FORT KENT, Maine — There are certain calls that, no matter where you are or what you are doing, they cannot be ignored.
Top of that list is answering those calls from nature, which any of us who spend time in the great outdoors know full well come when we are, well, out of doors.
I got to thinking about that last week after my BDN colleague, outdoors writer Aislinn Sarnacki, wrote a great feature on efforts to rebuild outhouses along the more than 250 miles of the Appalachian Trail in Maine
These are the buildings no one likes to talk about in polite company but are sure glad they are there, well stocked and in good working order when needed.
Over the years, it’s been my privy-lege — if you will — to experience outhouses in all their four-season glory on three continents, from the far Canadian north to the southern Andes to right here in Maine.
When you think about it, outhouses — especially the public ones found along such routes as the Appalachian Trail or on pathways up and down some of Maine’s smaller hiking routes — are really the ultimate port in personal storms.
Over the years, having availed myself to dozens of the natural bathrooms, I’ve developed my own, highly unscientific and completely biased rating system.
It’s a system based not on smell or appearance because, let’s face it, the “ewwww” factor is pretty universal when it comes to outhouses.
Instead, my ratings are based on the views looking out the outhouse doors.
Given that criteria, the reigning champion is an outhouse of questionable construction located at 15,000 feet of elevation on the side of a mountain in Argentina.
Basically, it was a blue tarp wrapped around a framework of aluminum poles that had been placed over a hole in the ground in which there was a metal barrel. A piece of plywood with a hole cut in the middle was placed at ground level over the barrel to serve as the “seat.”
What made this particular privy remarkable was the view — looking straight down a gorgeous valley with the towering Andes on either side.
What made it even more remarkable was the weekly clean out that occurred when the Argentinian parks officials sent a helicopter up to deliver clean barrels and retrieve the used ones. It made for some pretty interesting flyovers.
Of course, some Andean mountains are not outhouse equipped, and that is where a climber learns of what they are made.
And, while I hope I never, ever again have to “take care of business” on an open glacier while connected by rope to the others in my climbing party, I guess it’s good to know those skills do exist.
And, to be fair, the view was impressive — in all directions.
Some years later, my travels took me to some pretty remote spots in Labrador and up in the Yukon Territory.
In both places I was camping and hiking far from civilization in the backcountry, but bless the Canadians there were outhouses — few and far between, but they were there.
Using my own rating system based on the views, they scored fairly well, but when the level of difficulty is added in, it did bump them up a level.
That’s because both times I was in bear country, and running into one of the large bruins was a real possibility. So much so that in the Yukon, pretty much everywhere we went outside of the camping area, we had an armed escort.
So much for privacy.
Here in Maine there have been more outhouse encounters than I care to remember, but two do stick out in my mind.
First was the out-of-doors facilities at a friend’s home in southern Maine, which was located inside a fenced in area occupied by her two goats.
Goats, at least these goats, were certainly not as scary or dangerous as those Canadian bears, but they were a heck of a lot more pushy.
It was impossible to access the outhouse without the company of one or both of the goats that delighted in crowding in there with me and then just standing there staring out the door.
Perhaps they were working on their own view-based rating system.
Years ago, when my husband and I were first dating, one of our initial outings was a cross-country ski trek into the cabin that is now Rusty Metal Farm.
This would have been close to 35 years ago, and, while rustic, that cabin was cozy and did have a structurally sound outhouse.
When I made mention of going out to use it, Patrick jumped up, grabbed a shovel and dug the path — down through several feet of snow to dirt — the entire 30 or so feet to the privy.
If that’s not the start of a great romance, I don’t know what is.
But lest you think outhouses are strictly a backwoods, rural phenomenon, let me tell you about the oddest outhouse experience I’ve had to date.
It was while I was on a bicycling trip in Tuscany, Italy. Having hydrated well that morning, by afternoon I was looking for a public restroom.
Smack in the middle of the town of Castellina we found a central and very futuristic outhouse.
The town’s public restroom was coin-operated, which was not all that odd. What was odd — to me, at least — was its configuration.
For 25 cents, an individual gained entrance to what can best be described as a pod. Elevator doors slid open and, once one was inside, slid back shut.
To exit, a button was pushed to open the doors again and, once they shut again, a series of automatic floor and wall jets washed down the entire interior in time for the next patron.
It’s a big world out there, and I have loads of future travel plans that will doubtless involve outhouses of varying styles and locations.
Frankly, I can’t wait to get the call.
Julia Bayly of Fort Kent is an award-winning writer and photographer, who writes part time for Bangor Daily News. Her column appears here every other Friday. She can be reached by email at jbayly@bangordailynews.com.
