The Pits: An Authoritative Review

I am not an authority on much of anything.

Sure, I know a little bit about a lot of things and actually consider myself to be fairly skilled at a few tasks. But I realized just last night that there is one area in which I have attained thorough knowledge and ultimate authority. And that one thing is...

...the pit toilet.

Let me explain:

Our camper is nicely equipped; it's got a stove, a bed, and a heater for those chilly nights; it's got ample room for food storage, and it's a safe haven during those occasional afternoon thunderstorms.

The one thing it's missing is a commode.

We did this on purpose. Our camper is small, and the last thing we wanted was to have a smelly "chair" hanging around in the corner of our living space, not to mention having to flip a coin every few days to see who has to empty the thing. So we rely on public restrooms and the great outdoors for that particular need.

Mark clowning around in Bodie State Park.

We've just returned from a two week trip through the American Southwest, where we camped in some remote places. If we found an actual campground (as opposed to "dry camping" on public land) it most likely had a pit toilet, since running water (and plumbing in general) is scarce in this area of the backcountry.

Here's where my expertise comes in: I can say unequivocally that desert pit toilets far outshine the ones in wetter climes. The extreme dry air keeps the fume level down, which definitely makes the experience easier. Ever try to complete a restroom stop--start to finish--without taking a breath? It's tough.

A lone outhouse in the eastern Sierra, just a bit worse for wear.
Bodie State Park

Pit toilets are all constructed the same way; a little house on a concrete pad built on top of a pit, with a venting system (usually a stovepipe-looking thing) that runs up the back, theoretically venting the gases to the atmosphere without choking the poor guy inside who's just trying to transact a little business. Sure it's not the most appetizing thing to think about, but it's a necessary fact of life. Without them we'd all be walking around with little plastic bags in our pockets for pickup purposes. Gross.

Pit Etiquette:

• Always close the lid after using! It keeps the flies down and the fumes where they're supposed to be.

• Always put the lid and seat up if you're not going to use them during your transaction. Think of your fellow campers please.

• Always close the door when you leave. The cooler and darker it is in there, the less stinky and fly infested it will be for the next guy. Also animals small and large might use it as a shelter.

• Don't throw stuff down the hole that didn't come out of you (other than toilet paper.) Some poor newbie park employee is going to have to go in and dig it out. Please save him the inhumanity. We've all been the low guy on the totem pole at one point during our careers, and while it may have felt like groveling around in excrement, you probably didn't have to do it literally.

Utilizing a pit toilet takes some getting used to, and it's not just the...uh...aroma. Even the cleanest, best maintained pit toilet--one with barely a scent and in immaculate condition--will be a little disorienting for the new user.

For one thing, feeling a fairly stiff breeze blowing up past your derriere is not a typical experience in the restroom but is a common occurrence in a pit toilet, especially in the windy southwest. When the wind picks up outside the outhouse venting system amplifies it as it funnels through the pit.

Not being able to see where everything is going is a bit unsettling as well; it's a throwback to those "there's something under the bed" days of childhood, with the added creep factor of being in a vulnerable position should any mischief arise.

The outhouse is dim during the day, but at night it's pitch black inside. There's always an awkward moment when you have to open the lid with your headlamp on, trying mightily not to shine the light down the hole. There are some things better left unknown, and what it looks like down there is one of them.

This one came equipped with a solar powered light.
Canyonlands, UT

Although most of the pit toilets on national and state park lands seem to be built from the same blueprint, they are not all created equal. I have my favorites; during this last camping trip I visited a pit with one of those deodorizer spray thingys inside and it smelled lovely (and was meticulously clean--thanks Newbie Park Guy!) The one in Red Rock Canyon State Park has walls constructed of volcanic stone and no roof--best star gazing from the throne in the state, and the fumes are vented 24/7. One of my all time favorites was at the Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park in Nevada. Inside it's lined with Far Side cartoons, all featuring a dinosaur theme. A tasteful addition to an otherwise bland decor.


Then there are the horror stories: the one in Jumbo Rocks campground in Joshua Tree you could smell from halfway across the campground; the one near Barstow with a scorpion lurking in the corner and a black widow spider that constructed a web across the hole opening (I used the men's side that night.) The countless truck stop models that get way more use than maintenance (what the hell do those truckers eat?). The list goes on...

This one in Coldfoot Alaska was brand new and smelled of the cedar boards they used to construct it.
Once you stepped in though, you were trapped in a room with approximately 14,230 mosquitos.

Mark and I have a long tradition of torturing each other when the other guy is in the "house." He started it years ago by throwing pebbles on the roof while I was using one, so I got back at him by taking his picture while he exited. This has become a bit of a tradition over the years, thus all the pictures of pit toilets. I didn't think it was weird until just now.

So next time you pass one of these lonely outposts of the west, don't be afraid to have a look inside. Someone went to the trouble to build it and who knows? You might be surprised by what you find.

One for Mom

Mom in the Redwoods, circa 1970s

I've written about how my dad influenced my life, in many ways shaping my fondness for the outdoors and photography. But I haven't been entirely fair; Dad might have been the one teaching me how to set up a tent or choose an f-stop, but it could never have happened without Mom's help.

Soon to be Mom and Dad

Mom and Dad before they were a Mom or Dad.

Mom having fun on the dunes with my brother.

Mom was really the unsung hero behind all our adventures when I was growing up. She was the support team behind every outing, be it a one day motorcycle ride or a three week sailboat cruise. A typical trip to the boat for the week had Mom busy shopping/packing/loading the groceries, planning meals that were prepared in a stuffy cabin that (more often than not) was bucking back and forth in the swells. She arranged to have the dog watched, the mail held, the newspaper picked up by the neighbor--all those little things that need to be attended to when you go on vacation. I wasn't really aware of them until I picked up that gauntlet for myself after moving out. I've got it easy though; Mark and I share all those duties.

One of the hundreds of meals Mom prepared below deck.

Mom and I sharing that meal. We were the only ones in the family who could eat in the cabin
without getting seasick, one of the many traits we share.

Mom bridged the eras of housewife/women's lib/working woman. She grew up in a working class family, moving around quite a bit before settling down here in Sonoma County. I don't think she ever had a formal vacation growing up--there wasn't the time or money to do so. She was married in the late 1950's at the ripe old age of nineteen, and had three kids by the time she turned twenty-six. She stayed at home and raised us until we were out of grade school, then went back to school herself, earning an Associates degree in music then a Bachelor's degree in business and joined the workforce about the time we kids hit high school. Although we never talked about it during that time period, I know she struggled with balancing the household and the work world. She had all those ingrained habits--laundry on Wednesday, vacuuming on Thursday, etc.--that she was still trying to uphold, but she was gone for eight-plus hours a day (and for a few years, school at night as well.) It was impossible to keep up, and I'll admit we kids weren't much help. We did what we were told to do, but not much else. Dad grew up in the era of "woman's work" vs. "man's work" and never really broke out of that habit. I can count the times he went grocery shopping on one hand, and I only witnessed him with a vacuum in his hand once. Once. My brother's and I were so stunned we just sat and watched in awe. We didn't even know he knew where it was kept.

Receiving her diploma

Mom on a break during one of the many motorcycle rides
she made with my Dad.

I don't think Mom was entirely committed to all Dad's adventure ideas, but she put on a brave face and rolled with it. She lived through multiple phases of Dad's idea of fun: camping, motorcycles, sailboats, and back to motorcycles again. She admitted to me recently that she would rather have stayed in hotels and eaten in restaurants; in fact that's exactly how she travels now that Dad is gone. But she also said that she misses the boat. Being out on the water and seeing all the sea life, hearing the water slide across the hull and the smell of the salt air really does get into your blood, as trite as that sounds. (I miss it too, I've just traded it for dust and non-swimming wildlife now.)

Mom doing what she does best, taking care of the details.

Nowadays she's the one that keeps an eye on our house when we're away, so I suppose she's still taking care of things just like she always has. I can count on her to remember to pick up the paper, to remind me to hold the mail, and to water my plants when I'm gone. My house isn't nearly as clean as hers and it never will be; that's one habit that didn't get passed along, for better or worse. What she did pass along though was much more important; how to plan meals that would not suffer for lack of refrigeration, how to pack for a long trip, how to most efficiently take a pay shower when running low on quarters and, most importantly, how to put on a brave face and roll with it when things aren't exactly turning out as planned.

I'm not a carbon copy of my Mom or my Dad, but I think I got the best of both of them. They worked well together as a team and to their credit, never lost any of us overboard (as much as they may have been tempted at times.)

So thanks Mom, and Happy Mother's Day.

Me, Mom and my niece, who one day soon will be off on adventures of her own.

Hiking Mount St. Helena

First off: Mount Saint Helena in California is not to be confused with Mount Saint Helens in Washington state. It is composed of volcanic rocks, but St. Helena is much more sedate than her northern cousin. You might even say more ladylike, being composed of rock that's been gently uplifted over the eons, rather than throwing hissy fits like St. Helens did a few decades ago.

St. Helens...
(photo credit: Wikipedia)

...vs. St. Helena
(photo credit: Betsy Malloy)

Located at the convergence of three counties (Sonoma, Napa and Lake), Mt. Saint Helena's multiple peaks can be seen from as far away as San Francisco, 56 miles to the south. From the top (on a clear day) you can see both the ocean to the west and the Sierras to the east, a distance spanning over 150 miles. From home, it's the first place I've always looked after a particularly cold storm to see if any snow has fallen; I've been known to jump in the car and drive up there just to throw a few snowballs. I know how this sounds to any of you who have just gone through the past winter on the east coast; here in mild Northern California, you take it when and where you can get it.

Paintbrush on the flank of St. Helena

Mark and I took a hike up to the top a few weeks ago, taking advantage of one of the gloriously sunny and warm days we've been having all year. There has to be an up side to being in the middle of a severe drought and hiking in early spring, I have to say, is one of the perks.

Madrone pokes out of the rocks.

The trailhead is located in Robert Louis Stevenson State Park, just above the city of Calistoga (Napa county.) The park encompasses most of the mountain and is named for the "Treasure Island" author because he spent his honeymoon here with his new wife, holed up in an old miner's cabin. This romantic getaway was the only thing he could afford, being a poor writer who had yet to pen any famous novels. He spent the summer of 1880 walking around under the bay and pine trees, expounding upon the loveliness of it all (and no doubt contracting a horrible case of poison oak if,  back then, it was anything close to the lush growth we saw on our hike.)

All that remains of an old stage stop and Toll House Hotel. Picnic area of Robert Louis Stevenson State Park.

This trail is memorable to me for many reasons, but the first and foremost: it was my very first serious hike. I made every foolish mistake on that trip, traveling back several times since to prove I'm not the ignorant buffoon I was in my early twenties.

That first hike up was a fiasco. A friend mentioned she was going for a day hike, and would I like to come along? Sure! I said, Sounds fun! I joined her and a few other friends and we drove up to the trailhead. We should have taken heed at the first ominous sign, when we encountered a small rattlesnake curled up smack in the middle of the trail within the first 100 feet. Safely circumventing it, we continued up, gasping from the incline we had not trained for, finally stumbling up to the top many hours later only to turn back around and conduct a (barely) controlled fall back down to the car. Ten miles is a long way when you haven't done much more than walk back and forth from your house to your car in the last year. We failed to bring water and had one orange between the four of us so even if it hadn't been a hot sunny day, it would not have been a pleasant experience. We were a dehydrated mess by the time we reached the car, and barreled down the mountain to the nearest 7-11, sucking down Big Gulps and potato chips as fast as we could.

Since then I've learned my lesson. On this hike we had four liters of water with us, along with apples, trail bars, dates and the first aid kit we always have in our pack. We were wearing shorts and t-shirts (it was forecast to be 78 degrees) but had also packed jackets just in case. Opposed to the cheap tennis shoes I had chosen for that first ill-fated hike, this time I was wearing my favorite hiking boots and heavy socks. No blisters for me this time, or ever again.

The first mile is shaded and pretty.

The first mile of trail is a zig-zagging walk up through pines and bay trees. Keep an eye out for the three-lobed leaves of the poison oak plant though; it's prevalent along this trail, especially in the forested sections. At about the one mile mark you'll see a curious granite marker shaped like an open book: this is where the newly married Stevenson's cabin was located. Look to the right of this marker and you'll see faint steps carved into the rock; this is the trail that leads to the fire road that will, in turn, lead to the peak.

Granite memorial marker at mile 1

Where the trail meets the fire road.

Once out on the fire road, the trail itself is not all that glamorous. The road is there for dual purposes: fire protection is of course a concern, but I suspect it is more heavily traveled by the technicians in charge of maintaining the many many (did I say many?) microwave, cell phone and radio transmitter towers on both the north and south peaks. It's really the view that makes this trail worth the climb. The trees of the bottom portion of the trail give way to shorter madrone and scrubby bushes, opening up a vista of vineyards, lakes and mountains and--if you luck out--the San Francisco skyline, the Sierras and the ocean in the distance.

The first view from the road. A farmer was burning that day down in the valley.

At about the two mile mark there is an outcropping of volcanic rock known locally as "The Bubbles." It's a popular spot for rock climbers to practice their skills. We stopped and watched a few climbers for a bit before continuing on our way.

"The Bubbles"

At about mile four, the road splits off; go to the left to reach the lower south peak, continue straight to get to the highest (northern-most) peak. If you choose the north peak (and why wouldn't you? why go all this way and miss out on the bragging rights?) you'll go downhill a ways into the saddle that straddles the two highest peaks. I think this is my favorite part of the trail: I like the view of both peaks on either side, with the open expanse of the valley below.

A sign that the "Fire Road" is more for maintenance.

Evidence of the volcanic origins of St. Helena
"Hey dumb dumb! You bring me gum gum?"

There's a nice little stretch of forest right before you round the corner for the final ascent. In this spot we found some snow on the side of the road, a remnant from the pitiful storm we had a few weeks before. It was fun to be reminded that it was still early spring, despite the warm weather and clear skies.

The saddle between the peaks.

A few blooms and what passes for snowfall in our dry year.

The view to the north.

The view to the south. Isn't it lovely?

The peak is a bit of a letdown actually; it's been graded flat and a cement pad has been poured to hold up a pretty impressive tower of transmitters. There's a slight hum from the electrical shed, and a black cyclone fence encloses everything to keep the curious and the vandals out of all that expensive equipment. There's a mound of rocks that represents the actual peak, with a plaque commemorating the Russian expedition that reached the it in 1841, naming the mountain after Princess Helena de Gagarin (wife of the commander in charge of Fort Ross on the Sonoma Coast--another marvelous place to visit.)

The plaque. It's hard to read, even though it's been replaced at least once.

The USGS marker. Mt. St. Helena's height is 4,342 ft.

The snow capped Sierras are lined up to the east, 130 miles away.

One thing about being out on an exposed mountain in the spring: the wind can be brutal. They weren't the strongest gusts we've ever experienced (Death Valley in the springtime anyone?) but irritating to try to eat lunch with. That's where those outbuildings actually came in handy; we found a comfortable rock on the lee side of the electrical shed and were able to eat without having our granola bars fly into the next county. We spent about half an hour up there, taking pictures, watching all the lizards sunning themselves, and taking in the marvelous view.

Lunch under the tower (but out of the wind)

Our lunch view, looking west over Napa  and Sonoma valleys
 and out towards the coast.

We retraced our steps on the way down, taking a spur trail off to see an old mine shaft on the side of the mountain. You have to keep a sharp eye out for the turnoff to the trailhead; it's not well marked. In fact, the only marking was a gap in the bushes and a rusted steel signpost with no sign (if fell or was taken off I guess.) If you miss the turn and continue down the fire road it eventually meets the highway, but a mile or more from where your car is parked.

Old mine entrance, off a spur trail about a quarter mile from
the turnoff to the trailhead on the fire road.

The picnic area near the parking lot.

Back at the car we saw the parking lot had filled up completely. It was a little surprising because we hadn't really seen that many people on the trail. There are a few other spur trails in the area, and there were a lot of rock climbers in a few places along the way, so that must have accounted for all the vehicles. If you want a spot in the lot, it would be wise to get there before 9:00am. We saw a string of cars parked along the edges of the highway on our way down the road. The highway isn't very wide and is very curvy, so it would be dicey at best to try turning around or parking along the edge.

What trip is complete in our neck of the woods without a banana slug sighting?

The total roundtrip distance of the trail is a little over ten miles. The grade isn't extreme, so given the time (and water!) most people in moderate shape will be fine. There is no fee for parking or entering the park. There is, however, added incentive to finish the hike: just down the hill in the town of Calistoga there is a great little ice cream shop called Scoops & Swirls, just what a dusty hiker needs after a day on the trail. I suppose you could go wine tasting or take one of those fancy mud baths Calistoga is famous for, but I'm not sure why when you could get a big scoop of mint chip on a sugar cone and sit in the shade people watching. A free hike and a cone for $3.50; pretty good deal if you ask me.

Looking southwest toward the town of Calistoga.

For more information about the Robert Louis Stevenson State Park and Mount St. Helena click here.