The device appeared on the front porch for my birthday: seven inches of sturdy pink plastic shaped like a deep-bowled spoon. “Happy Peeing!” my friend — who, like me, is an avid hiker — had written on a note tied with a ribbon.
The gift was a personal urination tool that allows people with vaginas to stand when they urinate. “Gross!” my teenage daughter groaned.
My husband side-eyed the oblong apparatus as if it might present a threat. “Weird.”
I assessed the gadget: a miniature aqueduct. My friend had included a washable absorbent paisley square — a pee cloth that could be attached to the user’s backpack with a strap that read “Piss Off.”
“This,” I breathed, “could be life-changing.”
My mother taught me to pee in Southern California mountains as soon as I could walk. I did the same for my daughter in Oregon forests, adding the bonus skill of weeing off the side of her kiddie kayak on three-hour paddles. In both cases, privacy was paramount: You found a generously trunked tree or a sheltered cove, then squatted, bare-cheeked, and did your business, inevitably dripping on your shoes before wiping with a fistful of leaves or a handful of snow. It was an imperfect process, but better than moving through the wilderness with a bladder on fire.
In my 20s, I took an all-women’s rafting trip on the Merced River. After a lunch break on land, I stared in awe as our guide — a beautiful young blond woman — copped a riverside squat and simply slipped aside the crotch of her bathing suit so she could pee in the water. I was not that bold; I would never be that bold. Instead I walked deep into the woods, away from the group of laughing ladies, and assumed the position behind a Sequoia, butt exposed to the elements and urine splashing on my sport sandals.
I envied my father and brother, my husband and every other person in the outdoors who could hear nature’s call and promptly answer into the nearest shrubbery. The crouch can be demeaning; you’re in a position of submission, one that often results in resonant flatulence. If attacked by bears or yellow jackets, you’d lose valuable time yanking up your pants.
