>>296130cont. What the hell was I going to do? Even if nobody noticed the smell, we walked around in our underwear all the time in camp, and surely a jizz stain to rival the Deepwater Horizon oil spill would draw comment. I figured I'd have to change my boxers, wash out the dirty ones in the creek, and put on my spare pair. So I got out of my sleeping bag and stumbled quietly away into the night, which was probably slightly above freezing.
I get to the creek, wash myself off a bit, wait for my testicles to descend again (remember, it was at night, and the creek was snowmelt), change underwear, and set off back for the campsite. We'd camped a ways away from the water, good Leave No Trace principles in action, so I had to go a little ways.
Well, I went a little ways, and for the life of me I could not find the son of a bitch. I backtracked to the creek, found the place where we had gotten water earlier in the day, and tried to find the camp from there. No dice. I followed the trail we had been walking on, which ran parallel to the creek, until it hit a bend that we hadn't gotten to the day before--and still not a sign of camp.
So there I was, standing in a freezing Yosemite night in my boxers, holding a pair that had only recently been soaked in semen in my hand, with a flickering headlamp on my brow and evaporating creek water chilling my pubes. I cast around in despair, and seriously considered blowing the whistles we carried everywhere, since that's what they tell you to do if you're lost.
(side note--pic was described to me as "Cirith Ungol. You think you're in California, but really you're in Mordor.").
