One day I pulled over early to do laundry bush style. I washed my shorts and shirts in a bucket then draped them over a clothesline. The window frame of the car acted as one post while a tree was the other.

Sun and wind quickly pulled the moisture from my tiger-print undies. I left them to dry as I hiked deeper into the bush to answer the call of nature. If I wanted to make sure no stray drivers got an eyeful of my shiny butt cheeks, I had to do a lot of walking during the day. The thin scrub just didn't conceal much.

In this area, a rocky outcropping sheltered me from the neighboring trailer. I felt luck; this necessary activity was perpetually annoying. No matter how deeply I dug the pit nor how far my legs straddled, something always splashed my shoes.

Believe me, I tried a lot to avoid the spray. I adjusted the altitude of my squat. I leaned forward and back. I stopped halfway up slopes and faced up, down and sideways to no avail.

Even when my footwear escaped being splashed, a pink flood soon threatened to engulf one boot or the other. The only time I relieved myself in a carefree manner was after dark. If I couldn't see it, it must not have happened.