On the way to the craters east of Flagstaff.
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2012 2:12 pmBob if this story is not appropriate you may move it to the "Free Speech Zone.
I couldn't really put it in the Hang Gliding flights thread since we were not yet at the site.
A good hang gliding Trip (For the most part):
My hang gliding friend, Don Ray, was in the in the throes of death in the front seat of my Econoline van. He was just short of suffocation due to my antics with the port-o-potty behind the drivers side captain’s chair. All I could hear coming from his lungs was little wheezing sounds each time his shoulders convulsed downward. If he didn’t soon take a breath I knew he would be a goner. Actually I
found no humor in my predicament.
I should back up a little here and fill everyone in on what was going on just before I tried to pull the trap door of the port-o-potty to flush the darn thing.
We were at Merriam and Sheba Crater, AZ which was at a much higher elevation than when we readied the port-o-potty (charged with chemicals) in Aurora, Minnesota at an elevation of 1,400’ MSL. At the higher elevation in Arizona we didn’t realize yet that there would be considerably more pressure in the holding tank due to the lower ambient atmospheric pressure at the creators.
I was about to find out the magnitude of this pressure differential and how it would adversely affect the operation of this cursed contraption. This would be my first ever use of a camping port-o-potty and had I taken the time to read the directions (It belonged to Don.) I might not have been so clueless. I mean it’s just a basic, stupid, port-o-potty,--- what could possibly go wrong?
Our agreement at the staging area in Aurora, Minnesota was that we would use gas station toilets whenever possible and to the extent possible only use the port-o-potty when absolutely necessary.
Whether or not my being the cook of our hang gliding expedition had anything to do with my situation becoming “absolutely necessary,” in a rather immediate fashion, I don’t know.
If anyone tells me they have not had a similar experience during their life time I would say that they were being disingenuous.
Now how can I say this politely and not have Bob hit the ban button???-----
Euphemistically put I was expecting a low viscosity, high velocity, evacuation.
(I apologize for my ignorance of not knowing and using the correct acceptable medical verbiage here --this is the best I could do.)
To make a long story short and I know if you are still with me you are interested in the outcome so here goes.--
The time came to pull the trapdoor to flush the toilet bowl. Due to the extreme pressure in the bottom holding tank the rubber seals against the trapdoor made it just about humanly impossible to pull the trapdoor forward. Don told me. “If you pull hard it will go easy!” I just couldn’t muster the strength so I got up off of the seat and turned to face the port-o-potty and this time press my thumbs against the front while pulling the trapdoor out with my eight fingers.
The trap door slammed to the full open position and the explosive pressure lurking in the holding tank blew a column of liquid that almost reached the carpet on the ceiling of the van. I recoiled so violently that I fell backwards against the inside of the vans side sliding door with my ankles bound together by my pants. With my left elbow down in the recessed side door step I couldn’t get up with my pants around my ankles. I called for Don to help me get up but he was of no use. He was dying in the front seat. I had to reach up and trip the latch on the side door and do a back somersault onto the edge of the road and pull my pants up.
Fortunately the contents of the toilet bowl, at least 99.9%, returned to the bowl except for a few disgusting little drops.
You might not think it possible but there was a good bit of luck here.
We had discussed moving the osculating fan from the foot of the bed near the ceiling of the van to a position over the toilet to direct the air toward the roof vent in a effort to clear the air. Can you imagine what would have happened had the “contents” hit the fan?
We later linked up with the late, great, Rod Houser and he was our hang gliding guide for our first visit to the “Craters” east of Flagstaff, AZ.
This is a true story I regret to admit and if anyone wants to check on the veracity of this story with Don Ray you can P.M. me and I’ll P.M. to you Don’s phone number. Don’t wait too long to call him though. He is now 77 years old and on dialysis. He tells me that he, “Has one foot in the coffin and the other on a banana peal.”
I couldn't really put it in the Hang Gliding flights thread since we were not yet at the site.
A good hang gliding Trip (For the most part):
My hang gliding friend, Don Ray, was in the in the throes of death in the front seat of my Econoline van. He was just short of suffocation due to my antics with the port-o-potty behind the drivers side captain’s chair. All I could hear coming from his lungs was little wheezing sounds each time his shoulders convulsed downward. If he didn’t soon take a breath I knew he would be a goner. Actually I
found no humor in my predicament.
I should back up a little here and fill everyone in on what was going on just before I tried to pull the trap door of the port-o-potty to flush the darn thing.
We were at Merriam and Sheba Crater, AZ which was at a much higher elevation than when we readied the port-o-potty (charged with chemicals) in Aurora, Minnesota at an elevation of 1,400’ MSL. At the higher elevation in Arizona we didn’t realize yet that there would be considerably more pressure in the holding tank due to the lower ambient atmospheric pressure at the creators.
I was about to find out the magnitude of this pressure differential and how it would adversely affect the operation of this cursed contraption. This would be my first ever use of a camping port-o-potty and had I taken the time to read the directions (It belonged to Don.) I might not have been so clueless. I mean it’s just a basic, stupid, port-o-potty,--- what could possibly go wrong?
Our agreement at the staging area in Aurora, Minnesota was that we would use gas station toilets whenever possible and to the extent possible only use the port-o-potty when absolutely necessary.
Whether or not my being the cook of our hang gliding expedition had anything to do with my situation becoming “absolutely necessary,” in a rather immediate fashion, I don’t know.
If anyone tells me they have not had a similar experience during their life time I would say that they were being disingenuous.
Now how can I say this politely and not have Bob hit the ban button???-----
Euphemistically put I was expecting a low viscosity, high velocity, evacuation.
(I apologize for my ignorance of not knowing and using the correct acceptable medical verbiage here --this is the best I could do.)
To make a long story short and I know if you are still with me you are interested in the outcome so here goes.--
The time came to pull the trapdoor to flush the toilet bowl. Due to the extreme pressure in the bottom holding tank the rubber seals against the trapdoor made it just about humanly impossible to pull the trapdoor forward. Don told me. “If you pull hard it will go easy!” I just couldn’t muster the strength so I got up off of the seat and turned to face the port-o-potty and this time press my thumbs against the front while pulling the trapdoor out with my eight fingers.
The trap door slammed to the full open position and the explosive pressure lurking in the holding tank blew a column of liquid that almost reached the carpet on the ceiling of the van. I recoiled so violently that I fell backwards against the inside of the vans side sliding door with my ankles bound together by my pants. With my left elbow down in the recessed side door step I couldn’t get up with my pants around my ankles. I called for Don to help me get up but he was of no use. He was dying in the front seat. I had to reach up and trip the latch on the side door and do a back somersault onto the edge of the road and pull my pants up.
Fortunately the contents of the toilet bowl, at least 99.9%, returned to the bowl except for a few disgusting little drops.
You might not think it possible but there was a good bit of luck here.
We had discussed moving the osculating fan from the foot of the bed near the ceiling of the van to a position over the toilet to direct the air toward the roof vent in a effort to clear the air. Can you imagine what would have happened had the “contents” hit the fan?
We later linked up with the late, great, Rod Houser and he was our hang gliding guide for our first visit to the “Craters” east of Flagstaff, AZ.
This is a true story I regret to admit and if anyone wants to check on the veracity of this story with Don Ray you can P.M. me and I’ll P.M. to you Don’s phone number. Don’t wait too long to call him though. He is now 77 years old and on dialysis. He tells me that he, “Has one foot in the coffin and the other on a banana peal.”
