INYO FACE.

Okay, I’m back.

“But it’s been almost three weeks!” you huff, fingertips clenched round the sides of your laptop, knuckles whitened in feigned frustration and aching anticipation.

When I say “hiatus,” I mean hiatus. I’m (partially) from the islands. When we take a break, we take a break. It’s how we stay so friendly, so youthful, so supple, so tan.

Your indignant facade wears thin at the mention of my island charms. “Well… where were you?” you sniffle, brushing rehearsed tears from your cheeks. You’re so cute when your eyes drool like that.

Someplace very, very special, up in the clouds.

“Heaven?” you ask, wide-eyed like a little Chihuahua at the hem of its mommy’s skirt.

Oh, how you amuse me. No! Not heaven! But close:

MT. WHITNEY. INYO NATIONAL FOREST. HIGHEST PEAK IN THE CONTIGUOUS U.S., AND OXYGEN DEPRIVATION AT ITS FINEST.

That’s right. I climbed a 14,505 foot mound of volcanic upchuck just to get a better view. Why? Because that’s how I roll.

I could go on about the ins and outs of the entire operation, but that would be quite a trek, and let me tell you—I’ve done enough trekking for the both of us these past few weeks. Instead, I want to share with you some of the oddities and amusements that I encountered along the way, things you won’t likely find in some other hiker’s “Mt. Whitney ’08!” Flickr album.

So sit back, relax, and let me do the hiking for you. You enjoy your Pinkberry and pretend you’re burning calories by moving your cursor down the page.

Let’s make like Lou Reed and take a walk on the wild side.

Get ready, steady, go.

COTTONWOOD LAKES TRAILHEAD. AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A GANGSTA POTTY.

Nothing says “privacy and comfort” like gunshot wounds in your outhouse window. Cottonwood or Inglewood? You choose.

NEAR I-395. BAD NEWS BEARS.

Good to know.

Not so good if a bear attacks you in the wilderness and you don’t have your SUV handy to plow it down with.

GUITAR LAKE. BROWN BAG IT.

As you leave the Upper Crabtree Meadow campsite, there is a big Rubbermaid crate filled with an abundance of lovely beige pouches, ambiguously labeled “Wag Bags.” A little hand-written sign attached to the top of the crate initially leads you to think they are left over courtesy items from some other camper’s extravagant pack trip—perhaps some of those “Doody” bags for your, let’s say, little Chihuahua. No, no, my friend. These little porta-potties are not for Mr. Whiskers. These little porta-potties are for you.

The so-called “Wag Bags” are intended to curb the amount of camper waste that inevitably washes into Guitar Lake, the popular camp at the western base of Mt. Whitney. In lieu of popping a squat wherever it tickles your fancy, the forest service kindly requests that you skillfully aim all posterior debris into this little package, zip it up, and carry it in your pack until you are able to properly dispose of it in a civilized trash receptacle. How convenient!

Although the Wag Bag boasted a gelling agent, odor neutralizer, decay catalyst, zip-closure, toilet paper, and hand sanitizer, I was weary to oblige to its shiny promises of pack-it-in-and-pack-it-out waste alleviation. Then I found out that this was my other waste alleviation option before the summit:

A 100% visibility, open-air toilet.

I took the Wag Bag… and decided to hold it.

GUYOT FLAT. FOXTAIL PINE BONE.

These forest fornicators know how to get it done… loggy style.

GUITAR LAKE CAMPSITE. GAG ME WITH A SPOON.

Safety pinned to a soiled t-shirt, dirty socks, and a Ziplock full of Power Bar wrappers was this sweet note:

It added something special to our campsite. Really. I can’t thank these people enough for their unyielding maturity, respect for nature, and reverence for the Lord. Hats off to them.

And middle fingers up. I hope Jesus reads this and reprimands them for their desecration of His name. I bet they didn’t even use Wag Bags. Losers.

GUITAR LAKE CAMPSITE. TURN THAT FROWN UPSIDE DOWN.

I’m not going to lie: seeing this frowny face emblazoned in the lichen the night before our ascent to Whitney’s summit kind of freaked me out. Okay, it really freaked me out. But my dad reassured me that lichen grows anywhere that food has been present, meaning that some little kid probably had a ketchup finger painting fest there sometime in the days of yore. I didn’t have the Internet to confirm this information, so I took it at face value, ignored the fact that he might be lying to placate me, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

Not cool. Not cool at all.

WHITNEY SUMMIT. GIMME SHELTER.

When you finally reach the top of Mt. Whitney, this is the first thing you see:

An outhouse? A visitors’ center? A humble weekend chalet? Nope. This is the Mt. Whitney Emergency Shelter, constructed in the early 1900’s by the Smithsonian Institute.

Awesome, you think. It’s good to know that you have a place to stay if you get stuck up there in a storm. But before you start to daydream about a cozy coop-up with hot cocoa and camp stove s’mores, take a gander at this:

“The Whitney Shelter will not offer protection.” That’s funny, because Merriam-Webster tells me that a “shelter (noun)” is “something that covers or affords protection.” Maybe I should start shopping for a different brand of dictionary.

But upon closer inspection, I found that the shelter is not only the tallest thing on the Whitney summit, but it also sports a tin roof—making it the best lightning conduit for miles around. Amazing!

Good going, Smithsonian Institute. Your shelter is completely useless. The only thing with a tin roof rusted I’m going to is the Love Shack. Word.

JOLLY CONE, BRIDGEPORT. SIGN OF THE TIMES.

Whether you run Jolly Cone or JP Morgan, this is a sign to live by. It’s got “Island Time” written all over it, and allows you a flexible schedule to do other important things, like check your email, read this blog, check your Facebook, and read this blog.

LEE VINING. A WEE PROBLEM.

This poster was plastered to the back of a bathroom stall door at a children’s playground that overlooks Mono Lake. I found it highly informative, even if it was borderline inappropriate in its allocation. After years of sitting pretty, I now have a comprehensive guide that shows me how the boys do it. It turns out that the reason why women have a hard time peeing standing up is because of those pesky labia. And here I thought it was because I had an innie urethra and not an outie. Silly me.

I have yet to try it, but when I do, you betcha you’ll hear about it.
For those who are visually challenged or old, here are the words of wizzing wisdom, verbatim:

HOW TO PEE STANDING – FOR FEMALE BODIED FOLKS
“Impress the world!”
Auntie Ellen sez, “Honey, the problem is LABIA!”
So here’s the deal. Total Focus + Masterful Technique = Hell Yeah.

1. Labia are the fleshy outside part of your vulva. Use your fingers to HOLD them out of the way.
2. Buck your hips forward and go for it!
3. You can aim by how you spread your labia apart. Try to control the distance.
4. Practice in the shower, practice in the woods. When you get good, try it without dropping your trousers.
Advanced Technique: To avoid awkward drips at the end, use some muscle to pee with force and cut it off quick.

Good luck and have fun!

Thanks, Auntie Ellen. You’re the best.