I Shat Myself in The Himalayas

A Coming of (Middle) Age Adventure

This beautiful, scenic pic of the mountains belies the horror to come. Don’t be fooled. Ass-plosions happen. You’ve been warned.

Warning: This post contains references to bowel movements, including but not limited to farts, sharts, and poops.

On the upside, it is free from profanity, for once. What a treat you’re in for!

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I pitched this story to several travel publications. I was met with stony silence by all but one, and the one I did hear back from gave me a less-than-candid, ‘We’re all set for essays for the foreseeable future, thanks!’

Well, their loss is your gain. And publishing here means I can use words like ‘sphincter’ and ‘faecal’ and have no real point to make about the whole ordeal. Aren’t you glad?

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How do you celebrate your big birthdays? Like most normal, law-abiding citizens, I would usually opt for a nice dinner with friends or a weekend getaway. Maybe a low-key piss-up at a trendy local establishment and an Uber ride home with a plastic bag held tightly to Drunk Joe’s face (we’ve all got a Drunk Joe and none of us can afford the Uber cleaning fees).

Even since I started travelling full-time some six years ago, I have always made time for a civilised get-together with whomever I can pool from my constantly shifting network of friends around the globe. But last year, approaching forty, I decided that something rather less pacified was in order.

And so, I decided to climb a mountain.

Not just your run-of-the-mill mound of prehistoric rock, mind you. A Himalayan mountain. You know, like, the part of the world where you find Mount Everest?

I know what you’re thinking. Who the hell climbs a mountain for fun? At forty?! That’s for serious adventure folk, not pudgy, middle-aged, ranch-dressing enthusiasts.

Pooh to that, I say. I’ll tell you who mountain climbing is for, mate — Me! I’m as adventurous as they come, don’t let the exterior curtain of visceral fat and cellulite fool you!

I once walked the 250km Camino de Santiago Portuguese just because I was nearby in Italy and it seemed like a good idea. In 2019, I sailed the Arctic as part of the crew on a little yacht (and almost had a heart attack, but that’s another story) to deliver a boat from one side of Norway to the other. Years earlier, I even hiked the treacherous and infamous Great Ocean Walk, sporting a pulled groin muscle, infected blisters, and a full head of hair extensions!

Hold your applause, I know I’m a bloody legend. But that’s not the point.

Actually, the point is that I will debase myself and share humiliating personal anecdotes for the sake of my readers. And you’re welcome.

Back to the shitting. That’s what you’re here for.

‘Twas the Night Before Birthday, and All Through the…Abandoned Himalayan Guesthouse

It had been a long and back-breaking day. All mountain trekking days are. Jason and I hobbled into the all-but-abandoned guesthouse we’d chosen for the night, and before long, were greeted by a small Nepalese man with a welcome, ‘You want bed and food?’

Yes, we did want bed and food, thank you.

Pickings were slim on that part of the trail, as far as lodgings were concerned. Our host was one of only two men we’d seen for the past few hours, and it was beginning to get dark. At this time of the year (it was early December), we were just glad anything was open at all.

As we pulled off our sodden outer layers and hung our socks by the wood stove, our host flitted about the empty dining hall, tending to the fire, making cups of coffee, and getting dinner sorted.

You know what, remote Himalayan food isn’t bad, considering everything has to be carried up on the backs of local sherpas and scraggly mountain mules, along often rubbly, narrow tracks. At least, that’s what I told myself as I ate cheese and potato momos, night after night.

I opted for a veggie pasta this time, and was served a gargantuan bowl that would have fed a wildebeest. As we ate, we watched through the large dining hall windows while the sun lowered itself slowly in pastel bursts of pink and mauve and brilliant orange. Set against a backdrop of the snow-tipped Annapurna mountain range, I’ve never seen a day’s end quite like it.

THIS is what I came for — spectacular views in far-flung places, hardly a soul around, nothing but the smell of wood fire and the crisp mountain air to fill your nostrils, and nothing to do the next day but put on a pack and walk.

The following day would be my fortieth birthday, and this is just how I’d wanted to spend it.

After dinner, we chatted with our host in a cobbling together of English (little on his part) and Nepalese (practically zero on our part), sharing our plans, and swapping information on the upcoming weather forecasts. Snow was coming, as was rain.

Then, utterly spent, we retired to our room for the night. The guesthouse comprised essentially a large metal shipping-container type of structure fitted with several doors, beyond each of which you’ll find a couple of single beds, rolls of spare (quite damp) blankets, and a single light switch (that didn’t work, as there was no mains power and scant solar available at that time of year).

Still cozy from the wood stove, we quickly went about getting into bed and piling extra layers of blankets over us in a futile effort to keep from losing the heat.

Within moments, our humid breath had begun to form droplets across the tin walls and atop the fleece blankets. We shivered, pulling our noses under the covers and chatting through clattering teeth.

We spent a happy couple of hours, in the dark, side-by-side in separate beds, going over our day, reminiscing about the gruelling handful of miles we’d covered so far, and plotting a course for tomorrow.

We were over eight thousand feet up Mardi Himal mountain by that night, with roughly five thousand feet and four days to go until we’d reach the summit. At this spot, there was no cellphone signal, no town water, and the water tanks that serviced the taps and toilets were frozen solid. We couldn’t even wash our hands, let alone flush a toilet.

Giggling at the absurdity of it all, and with Jason vowing to never let me convince him to walk up a mountain again, I was nonetheless completely at peace there. This mad adventure is just the kind of thing I want my life to be made of — aching muscles, greasy hair, and full heart.

What a way to ring in the next decade, I thought to myself.

Gastrointestinal Mutiny at 8,366 Feet

The minutes and hours ticked by, although we had no means of checking the time. Our cellphones and smart watches were charging inside the dining hall, on the single solar-powered battery in the whole of the guesthouse.

It was truly the definition of a digital detox, and we were slowly adapting to having to actually entertain ourselves without the use of devices.

Being the humorist I am, I regaled Jason with stories of some of my previous hilarious misadventures, bemoaned my throbbing feet, and made light of the fact that we were both approaching near-intolerable levels of pungency owing to not having had a decent shower in days (and none was to come for another several). It must have been after midnight by then. I was officially forty.

Then suddenly, mid-cackle, it happened.

You’ve heard the old adage, ‘Never trust a fart’ I presume?

My friend, let me tell you, should you ever decide to walk up the side of a remote mountain, where electricity, running water, and freshly-laundered underwear are in short supply, and both the provenance and storage of food are questionable at best, do not — I repeat — DO NOT trust a fart.

I might not have immediately noticed that this fart was, in fact, a shart, had it not been so bone-chillingly cold inside that room, and the offending sphincter excretion so warm. (Bet you didn’t think you were going to read the phrase sphincter excretion today, did you?)

I clamped my hands to my mouth and let out a screech, ‘I JUST SHAT MY PANTS!’

No running water. No clean change of pants. Nowhere to wash soiled bedding or clothing. No cat or dog to blame the mess on, let alone other patrons.

We were alone, up the side of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, and I’d just crapped myself.

I launched out of bed, extricating myself from a mountain of blanket layers, and, with no other good option available to me, flung open the door and ran down the walkway towards the toilet block, in sub-zero temperatures, followed by the peal of Jason’s laughter.

I won’t disgust you with the nitty gritty (shitty) details, but suffice it to say, only my underwear fell victim to my intestinal coup d’état. My outer layers were safe, as was the bedding, for which I am eternally grateful.

Although they were my only pair of designated ‘sleeping undies’ (not to be hiked in), with no water to wash them, let alone a sink or bucket or washing detergent at hand, I had no choice but to tightly wrap them in the few squares of TP available and stick them in the trash.

Goodbye, comfy sleep undies.

Goodbye, dignity and any sense of romance and mystery that remained between Jason and me.

I thanked my lucky stars that our host had left for the night and there was no one around to witness my shuffle of shame. Then, I bashfully made my way back to our room, sans underwear, and crawled into bed. It must have taken at least 3.65 seconds before the silence broke and we both burst into fits of uncontrollable wheezing.

Truth be told, Jason and I have very little mystery between us. We are parties to what we call the ‘Fart Treaty of 2021’, which stipulates that we are free to make known our natural, human, bodily functions without fear of retribution or humiliation.

Granted, when the Treaty was signed, neither of us could have known the Shart Clause would ever be called upon. But there you have it.

Shitting myself was not how I had expected to enter middle age, I’ll admit. But it’s not something I’d want to re-write, even if I could (and I suppose, with a Substack newsletter at my disposal, I could). It’s all part of the rich tapestry of ridiculousness and general unpreparedness of my life. And not nearly the most difficult or noteworthy part of that trek.

We made it all the way up the mountain over the coming days (but that’s not as fun a story to tell), my pack just a little lighter, and my spirits high. Although, it would be weeks before I could trust a fart again.

There’s no moral to this story. I’ve written it purely to disgust and delight you with an embarrassing tale, and to offer you a travel read that doesn’t take itself so seriously. But I will say this:

I don’t anticipate, or welcome, more feats of faecal betrayal in the coming decade. I do hope persistent bowel problems and bedpans are a long way off in my future. But should any come to pass (pun entirely intended) anyway, I hope they’re experienced in such spectacular surrounds, as a part of a much greater adventure, just like this one.

Warmly,

Maggie