Labor Day weekend was the ideal time for a fishing trip to Valley Falls, West Virginia. The weather couldn’t have been better, and I had a strong feeling that today would be the day my son caught a big one. But as we often say, it's not the size of the fish that matters—it's the joy of the catch. My son ended up landing a small bass, but the smile on his face was worth more than any trophy fish.

This natural healing spot in West Virginia exuded its usual serene charm, instantly transporting me back to the quiet streams of my childhood. The beauty of the place was captivating, and if you haven’t been, I highly recommend it. Just be prepared, as the tranquility belies the challenge of hopping from rock to rock along the stream. My knees were questioning every life decision I’d ever made, but the struggle was worth it. The experience brought back fond memories of family trips to the ocean, where life felt both simple and rich. Little did I know, however, that the day would soon shift from peaceful to perilous, testing my resolve in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

My son, L, with all the energy of youth, had already found a rock sticking out into the river and began casting his line like a pro. I, on the other hand, found a big flat rock, laid down, and let the soothing sounds of the stream and the endless blue sky take me into a meditative state. "I am one with nature… nature… nature…" And then, of course, nature decided to call in a more pressing way.

It had taken me 30 minutes to climb down to the water’s edge, and now I had to climb back up, over those same rocks and hills, just to find the restroom. "Seriously?" I muttered to myself. Part of me thought, "Why not just return nature to nature?" But another, much wiser part of me quickly shot that down. "No, you can’t do that! You’re a grownup, and this isn’t the wilderness of home. Sending my nature back to nature wasn’t an option!"

This moment of reflection triggered a flashback to my younger, less cautious days. I remembered a white-water rafting trip that lasted about three hours. Nature called then too, and with the impulsiveness of youth, I found a bush and took care of business. As soon as I finished, I heard a low motor hum behind me. I turned around, horrified, and realized I wasn’t hidden at all—I was right beside a highway! My rafting group hadn’t seen a thing, but the passing cars? They got quite the unexpected show. The shame was unbearable.

I couldn’t go through that again. So, I told my husband, "I gotta go." He, of course, suggested I find a hidden spot and take care of it, barely able to keep from laughing. Right. Like I’d ever hear the end of it.

I knew I didn’t have time to waste, so I started my climb back up, but those rocks were not going to make it easy. Up and down, up and down—I swear, it felt like I was covering five times the actual distance. With every jump and stumble, I kept thinking, "Can someone please draw a straight line to the restroom?" I was sweating for two reasons—both equally urgent.

Then, I found what seemed like the perfect spot: hidden from all sides, with no one close enough to notice anything suspicious. Should I? It seemed like the best option, until reality hit—no toilet paper. Nooooo!

At that moment, my mind drifted, as it always does during these crises. I started thinking about a woman I met at Niagara Falls just a couple of weeks ago. We were in a crowded restroom, and when she reached her stall, she realized—of course—there was no toilet paper. That’s when I, with a goddess-like smile, swooped in with an offering: "Would you like to share my toilet paper? I have two sheets." I felt like a hero. Only later did I realize I should’ve kept one for myself. What was I thinking?

Snapping back to reality, I looked ahead and noticed the restroom seemed to be getting farther away, like some kind of expanding universe. OMbleeepbleepbleeeep! I’m not going to make it! But I had already passed the perfect spot, and going back wasn’t an option.

That’s when I spotted it—a steep hill covered in woods. It wasn’t exactly close, but it was closer to the restroom than I was. Could there be snakes? Bears? I hate snakes. After a moment of intense inner debate, I made the brave (or perhaps foolish) decision. "If there’s no path, create one!" I told myself, channeling the spirit of an adventurer. With that, I went left. (I once read that most people instinctively go left when faced with two paths. Maybe it’s because I’m right-handed, or maybe it was just my brain’s way of saying, "This is the path of survival.")

I climbed that hill, sliding, scrambling, and holding my bladder with the kind of determination only reserved for true emergencies. Just as I hit the halfway point, I heard it—a rustling in the bushes. My heart raced. A bear? A snake? Oh no, not now!

Instead, it was a kind, older gentleman, smiling as if we weren’t in the middle of nowhere. He politely asked if the path I’d just taken led to the water’s edge.

“Sure!” I managed to answer, though panic was rapidly setting in. My bladder had reached its absolute limit. I gave a quick nod and practically sprinted away, racing to the restroom like it was the finish line of a marathon.

Finally, I made it. I’ve never been so grateful for a restroom in my life. I stood there, arms raised in triumph, and whispered, “THANK YOU for being here, thank you!” It was, without a doubt, the most sacred place on Earth at that moment.

As I began the long, 30-minute journey back, I had a sudden realization: If I had given in and taken that hidden spot earlier, the kind gentleman might have witnessed something truly terrifying from his vantage point at the top of the hill. Now that would’ve been a story for the ages. I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.