I have debated on whether or not to tell this story. To do so holds me up to certain ridicule and will most assuredly embarrass those close to me. On the other hand, to keep the story to myself means I'll finish this thing this year.

I will dump.

Oh, that's funny.

For a few years I pretty much slogged exclusively. Big peaks, little peaks. Slogs. Whatever. And I would write up these long (no, I mean really long) trip reports about them. And in just about every one, there would be something in there about shitting. The difficulty of shitting whilst wearing 14 layers of clothing, the pain one experiences on a very delicate area when one uses a snowball for toilet paper, the shitting that took place (again, and again, and again) after eating a can of undercooked Dinty Moore beef stew, the humiliating experience of squatting and shitting on a glacier while tied in to one's rope team and while being flanked by two other rope teams to one's immedate right and left. The list goes on (it really does). I don't know why I've felt compelled to chronicle these... movements. But I have. And for a while, it sort of became A Deal to do each trip report. And then it just got a little old, and I left it out. It's not that I quit shitting. Far from it. I just quit talking about it (so much).

I guess I just got stopped up.

Anyway, it's been too long, and I'm going to open up for you, my faithful audience. Once again. With feeling.

That's Brian starting up the slabs. I had actually started to lead this little bit, aiming for just shy of the bulgy bits, but backed off, due to a... feeling. I downclimbed about 20 feet back down to a tree, where I set up a belay. My aim in setting out was to get us up to the ice. Brian had been climbing well. I figured this would be his lead. As it turns out, he actually thought I was going to take this one to the top of the slab. In hindsight, it wouldn't have been possible without an intermediate belay, so what happened, in terms of rope management, was actually a good thing. None of this matters. What matters is what occurred next. And for those of you beginning to squirm, I will be brief.

Brian and I had eaten at a Thai place called The Spicy Lime the night before. My stomach won't tolerate the spice, so I went spice-free. ("How spicy you like?" "Not at all spicy.") I had some chicken-and-coconut-milk soup and something-fried rice, along with a few spring rolls, as I recall. Nothing dramatic or dashing. For breakfast the next morning I had a few eggs, bacon and toast, orange juice, and lots of coffee. Perhaps... too much on the last.

It was cold. Brian was moving along well, getting it done. We both wanted to get past the slabs, so we could actually get up to the route, as quickly as possible. I had already lost a little time to the up-mincing and the down-whining. I was belaying at a semi-uncomfortable stance underneath a limb (see top right), clipped in to a double sling girth-hitched to a stand of twiggy trees. It was a few seconds after this photo was taken that severe discomfort set in.

I still don't understand it. It happened very, very quickly. It built... like a tsunami. My belly performed an audible flop. I leaned forward to take the weight off my harness. Bad idea. I thought perhaps if I were to allow "a little pressure to release" (he wrote euphemistically), disaster might be averted, or at least forestalled. Worse idea. In the next few seconds I heard myself, from outside myself, softly pleading: "No. Please. No."

And then I crapped in my own pants, tied to a tree, on the East Face of Mt. Willard. Not even leading. Just tied there. Pathetic.

Not a lot, I will specify. A little. But enough.

All the while, I kept this to myself. I mean, we were getting up this thing, weren't we? No one needs to know about my Pant Drama. Until now. And then.

As I came up second I was debating how to account for myself once I got to the belay. I had to say something to Brian. This was not a matter that was going to... go undetected.

"You see these little roots at the top of the pitch?" I ask Brian.
"Yep," he says.
"They're blueberries," I say.
"Huh. Interesting. My wife's family picks these in the summer," Brian says.
"Yeah. Cool. And also, I sorta crapped in my pants," I tell Brian.
"Really? Why didn't you say something? I would have waited," Brian offers (too late).
"Didn't really have the chance. Happened too fast," I say. "You were climbing well..." I trail off. And then, finally, "I disgust me."
"It's okay," says Brian the saviour. "I can't smell anything. I have a cold."

Best climbing partner ever.

I went on up ahead through snow to the base of the upper routes and found a little solitude. The damage was not all that bad. I had managed to retain some... control over the situation. Which I then finished, utterly.