Cabin Journal

In Praise of the Lowly Outhouse

Across the road from my cabin are two outhouse, standing some distance from their companion houses, that always makes me smile. One is painted green (below, right), and the sign above the door says “library,” a nod to the old saying that “you’ll find me in the library”; there’s probably a good stack of magazines on the floor. Nearby is a more decrepit structure, a flap of toilet paper caught in the door—a flag of white fluttering in the always constant wind, a sign of surrender in the war of attrition against these old outhouses that are fast becoming a thing of the past.

Many are starting to crumble, losing a board here, another there, leaning slightly off their original foundations. In the process they’re becoming part of the natural world. Last summer my neighbor noticed the strip of white toilet paper being pulled out the door of the outhouse, through the pine needles and over the kinnikinnick bushes. Curious, he continued to watch and finally saw a chipmunk that had apparently decided TP was the perfect lining for its nest.

Lots of critters live under my outhouse, which I rarely use because I have a compost toilet inside the cabin. But the outhouse is a pleasure to use, a model of comfort. It’s a one-seater with a finished wood floor, a lamp to read by and a heater to keep your bottom (and the rest of you) warm. On pleasant days, you can keep the door slightly ajar and enjoy the pine-scented breezes, the sound of the birds.

Hiking through the hills around the cabin, I often stumble upon cabins and their outposts—sheds and outhouses, each one built differently, according to the whims of its creator. There’s one in the shape of an A-frame (above, left), good for keeping snow off the roof; and another has the same turquoise trim as its companion cabin (top). I found one outhouse that I was sure was about to collapse until I saw a venting pipe (left) , which I assume means it’s still in use. Even with new septic system regulations that will mean the gradual end of outhouses, many of them still stand, often assuming the personality of its original builder—a tribute to ingenuity and quirkiness. As far as I know, there has never been a manufacturer of outhouses, so no two are alike.

I don’t know what the government policy is in Ireland or Britain, but there are plenty of outhouses still standing and being used. They carry the flavor of their countries—whimsical, a bit eccentric. In Ireland, while sitting down I read a message you would not normally see in this country: “Dear customer, please shut the door after you as my sheep will eat the toilet paper.” In this Scottish outhouse (right), I could never quite figure out what the winch would do whilst in use and what I was supposed to do to avoid it.

As an environmentalist, I endorse the county’s mission to get rid of not only outhouses but old septic systems, anything that might pollute the water, yet I mourn the end of these distinct small structures. Unlike the outhouses, the septic systems are all the same, modern structures that efficiently remove most of the contaminants that would otherwise flow into the groundwater and streams.

But maybe there is hope for the outhouse. I just found a government document in which the county approved a historic designation for a home and outhouse in a nearby town. And just last week, hiking up the road behind the cabin, I was amazed to find a newly built outhouse, with contrasting logs perfectly arranged and what looked like a new window. It seemed like a small work of art.

Long live the outhouse!

The First Summer Tourists

Already I’m missing winter. Although I love that the pasqueflowers are brightening the landscape and that the aspens have produced garlands of seedheads, I miss having the place to myself. By summer standards, Estes Park is still relatively quiet, but already I’m encountering tourists driving 20 miles under the speed limit, lines at my favorite bakery and downtown parking lots quickly filling up.

But summer visitors have been coming to Estes Park for 10,000 years—not for T-shirts and fudge but to follow game herds of elk and mountain bison.* Archeologists know this because they’ve found projectile points that they can date to Folsom man, a Paleo-Indian culture that occupied much of central North America since around 9000 to 8000 BC. More recent were the Utes, who journeyed from what is now North Park, and then later the Arapahoe, climbing up from the eastern plains to spend their summers in what is now Estes and Rocky Mountain National Park.

I like to imagine what a paradise this must have been—before the days of Dairy Queen, souvenir shops, pizza parlors and endless hotels: deep green valleys, thick woods, clear mountain streams (that you could drink from), high mountain tundras. No traffic noise or radios blaring.

For the first humans here, life was serious business. There were tribal conflicts, which we know about because tributes to fallen warriors—in the form of rock cairns—are found throughout the park. A good number have been found in Tuxedo Park, now a picnic site, that tell of a ferocious battle. On top of the tundra are the remains of rock walls used to herd elk into narrow spaces so the tribesmen could more easily kill them (with hatchets they made). On the mountain above what is now the Elkhorn Lodge on the west side of town, archeologists found what was likely a vision quest site, where young warriors brought boulders up from the creek below, as a test of their strength.

Yet beyond all the matters of survival, surely these ancient tribes must have appreciated the beauty of these mountains. I like to think of them, at the end of long winters on the plains and food getting scarce, looking forward to their summer sojourns in the cool valleys and mountains that offered plentiful sources of food. They would have traveled the same routes we do now to reach the park, following game trails from Allenspark to Estes and over Trail Ridge Road.

It was the deer and elk that originally found the easiest paths through forests and canyons. The first whites followed the Native Americans’ trails, first by foot, then by horse, then by wagon. Today we rush by in our cars, speeding unknowingly over these ancient trails.

There are still of a lot of questions about the early visitors but most intriguing to me is that, though bison skulls have been found in the Mummy Range, none of the early settlers reported seeing these large animals. Even more strangely, none of the first whites ever saw the Utes or Arapahoes. Were the bison wiped out before the whites appeared? Did the Native Americans quietly disappear when they saw the first white settlers?

Likely, they knew trouble when they saw it. I think the first residents must have sensed that their paradise was ending.

(From talk by Derek Fortini of the Estes Park Museum. Photos were taken on Trail Ridge Road in past summers.)