asking if you’re a guest or if your shoes are expensive enough to justify entry. Plus, they’re clean—relatively.

University Buildings: Campuses are full of open-access restrooms, especially libraries and student centers. If you’re downtown and see a college building, follow the scent of Red Bull and poor decisions.

Coffee Shops (Independents > Chains): Starbucks often gatekeeps restrooms with codes, but that indie café with mismatched furniture and the existential barista? They’re lax. Order a biscotti if you feel guilty.

Pro Tip: Don’t wait until you’re desperate. The moment your stomach gurgles like a dying sea lion, start looking. No one wants to jog-waddle across downtown Minneapolis with clenched cheeks and tear-filled eyes.

MOUNTAIN MADNESS

Let’s say you’re not in the city. Let’s say you’re ten miles up a dirt trail in a part of Montana where even Google Maps gives up. There’s no cell signal. No pit toilet. No leafy outhouse built by optimistic hippies.

There’s just you, your churning gut, and a raccoon watching from behind a tree like it’s his job.

Here’s how to take a proper backcountry dump without turning the wilderness into a biohazard zone:

1. Find the Right Spot

Go at least 200 feet (about 70 steps) from water, trails, and camp. That raccoon? Let him judge from a safe distance.

2. Dig a Hole (6–8 inches deep)

Use a trowel. No trowel? Use a stick, heel, or that titanium camping spork you haven’t used for food anyway. Make it deep enough that no curious animal or rogue hiker finds your “gift.”

3. Do Your Business

Squat low, keep your pants clear, and hang onto a tree if you’re on a slope. Pray it’s not poison oak. This is the part where humility arrives. You’re a mammal. A proud, pants-down mammal.

4. Cover and Disguise

Bury it. Then scuff leaves, pine needles, whatever’s around, over the site like you’re hiding evidence. You are.

5. Pack Out Your TP (Seriously)

Don’t burn it (forest fire), don’t bury it (animals will dig it up), and don’t pretend leaves are good enough. Bring a ziplock, label it something ironic like “Trail Granola,” and deal with it like an adult.

EMERGENCY GEAR FOR THE BOWEL-INCLINED

Let’s talk loadout. Here’s what the well-prepared adventurer carries:

Trowel: Ultralight metal, sturdy plastic, or a repurposed snow shovel—whatever gets the hole dug fast.

Toilet Paper in a Waterproof Bag: Double-bag it. No one wants soggy TP.

Ziplock for Used TP: Yes, this is real. Yes, you need it.

Hand Sanitizer: Don’t be gross.

Wet Wipes: For the days your stomach stages a full rebellion.

Headlamp: Because emergencies don’t always happen at noon.

Small Towel: Wipe hands. Or forehead. Or tears.

A few rugged folk carry a “Wag Bag”—a glorified adult diaper in a bag—for high alpine or desert areas where digging is impossible. If that’s you, congratulations. You’ve evolved beyond shame.

A NOTE ON SHAME (OR LACK THEREOF)

Let’s kill the shame. No one is born knowing how to poop behind a boulder. Every single person you admire—your hiking buddy, your climbing crush, that smug Patagonia-wearing guy who drinks bone broth—has squatted in the woods, trying not to cry.

There is no honor in holding it until your kidneys shut down. There is only discomfort, regret, and the eventual collapse of morale. Going to the bathroom outside isn’t gross. It’s primal. It’s normal. It’s the wild reminding you that you’re still part of the animal kingdom, whether you like it or not.

And once you accept that? You stop fearing the process. You start mastering it.

IN CONCLUSION, YOU ARE THE TOILET NOW

You asked for adventure. This is it.

You will find yourself one day in a gas station parking lot in the middle of Nevada, bent over, sweating bullets, begging your bowels for mercy as the only toilet you can find is labeled “Out of Order.” You will briefly contemplate using a discarded Subway cup. You will remember this article.

Or maybe you’ll be in the Olympic Peninsula, knees shaking in the cold rain, digging a hole while ravens cackle above you like you’ve violated some ancient forest code. You will survive that, too.

And you’ll come out stronger. Wiser. Lighter.

Because here’s the secret no one tells you: once you’ve learned to poop anywhere, the world opens up. Fear dissolves. Shame disappears. You become one with the back alley, the gas station key-on-a-stick, the tree with the perfect lean.

You become… unstoppable.

VENTURE ON

But maybe skip the Taco Bell before hiking next time.