The ethics of how we defecate: It's time for an honest conversation about poo tubes - ABC Religion & Ethics
There are countless discussions about the ethics of what we eat, but the business of defecation has offered fewer opportunities for these kinds of debates. That's not surprising — we have established systems for disposal and, ultimately, few choices. However, there are certain contexts where consideration of these issues becomes surprisingly relevant.
The Overland Track, situated in Lake St Clair National Park, Tasmania. (mikulas1 / iStock / Getty Images)
As with many parts of the natural world, few bushwalks in Tasmania of any length have anything resembling toilets. There are composting versions on a few popular walks, like the Overland Track; others, like the Western Arthurs, have large drums, cheerfully nicknamed 'sputniks', that are moved in and out by helicopter. That's a significant drain on resources, but it has helped preserve the landscape, as well as the rivers and lakes — down here, we have the tremendous privilege of being able to drink the majority of water in our parks without the hassle of treating it.
Decades ago, walkers were encouraged to bash, burn and bury their rubbish. But those days are long gone. For many years, defecation has been the lone exception. I've always carried a small shovel and done my business by strolling 100 metres away from the local streams, digging the requisite 15 centimetres and burying everything out of sight, which is often a challenging practice when the ground is more a mat of roots than soil. But some walkers are careless. Rangers increasingly find toilet paper and waste dumped by the side of a trail. A recent piece of reporting quoted one ranger as saying that only 50 per cent of groups to certain remote regions were carrying a shovel. That's an astonishing figure — it's not quite leaving your sleeping bag at home, but it's close.
Poo tubes are the norm in many other parts of the world, but in Australia, habits have been slow to change. But on a recent skyline traverse of the Hazards on Freycinet Peninsula, we decided to go 'Poo tube only' — the hard granite rock doesn't grip much soil, and it's challenging to find a place to dig. I felt a bit intimidated, but cycled into the local parks shop and bought the version they've been promoting: a smaller 'poo pot'. It looks like an empty tub of laundry powder with a wide lid. The idea is to defecate into a cornstarch bag, then pop it in the pot and carry it out, disposing of it somewhere more appropriate.
The pot didn't get used in anger on that trip, a short overnighter — perhaps my guts were reluctant to take the plunge. But it did make an appearance on a longer walk to Mt Olympus, near Lake St Clair. I must admit to feeling nervous. Pooing into a bag sounded, well, disgusting. But in practice, it wasn't much different to using a hole. In fact, it was easier. We carried out our waste and paused at the compostable toilet at Echo Point to lighten our loads. I can see the tube getting a run on most trips; in certain conditions like deep snow, it's a far more practical solution.
Mt Olympus in Lake St Clair National Park, Tasmania. (TED MEAD / Stone / Getty Images)
So it turns out I'm a convert — and that's why I've been making a stronger, longer PVC version that can be used for extended walks. Somehow it turned out fine. The tube is sitting out on my deck, where I showed it off proudly to befuddled family members. But on the next long trip I'll be strapping it to the bottom of my pack and letting it work its magic.
I'd love to see this approach normalised. It can be hard to change behaviours — seasoned walkers have evolved certain ways of doing things, and those new to the bush might not be sure about the best approach to take. But it's worth bringing simple ethical considerations to bear. Environmentally, the way we manage our waste at all levels has relevance for the habitats around us. More indirectly, it could mean that managers of national parks can spend fewer resources on toileting and more on other pressing issues. And ultimately, it represents an easy change that allows us to help each other enjoy the natural environment, lessening the risk of illness or coming across a disgusting deposit by the side of a campsite.
And while it requires extra effort to carry out your waste, I don't miss trying to find the perfect spot to dig a hole in all that mess of ground.
Ben Walter is a Walkley award-winning essayist, and the author of the short story collection What Fear Was. A past fiction editor at Island, his writing has recently appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, The Cimarron Review (United States) and 3:AM Magazine (France).
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