Hygiene for Dirtbaguettes

Hygiene for Dirtbaguettes

If you’re like the two of us at Trail Talks, you spend a considerable amount of time without  convenient access to a shower, sink, or Western countries’ comforts in general. We have spent the last year or more living out of of tents, cars, and generous friends’ couches. We are not the type who take dishwashers for granted and find our hair looks best after a weeks’ worth of dirt and scum embedded in the roots to increase volume. Sometimes laundry consists of throwing our climbing pants in the backseat, “forgetting” after a week or so if they’re clean or not, and donning them again to sweat our hoo hahs off all over again. Sooooo for those of you who are sick of having to cross your legs as a necessity rather than a want, for those of us who like to live outside but sometimes like to adhere to societal standards just to see what it feels like, please read on for some tried and true tactics from y’gurls at Trail Talks.

1. The ever-reliable Slut Shower

Now, listen here, kiddos. Just because you use this kind of shower doesn’t mean you are a slut. It just happens to have acquired the label because of the pleasing alliteration. (On that note, be a slut! Keep your legs closed forever! TT doesn’t judge.) What you’ll need is a large stack of Baby Wipes or associated off-brand. Scent and size up to your discretion. Now what we want to focus on here is Pits, Tits, and Lady Bits. Or to make it easier for everyone, just y’Bits. The Slut Shower saves water, is quick, portable, and can be useful in backcountry situations where you really need to ration your underwear and prefer not to have dirt turning to mud under your tits.

2. Off-the grid baking soda

If you’re like the gals at TT, deodorant is expensive and usually unnecessary and filled with shit that kills fetal puppies. But in the case that you’re just smelling a little too funky or for whatever ridiculous reason need to hang out with fancy people, ninety-nine cent baking soda will do it. This common ingredient also won’t make you smell like eau de zucchini or lady dragon butthole or whatever nauseating scents people seem to be coming up with. It simply neutralizes your odor until you can go back to being the chicken-soup scented goddess that you are. A quick word of warning: too much use will result in extreme dryness and itching and adhering to a societally-accepted odor will be negated by your aggressive scratching. We recommend coconut oil if needed.

3. A pee rag

TT has done a fair bit of backcountry missions where, for days on end, it is necessary to drop trow and squat to pee. As ladies, we are unable to shake an appendage to be rid of dripping and oftentimes don’t have the time or patience to let the breeze dry y’bits. This can result in some soggy underwear and a general stench of urine. In this case, TT recommends a pee rag. We used matching ones while backpacking the Maze in Canyonlands National Park and were subsequently able to wear our shorts commando, no longer afraid of seepage. Since it was a dry environment, we were able to hang the pee rags from the backpacks so they could air out. (Laundry by Mother Nature!) If using a pee rag, TT recommends hand sanitizer before cooking shared backcountry meals.

4. The She Wee

Evin recently acquired one of these babies as a generous and practical gift from her boo thang, and in her words, it has, “changed the game.” If you’re unfamiliar with this specific technology, it involves a sort of funnel but in festive colors where one pees into and thus can avoid squatting and becoming quite an exhibitionist. Some things to keep in mind: be sure to rinse your She Wee before placing in your pocket (Evin learned her lesson the hard way) and be sure to pee in locations where you can avoid splashing. Perhaps seek advice from male friends on further technique.

5. Stop giving a shit

Everyone stinks, everyone probably has pee in their underwear and maybe even accidentally pooped in the parking lot of your rafting company without a wiping accessory nearby. We promise that once you accept that your armpits want to express themselves and that vaginas don’t owe you anything, you’re unstoppable. Be free, my stanky Himalayan snow leopardesses.

A descriptive, non frustrating, mostly accurate, and fairly quick guide on, how to clean and re-glue your very effed up split board skins.

Sometimes I find "How to..." anything to be incredibly frustrating. It seems there is not nearly enough information, not enough pictures/media or way to much about an entirely different subject. With this "how to" I hope that it is straight to the point, how I wish "how to" tutorials were when I need them.  So here we go, "How to fix your skins when they are incredibly f***** up.

Let me define "incredibly f***** up". When I went to pull them apart for the first tour of the year it was very difficult and as I pulled each end, little stringy fibers (that seemed to be a foot long) stayed attached to either side. That can't be good, I said. And the logical person I am continued to put them on my split board. One can imagine the difficult time I had when I went to transition... glue was stuck everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It was all over the bottom of the board, my bindings, gloves, pants... you get the idea.

Flash forward a few weeks of endless frustration and internet searches. At last I found some direction. To summarize, I needed to get all the gross, hairy glue off off my skins and then re-glue them.

Necessary materials

• Iron
• Paper bags and/or sketch pad paper 
• Skin glue, I used black diamond gold label adhesive
• Old rec. pass (credit card and other plastic cards will do) to spread new glue 
• Rubber bands or other creative ways to hold the skin onto the ski while you iron

SO here we go, step by gooey gross step.

1. Crack open a Montucky... whew I feel much better and ready to tackle this project 
2. Find the least janky spot that you can lay out your ski/splitboard upside down with the skin laying on top of them with the glue side up.
3. Find something to attach the skin to the ski with so that it doesn't slide around. I don't have a fancy work bench, I don't have clamps, so I tried out rubber bands and it did the job.
4. Locate an absurd amount of paper bags, orrrrrr sketch pad paper will to the trick. 
5. Cut paper bags/paper into long strips, make sure they are at least as wide as the skin. Lay out the strips to cover the length of the skin. 
6. Begin to iron the paper bags, I set my iron heat between 4-5 (that would be medium to high). Do not leave the iron on one section for more that 10 seconds, keep it moving! 
7. Once you have worked your way all the way down the skin, begin to peel off the strips.
8. Repeat steps 6 & 7 until there is practically no glue left. If you have a bunch of dog hair and crumbs on your skins as I did, this will remove all of that. Once it is no longer sticky icky to the touch you are ready to move on. 
9. Crack another montucky, your doing great! 
10. Posssibly re-locate your work bench if yours was as janky as mine was. I moved to my counter top, make sure if you also do this, to put down some card board. Montucky 12 pack boxes work great. 
11. Lay the skin down with the "new to be glued" side face up. Clamp down each end of the skin, yet again I chose the most fancy of ways...duct tape, tye dye to be exact.
12. Nowwww we are ready to re-glue. (See in video). Work in small sections. Squeeze a good amount of glue onto the skin and the spread with your chosen plastic card. 
13. Make your way around the entire skin, work somewhat quickly as the glue does begin to get tacky. 
14. Repeat for the other skin.
15. Hang to dry in the bathroom, or a more convenient space. Make sure to open windows, the glue is strong and a bit stinky
16. Crack a monutcky because you just fixed your skins all by your badass self.









One of the many yucky pieces of paper I pulled off my skins












17. Once the skins are dry, test them for stickiness, repeat gluing step if they need more.

Clean up: Clean up your mess, if you were super messy and didn't put cardboard down and there is glue everywhere first try to clean it with soap and water. If that doesn't work you need something stronger like rubbing alcohol or if you have it, toluene. 

And my favorite, pictures and media so you know what the heck I am talking about.

Least janky spot as mentioned in step 2

This video shows the skins after a few rounds of ironing paper, still gross. Then a short clip of the skins with paper, just for a visual, and the skins nice and fresh and ready to be re-glued. Finally it shows a very professional time lapse and the finished product. Enjoy! 

An incomplete compilation of people who deserve to have cactus spines between their toes

This half of Trail Talks has been fucking around in New Zealand for three months now. I’m on the road again after three weeks working at the disastrous Penguin Bar and Cafe, run by a perpetually stoned Canadian and her alcoholic yet kind Kiwi husband. On the way down the scantily inhabited west coast, I’ve done a couple magnificent “tramps,” climbed a little, and listened to now three Harry Potter audiobooks while driving down narrow, winding roads with jaw-dropping views and absurdly high speed limits. I presently find myself in the touristy, adventure hub of Queenstown. 

If you’ve traveled internationally before like the white middle class privileged little shit that I am, you know being so far away from home is challenging, exhilarating, and tends to show endless examples of humanity at its finest. There was the kind man running a food truck (serving pancakes, of all things) who gave me and my traveling companions clandestine directions to a cave that has been shut off to tourists for decades; the Colombian traveler who enthusiastically helped push the White Whip back to safety when it went into the ditch (entirely of its own volition!); the banker who, after I broke down crying in frustration, did some mild forgery so that I could set up an account without proof of address (“Oh, you poor wee thing.”); and of course the many wonderful people from around the world who were strangers just weeks ago but have since become dear friends. Yes, there have been so many times when I’ve thought to myself, “Maybe humanity won’t die a brutal, fiery death after all.” 

Yet through it all, one must sometimes step back and concede that some people are just jackasses with no redeeming qualities. So intensely loathsome that I can only seethe and imagine the worst possible fate befalling them: going about their business barefoot and carefree only to trod directly upon hundreds of intractable cactus spines. 

Below I’ve compiled a list of such figures. If you find yourself amongst these goons, keep in mind that my opinion doesn’t matter whatsoever and you could just as easily counter with a lengthier list of, “reasons Monica Nigon deserves to have cactus spines between her toes.” I anxiously await its publication, and in the meantime will only wear close-toed shoes. 

But I digress. Here is an abridged version of people who, in my never-sought-after opinion, should go step on this quintessential desert flora. 

1. People who leave lengthy Trip Advisor reviews, particularly if it’s about a certain female server who “put the plates down on the table loudly and without smiling.”  

2. People who snore in the Grannity Hut on Mount Owen in Kahurangi National Park and don’t even have the decency to sleep in the mud outside so the rest of us can get some shut eye 

3. Those who use the term, “literally,” when in fact they mean, “I’m trying to stress an important point to you, but I am in fact speaking purely in a figurative sense when I say ‘it was so loud my ears were literally bleeding.’” 

4. People who shout, “Freebird!” at every concert they attend, even in small island nations in the Commonwealth. That was funny only one time, and it was at a cozy venue where Jack Johnson was playing early in his career. 

5. Those who take their time in public restrooms, particularly when a young woman pacing outside mi is about to shit her shorts and keeps testing the doorknob not because she thinks it will be miraculously unlocked of its own accord but because she’s trying to tell you to for God’s sake hurry up.

6. Food judges (if I want to have peanut butter for breakfast and lunch and beer and cigarettes for dinner, I will!) 

7. People who, upon meeting you, give you a hug and say, “I’m a hugger!” without considering that you are absolutely not a hugger unless it’s family or close friends and you will involuntarily strike said hugger in the kneecaps if hugged without warning 

8. Secular white people with dreadlocks and culturally appropriated tattoos who walk barefoot in grocery stores 

9. People in rented camper vans who drive 30 km/hr under the speed limit and pass no less than 10 pull off opportunities where they could easily let the girl behind them pass who also happens to be late to work (“fucking tourists!”)

10. Old, greasy drunk men who call me, “sweet” and make lewd comments and are then surprised when I smash a glass over their toupees. 

11. Bloggers. Wait....what was that? Oh...fuck. 

Travel wrenches

Today I had the pleasure of participating in Kiwi culture - to truly live like a local - not by attending a Maori welcome ceremony, not even by bunjee jumping or seeing a flightless bird. No, today I went to the dentist due to a small chip in my front tooth.

At the time of writing, I look like a bit of a mess even though the injury to my central incisor has been repaired. At the procedure the dentist numbed my upper gum and lip to avoid any sensitivity to the point of trauma on the aforementioned tooth. Although I can now smile without looking like a “pretty Floyd from Dumb and Dumber” (as one kind friend put it), my lip now droops in a way that hides my front teeth altogether. I was given no information on how long I can expect this side effect to last.

It turns out dentistry in New Zealand functions in much the same way as North America except the situation is somewhat more pleasant given their cuter accents and a national insurance covering accidents from extreme sports. (If anyone asks, I chipped my tooth while mountain biking, not on the metal mouthpiece of my water bottle.)

I also currently have somewhat of a doozy of a black eye which makes it look like I went rogue with lavender eyeshadow. Above the purplish eyelid, northwest of my eyebrow, is a large bump that is the cause of the bruising below. My left eyebrow subsequently sticks out a bit further than the right rendering a rather Neanderthalic vibe on that side.

The bruising on my eye is due to a pretty unfortunate incident. If any of my aunts are reading this, the accident involves someone missing my shoulder when playing punching me when they said, “aw, shucks,” in response to some witty retort. But for the rest of the Trail Talks audience (Aunties, this is where you leave us), the grim appearance of fifty percent of my face is the result of me being a real dumbass.

I was out climbing at what now I now consider to be my home crag - Paine’s Ford - on a little ditty of a route called Lost Soles. I was chatting with friends, not paying great attention, actually rehashing an earlier incident in which I’d fallen off a climb before the first bolt (meaning I wasn’t clipped in to anything) and dislocated my friend’s thumb as he attempted to spot me. I was chuckling about how silly that was and how I wouldn’t make a mistake like that again when I reached out to clip the bolt and in seemingly no transition time found myself headfirst in the dirt. About ten people rushed to my aid, and I sat up dazedly but otherwise OK, small cuts in my shoulder and forehead. I felt fine, but judging by everyone’s reaction, I had jumped into the waiting jaws of death itself. Unprompted, a stranger nearby said I should watch out because she has a friend who took a fall EXACTLY LIKE MINE, (“actually, you look a lot like her, her name is Annika and she lives in a parallel dimension“), and now she can’t walk or talk anymore. And while I of course offer sincere sympathies to this stranger’s friend, I didn’t exactly want a list of horrific worst case scenarios before I’d even brushed the dirt off of my elbows. 

As of now, I’m still walking and talking normally, except of course for the slight (hopefully temporary) lisp I’ve acquired as a consequence of my droopy lip.

As I continue to receive wrench after wrench in my plans, I’ve created an image of some evil cosmic force throwing them, cackling madly, rubbing their hands together and wondering how much more I can take before I pack up and go home. Well, listen here, Cosmic Demon! My trials with an overall fucked-up face are easily ignored because so many other things are incredible. The almost daily climbing with some friends with whom I’ve grown remarkably close, hiking to the top of a peak through  a temperate rainforest to take in views of craggy mountains and a turquoise bay, laughing with friends about my teeth, and declaring my purple eye to just be a trendy makeup routine.

The best compliment I’ve ever received is that I’m “resilient, like a potato.” And while I hope my friend was not making the comparison in a physical sense, I am proud to say that no matter what I’m thrown, no matter how shitty shit gets, I’ve always kept going. It’s part of what brought me to New Zealand in the first place.

So, put up your dukes, Evil Universe Bummer. I wouldn’t mind evening out my black eye anyway.

The time Monica disappeared in New Zealand

It was New Years Eve. Monica and I both had our respective many drinks in our respective countries. We exchanged a few texts, something along the lines of "I am getting roaring drunk"- Monica and "sorry I was too drunk"-Evin. That was our last exchange before I figured that the only explination was a strange disappearance. Now it is January 2, It is Monicas Birthday in New Zealand (because she lives in the future). I send her a Birthday text, then 2, and 3...4... No response. So obviously I come to the conclusion that something has gone terribly wrong. It hadn't been more than 48 hours, the legal amount of time that someone has been to be missing before its recognized as a missing person. But of course I know best and I feel in my core that something is wrong. My best friend has disappeared.

I decide to cover all my bases. Maybe her phone wasn't working, was flushed down a toilet or taken by a Kiwi (the bird). So I blew her up on all forms of social media. No response. I am sure now that something terrible happened on New Years, she was either in a ditch somewhere, locked in a basement or maybe ended up in a strange town. No response on other platforms either. It is Now Thursday January 4 ( for me , and the 5th for Monica). I decide to take the next step. I looked up the camp she is staying at and tried to call. Forget the international call fee, my friend is in trouble! And I was certain. The first time I called I got no answer. So of course I e-mailed them, explaining the situation and that I needed a response stat. I was to anxious and couldn't wait, I called again. This time someone said hello, I quickly described the situation. Apparently a lot of people are at the camp and so it was hard for this man to picture Monica. She has beautiful eyes, great biceps, is a wicked climber and is hilarious I said. She also currently has a chipped tooth, and it clicked. "Ohhhh yes Monica!, I saw her the other day", he said. I unclenched finally. He said he would let her know I called when he saw her. Apparently he rushed all over the camp looking for her, finally someone who understood my worry.

At last I receive a message on Facebook from my dear Monica. Apparently my texts did not go through and she was camping out of service. The logical scenario was the correct one, who would have thought. Clearly not me. I understand that my thought process wasn't all that rational. But how would you react if you were certain your Best friend was laying in a ditch... Thats what I thought.