A Beautiful Path
By Ruby Allman

Every March, our Outdoor Adventures Klub (OAK) prepares for April's fabulous backpack into Hickory Hammock in Highlands County, Florida. For those who don't already know, Hickory Hammock is home to a healthy-sized armadillo population and wild boars. A couple of years ago when my husband Jordan and I hiked to the campsite, we startled 25 or so armadillos and one really large boar. We agreed it approached the size of a small pony—okay, a miniature pony, but its tusks were at least a foot long and I could tell he'd recently had them sharpened. The armadillos quickly scurried into hiding, but the boar stood his ground. We were so enthralled—and scared—by actually being face to face with a boar that neither of us spoke or moved until it finally turned and disappeared into the woods. I still have flashbacks when I see bacon. My dietitian advises I avoid painful reminders, but my therapist encourages me to embrace my fears and have that BLT.

After facing down the giant boar, we picked our way along the trail, mindful of the "gifts" he and the armadillos had left on the trail. There are entire websites and at least one (sort of) memorable book (How to S***t in the Woods) devoted to trail "gifts." I won't provide the web addresses—the curious among us will look them up anyway, and the rest of us just don't care. This personal aspect of trail etiquette is on everyone's mind during each trip, and I'm here to give you a few tips.

Always carry a trowel, enough paper to see you through the trip, hand cleaner of some sort. Be prepared to leave the trail—a minimum of a couple hundred feet is suggested—keep away from the campsite, the trail, and water supplies. Dig a "cat hole" about eight inches deep—and don't forget to replace the dirt. Some sites suggest carrying matches and burning your (used) paper to prevent "white flowers" from sprouting later. Sounds so obvious, doesn't it? Just be careful what you burn!

There are other approaches:

Take our own Jonathan Dickinson State Park. I fondly remember the Jonathan Dickinson Hike as a "beautiful path" in the more traditional sense: at the end of the hike sits a magnificent "one-seater." You know: a little gray building with an elegant crescent moon carved into the door to admit just the perfect amount of light for what you need to do. The environmentally sensitive will immediately recognize this as an environment friendly facility. No ugly electric wires to mar the landscape, no pipes or porcelain to maintain. And a clean campsite in the bargain.

Growing up in rural Blount County, Tennessee my sister Dora and I were the envy of the neighborhood. Believe it or not—and I realize that luxury like this is almost unbelievable—we had a two-seater. Some folks call sports cars two-seaters, but the Blount County version originated the term. Please don't call my sister to express your admiration. She hates when I brag. It embarrasses her so, poor shy thing. Above all, if you get to meet her someday, avoid asking her who was her favorite two-seater companion. She'll just get flustered trying not to hurt anyone's feelings if she doesn't choose them. She is so sensitive and tender hearted!

Other sites suggest digging long trench-style latrines, hauling a temporary one-seater to the site, or even "pack it out." I think Jonathan Dickinson's little house approach is top-notch—unless you'd rather have company. In that case, Blount County is the place to go. Happy trails!