THE NEW YORK TIMES – The device appeared on the front porch for my birthday: seven inches of sturdy pink plastic shaped like a deep-bowled spoon. “Happy Peeing!” my friend — who, like me, is an avid hiker — had written on a note tied with a ribbon.
The gift was a personal urination tool that allows people with vaginas to stand when they urinate. “Gross!” my teenage daughter groaned.
My husband side-eyed the oblong apparatus as if it might present a threat. “Weird.”
I assessed the gadget: a miniature aqueduct. My friend had included a washable absorbent paisley square — a pee cloth that could be attached to the user’s backpack with a strap that read “Piss Off.”
“This,” I breathed, “could be life-changing.”
My mother taught me to pee in Southern California mountains as soon as I could walk.
I did the same for my daughter in Oregon forests, adding the bonus skill of weeing off the side of her kiddie kayak on three-hour paddles. In both cases, privacy was paramount:
You found a generously trunked tree or a sheltered cove, then squatted, bare-cheeked, and did your business, inevitably dripping on your shoes before wiping with a fistful of leaves or a handful of snow.
It was an imperfect process, but better than moving through the wilderness with a bladder on fire.
In my 20s, I took an all-women’s rafting trip on the Merced River.
After a lunch break on land, I stared in awe as our guide — a beautiful young blond woman — copped a riverside squat and simply slipped aside the crotch of her bathing suit so she could pee in the water …
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