Go to next Roadside Journal essay

Roadside Journal

A terrible thought. . .

What to do if your wallet falls in the outhouse...

By Chuck Woodbury, editor
Out West
The newspaper that roams

Sometimes my life on the road is scary — yes, I said scary. You are probably wondering what I am talking about. So I will tell you of one of my worst fears. Now if you think I am talking about a nuclear holocaust or of being smashed head-on by a logging truck, you are wrong.

What I fear most is losing my wallet down a pit toilet.

If you are laughing, please don’t. Please understand that even admitting this fear to you is painful. The thought of losing my Visa card and driver’s license down a dark and dreary hole in some national forest campground is nearly too much for this roving journalist to bear. When this thought strikes me — sometimes late at night when I am half-asleep — it sends chills down my spine, pangs through my heart, and gas to my belly.

Do you have any idea of what I’m talking about? Do you?

The fear is rational. It could happen. So I am not wrong to be shaking in my boots at this very moment.

I ask you, what should I do if this really happens? Should I attempt to fetch my wallet? Could I capture it with a clothes hanger or would I have to climb down into the dark, slimy dungeon and probe by hand? Where would I enter? Would a flashlight illuminate my way? How deep would I have to search? How would I smell later?

Would I find my wallet?

Outhouses of the West

The Vanishing American Outhouse

Maybe. Maybe not.

Would wading through the murkiest murk in the known universe be worth it? And, really, should I even take on this foul task to simply rescue a replaceable Visa card, replaceable driver’s license, replaceable ATM card, and thirty or forty bucks?

Do you think I would do that?

I would not.

I am so scared thinking about this that I must stop writing.

Speaking of pit toilets, I must bring up a problem that has bothered me for a long time. I don’t know what can be done. Maybe you will have an idea. It wouldn’t even bring it up, but I feel someone has to, and it might as well be me.

What I am talking about, of course, is the problem of mosquitoes that hide in the pits of pit toilets. I’m concerned about how we can get them out of there and up into the air where we can battle them with Raid, or swat them with newspaper inserts.

While I don’t generally believe that one mosquito is smarter than the next one, I am convinced that the inhabitants of the pits are of a superior intelligence. Somehow they know they have a vulnerable target — if only for a few moments.

What bothers me so much about this is that a creature no bigger than a pin head can attack me at a time when I am so helpless. I know full well how to deal with a mosquito on a wall or ceiling, but when one hides so cleverly it has an unfair advantage. It makes me mad!

I thereby call for a public forum on this issue. We must rid the pits of mosquitoes. Write to your Congressman. Write to the President. Write to your mother, for Pete’s sake! Just write.

This is important.

Go to next Roadside Journal essay