Our final stop came into view. We’d traveled bend to bend. I wondered if the
forest road would ever have an end.
We’d planned this trip for several weeks to Yellow Jacket Station. The cabin was a
welcome sight, way back in God’s creation.
The woodstove warmed our cabin from the cold December air. But the bunkbeds
held no mattresses, just plywood laid out bare.
And then I got to thinking ‘bout the outhouse up the hill. It must have been near
fifty yards. I shook a shivered chill.
So, my wife warmed up the chicken stew she’d cooked the night before. I ate like
no tomorrow, didn’t know what lay in store.
Outside the night was closing in. I heard a coyote yip. I wondered, “Does he feel
the cold? The fall air bites a bit.”
My sleeping bag lay by the stove. I soaked in all the heat. And sleep was just a
blink away, a long day now complete.
But then, I’d say around midnight or somewhere there about, my stomach set to
growling, ‘cuz the stew was needing out.
I grabbed my boots and flashlight, and I rolled on out of there. I must have been a
silly sight, just boots and underwear.
The dash uphill with cheeks pressed tight met early morning sleet. But nothing
could deter me from the outhouse one-hole seat.
I sat for just a minute. Soon the privy felt like ice. Oh, how I missed my throne at
home, a comfy paradise.
I doubt the old-time rangers ever gave a second thought. They prob’ly thought
this outhouse was the finest money bought.
Then walking back, I pondered ‘bout those days of old frontier. I stoked the fire
and climbed in bed. I ain’t no pioneer.