It's splinty
OP is Splinty
I will share a tale. Hopefully my words can do it justice.
What started as an ambitious multi-lake ice fishing adventure quickly turned into a desperate search for bathrooms. I'd kicked off the day meeting a buddy for some fishing, fueled by nothing but two full thermos of coffee and a lot water. After fishing until dark, I left and head out on a three-hour drive to my next destination, where I'd planned to sleep in my truck bed in this resort parking lot before another full day of fishing.
Now, any sensible person would've called it a day. But no – I decided to tempt fate by stopping at a gas station. Not just for gas, mind you, but a little snack to take the edge off after just coffee all day. What better than a gas station heatlamp pizza.
Fast forward to 5 AM. I'm curled up in my sleeping bag in the truck bed, in 10-degree weather, when I'm jolted awake by what feels like a bread loaf of fury trying to escape my body. There I am, trapped in my long johns, teeth chattering so hard it momentarily distracts me from the fact that I'm about to create an environmental disaster in my sleeping bag.
I barely manage to scramble into some clothes, nearly christening my truck tire in the process. It's only later I discover I was surrounded by other ice fishermen who'd had the same brilliant idea to camp on shore at this resort. That could've been an interesting way to meet the neighbors.
The resort doesn't open for another hour, so I cant shit in there yet. Town's 40 minutes in the wrong direction. So I wait, painfully wait. When they finally open, there's a line. Of course there's a line. Idk how I walked in there very fast. So now I'm standing there on my tiptoes, sweating bullets, performing an interpretive dance of gastrointestinal desperation.
What follows is nothing short of biblical. Seven more trips to that bathroom. The gas station pizza, emboldened by the coffee, had formed a potent chemical bond. After I think Im empty I head out to fish. A mile and a half out, gear set up, ready to fish... and boom. The pizza strikes back. I abandon my gear, all of it, on the lake for the 20 min walk to shore and back again, plus the shitting time. It was fine when I came back.
Final tally: 9+ bathroom trips, drank one gallon of water maybe a bit more, several walleye caught, 13lbs of shit evacuated harshly.
I'd like to say I learned my lesson about gas station pizzas.
What started as an ambitious multi-lake ice fishing adventure quickly turned into a desperate search for bathrooms. I'd kicked off the day meeting a buddy for some fishing, fueled by nothing but two full thermos of coffee and a lot water. After fishing until dark, I left and head out on a three-hour drive to my next destination, where I'd planned to sleep in my truck bed in this resort parking lot before another full day of fishing.
Now, any sensible person would've called it a day. But no – I decided to tempt fate by stopping at a gas station. Not just for gas, mind you, but a little snack to take the edge off after just coffee all day. What better than a gas station heatlamp pizza.
Fast forward to 5 AM. I'm curled up in my sleeping bag in the truck bed, in 10-degree weather, when I'm jolted awake by what feels like a bread loaf of fury trying to escape my body. There I am, trapped in my long johns, teeth chattering so hard it momentarily distracts me from the fact that I'm about to create an environmental disaster in my sleeping bag.
I barely manage to scramble into some clothes, nearly christening my truck tire in the process. It's only later I discover I was surrounded by other ice fishermen who'd had the same brilliant idea to camp on shore at this resort. That could've been an interesting way to meet the neighbors.
The resort doesn't open for another hour, so I cant shit in there yet. Town's 40 minutes in the wrong direction. So I wait, painfully wait. When they finally open, there's a line. Of course there's a line. Idk how I walked in there very fast. So now I'm standing there on my tiptoes, sweating bullets, performing an interpretive dance of gastrointestinal desperation.
What follows is nothing short of biblical. Seven more trips to that bathroom. The gas station pizza, emboldened by the coffee, had formed a potent chemical bond. After I think Im empty I head out to fish. A mile and a half out, gear set up, ready to fish... and boom. The pizza strikes back. I abandon my gear, all of it, on the lake for the 20 min walk to shore and back again, plus the shitting time. It was fine when I came back.
Final tally: 9+ bathroom trips, drank one gallon of water maybe a bit more, several walleye caught, 13lbs of shit evacuated harshly.
I'd like to say I learned my lesson about gas station pizzas.
