After 17 years of backpacking, I thought I’d seen it all. I’ve been eaten alive by mosquitoes, broken my water filter mid-hike, and endured blister-covered feet. I have slept on the hard ground after my inflatable sleeping pad popped beyond repair, and faced bone-chilling cold when caught in a snowstorm. On one trip, I realized that mice had eaten holes in my underwear — and the list goes on.
It’s easy for experienced campers to think they have perfected the art of outdoor survival. But on a backpacking trip in California, an unlikely incident reminded me that one’s education in the outdoors is never fully complete.
This is the story of how I spent a night in a trail bathroom with my head next to a pit toilet — and why it’s a powerful reminder that nature demands humility, patience, and adaptability.
The Trail
My plan was to hike 42 miles on the Trans-Catalina Trail on Catalina Island off the coast of California. I grew up not far from there and had always dreamed of returning to hike this trail full of scenic ocean views.
I landed at the Long Beach airport and was met with a brutal thunderstorm. Howling winds and torrential rain made it hard to see straight. I could’ve bailed on the trip, but I had come all that way, and I had already reserved my permit and campsites.
Luckily, the ferry to the island still ran the next day, and after a rough hour on the sea, I arrived on Catalina. It was sunny and bright, and I enjoyed hiking through lush, green rolling hills. After I arrived at my campsite and set up my tent, a storm quickly moved in. It was positively the worst thunderstorm I’d ever spent a night in.
The wind was so severe that the entire tent shook, rattling and thumping, with the tent wall smacking me on the head. At one point, the wind ripped the (secured) rainfly clean off, and I had to scramble through the muddy campsite in the dark to find and reattach it. This happened three more times.
After making it through a rough night, I checked my weather app the next day and felt relieved. There were supposed to be a few more showers in the day, but no more intense storms like the previous night.
Over the next 2 days, I was riding high. I stayed at Little Harbor Campground, an isolated, remote site with a sandy beach just a short walk away from my tent. As I ascended 1,000-foot climbs with only a bit of huffing and puffing, I took in striking vistas of sharp peaks. I should’ve known that everything was going a little too well at that point.
The Incident
After a long day of hiking, I arrived at my final campsite for the trip, Parson’s Landing. I had heard rave reviews about the spot; the actual sites were actually on a gorgeous stretch of beach in a small inlet. What could be better?
I reached my designated site, dropped my pack, and began my usual routine of setting up my tent. I had no sooner opened my tent bag when the wind picked up. It whipped my hat off my head, but no bother. I was sure it would calm down momentarily.
As I pushed each tent stake into the sand, the wind seemed to take it as a challenge, an invitation to whale on me even harder. I rose to the occasion, strategically placing a series of large rocks on key parts of the tent to reinforce it.
I had truly never experienced a wind raging like this before. There was no rain, just persistent, angry gusts that made me struggle to stand upright.
If I listened closely over the roar of the wind, I could hear the ultralight tent poles groaning and protesting under the strain. Thanks to its triangular shape, the tent had essentially become a sail, and the wind seemed to want to take it out to sea.
This tent, a NEMO Dragonfly OSMO model, was my absolute favorite ultralight tent. If it’s possible to be sentimentally attached to a shelter, I was. This tent had been with me through it all, from my first-ever solo backpacking trip to climbing trips with friends.
It was also bloody expensive, costing me $400 when I bought it. I stood and stared at my tent furiously flapping in the wind, and thought about the prospect of spending the night inside. I couldn’t hike back to where I had stayed the night before — it was another 10 miles, and it was dark. At that moment, I made what I believe was the only sensible choice to stay safe and keep my gear intact: Sleep in the trail bathroom.
The Decision
I took apart my tent, chucked all my food into a bear box, and hauled all my stuff into one of the two trail bathrooms. I went into both, gave a good sniff, and chose the one with the least amount of stench.
It was already 6:30 p.m., and I was entirely alone. If someone else came to this remote campsite, they could still use the other bathroom, so I didn’t feel too guilty.
As I lay out my sleeping pad on the cold, hard ground, I realized that the bathroom was smaller inside than it appeared. I’m only 5’6″, and there was barely enough space for me to lie flat.
I soon discovered that the door didn’t have a lock. When the wind hit its peak, the door would half-open, letting in a burst of cold air. So I sealed myself in by placing a rock on the outside, and then shoved an extra pair of pants across the bottom of the door to block the wind.
I snuggled into my sleeping bag and was reading my book when I heard voices. I figured I should explain myself in case they decided to enter my new home.
In the pitch black, I popped my head out of the bathroom with my headlamp on and greeted two other female backpackers. I warned them of how bad the wind was, and that I had holed up in the bathroom to take cover. I advised them to do the same, but they said they’d give their tent a shot. Within 10 minutes, they had bundled up in the other bathroom.
The next morning, I woke up and ventured outside to be once again greeted with an unforgiving wind. While it wasn’t the best night’s sleep, I had certainly had worse ones on trail, and ultimately, my gear and I were safe.
Lessons From the Trail
I don’t think anything truly horrific would have happened to me had I stayed in my tent on the beach at Parson’s Landing. But I’m sure that my tent would’ve broken and I wouldn’t have slept a wink.
The decision I made to sleep in the trail bathroom entailed what backpackers have to do all the time: Take in available information, analyze the costs and benefits, and make smart choices. Sometimes doing the thing that’s gross or uncomfortable in the moment is smarter long-term.
Backpacking is this great paradox: It requires intense planning and forethought before departure. During the trip, however, it demands adaptability. Rigidly holding onto that initial plan can result in dangerous situations.
Stay Flexible
On a trip in Saguaro National Park last year, I had everything scheduled out to a T. I had done everything right: checked my gear, checked water source reports, and planned my mileage. And then, my water filter broke and most of the supposedly full water sources were bone dry.
I took stock of the situation, and decided to bail on the trip 2 days early. I hiked 14 miles out, and ran out of water for the last 3 miles. Once I reached my car and drove to a Walmart to rehydrate, I was glad I had ditched my plan.
Adaptability doesn’t just save you from headaches — it also keeps you alive. In talking to search-and-rescue staff about incidents on Mt. Whitney for another GJ article, they mentioned how important it was to have reasonable expectations and a cut-off time. In other words, if you don’t summit by a certain time, you turn around — no matter what.
Whether it’s altitude sickness, dehydration, poor weather conditions, or just tiredness, our bodies don’t always perform on trail like we’re accustomed to. Gear fails, and so do our bodies.
There’s a time and a place for what I call white-knuckling: When you push through whatever discomfort you may be feeling and continue hiking up that mountain. But there’s equally a time and a place for knowing when to call it.
Our egos have no place in the outdoors. No matter how experienced or fit you are, at some point, nature will find a way to humble you. The ability to be introspective, question your motivations, and reconsider your choices is one of the most important outdoor skills. It keeps you safe, it keeps you alive, and it might lead you to a five-star stay in a trail bathroom.
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