Trigger warning: this story includes scatological references.
Rarely do a book of questionable value and a purpose borne out of desperation so perfectly align.
It was my first day heading into the 100-mile wilderness to begin my AT thru-hike. (It was actually my second thru-hike day, the first having been a hike up Mount Katahdin to begin the venture at the trail’s northern terminus at the summit.)
My friend Paul, who had summited Mt. Katahdin with me, had suggested stopping at Abol Bridge on my way in, where there’s a small diner and convenience store. He remembered from his hikes in Baxter State Park that the store there had a shelf of books. Knowing that phone battery power would be limited through the 8- to 10-day stretch of the 100-mile wilderness, he thought I might want to pick up a paperback book to have on hand for reading during that stretch, without using phone battery.
I appreciated the suggestion. It was essential, actually. I’m a book lover, and when I climb into my hammock at night, relaxing with a book after a long day’s hike, it’s one of my favorite and most comforting moments. So I checked out the store’s book shelf.
The only problem was, the books the store had available were all donated on a leave-one-take-one basis, so quality was lacking. Harlequin romances seemed to be the popular item for leaving on the shelf for some reason. I looked over every single title. Nothing appealed. In fact, a reflexive gag and near-vomit was the most common reaction.
Finally, picturing myself in my hammock at night with hours to spare and nothing to read, I decided to choose the lightest-looking book. Quality was no longer an issue. It was all about added weight in my backpack now.
“The Edge of Darkness,” I believe was the title of the book I chose. I can’t recall the author, or have chosen to forget. An appropriate Harlequin title. It limply told the story of a young man and woman who fall in love around an odd witch tale set in a town obviously themed on Salem, Mass. Whatever.
A Vital Resource
The serendipitous part of the story is what became of this novel that was better suited for something other than reading.
On about my fifth day hiking and camping in the 100-mile wilderness, a very bad thing happened: I ran out of toilet paper.
Now, I, like most others starting their AT thru-hikes, was new at this. I thought I estimated how much toilet paper I would need to last 10 days in the woods. But try it yourself. It’s not an easy thing to anticipate.
Still, you have to supply your own toilet paper. While the occasional camping lean-tos where we hikers tend to camp out usually have a “privy” – basically a composting outhouse – to accommodate hikers’ needs, they do not include toilet paper. To say it’s a calamity to run out of that commodity with at least 3-4 days left of hiking is not an understatement.
I panicked. I wondered how this could have happened. I considered options that I’ll never admit to, and leave up to your imagination to fill in.
Meanwhile, it had rained a lot in the first few days of my 100-mile wilderness trek. When it rains during a thru-hike, much of what you carry in your pack becomes wet and soiled. Which was precisely what was happening with my Harlequin paperback. I carried it tucked into the “brain” of my pack. That’s the attached compartment that sits on top of the main part of the pack. Water seeped in and dampened the pages of the book almost to the point that I could no longer read the pages. In fact, the cover, with a dramatic illustration of the young protagonist and her handsome hero, had long since slid off the book. (It was to my relief, actually; the risk was removed that fellow hikers might steal a glimpse of the trash I was reading on the trail.) The pages were so wet that I had to start removing them one by one.
That was when it hit me like a bolt of electricity. Sometimes necessity and circumstance have a way of miraculously coinciding to the benefit of all.
Once the idea leaped into my consciousness that my toilet paper solution was literally in my hands as I squinted to make sense of the wet printed pages of that Harlequin romance, it all made perfect sense. First I peeled off a soaked page and wadded it tenderly in my hand. Yes, yes, this could work.
Soft. Pliable. Ample. And of less than no literary value whatsoever.
Privy “Reading” Material
The next morning I headed off to the privy with my novel in tow. Without going into detail, I will say that the rain-soaked pages of this Harlequin novel worked ideally. I continued pulling off the water-softened pages and substituting them for toilet paper for the remaining four days of the wilderness hike.
At night, as I crawled into my hammock and got comfortable, I continued to read the unimaginative story. Hey, I was desperate for reading material, and there simply was no alternative.
I maintain, between this novel’s uses as a literary tome and a bathroom accessory, it’s clear which was more fitting. And for Harlequin, and its ad nauseum stream of boddice rippers, I have discovered a new appreciation.