An Unlikely Inheritance
By Teddy Dondanville
I grew up in a suburb of Los Angeles County called Pasadena. Despite my upbringing in suburbia, my family frequently escaped to the Mojave Desert to go camping. Amidst all the swirling memories of camping in the desert—yellow brittle brush blooms, ominous snake skins, and the ever-entertaining activity of catching the wind with plastic bags—is a vivid flashbulb of a memory.
The memory is of my grandpa hiking off into a cholla-covered desert abyss to go to the bathroom. In one hand he has his military-issued shovel, a roll of toilet paper speared on the shaft. In the other is a collapsible stool with a white toilet seat attached to the top.
When I try to think why this memory of camping is one of my most vivid, I attribute some of it to my childish obsession with lowbrow potty humor. Grandpa’s going poop. It was funny, and so I remember it all these years later.
As an adult now, I see it as a somewhat inspiring memory of my grandfather’s preparedness and autonomy, characteristics I would later learn. And, frankly, of luxury. If you’ve ever used a stool to do your business outside, you know it’s more comfortable (and significantly less risky) than squatting.
As a kid, I remember feeling weird that my family went camping. It was atypical for a kid like me, in the private schools I attended, to have stories of motorcycles, bonfires, and BB guns. However, after hearing mundane reports of weekends in the city, I understood how rad camping actually was. Eventually, I became proud of my family’s unconventional outings, but I knew nothing about how it would impact my life moving forward.
To understand that impact, you have to go back a generation and look at my dad’s family.
My grandma and grandpa owned a tire shop. It was a family business. My grandma was largely in charge of the administrative side of things, while my grandpa handled the greasy stuff. When they came of age, my dad and his siblings worked in the shop.
When the family wasn’t working in the shop, my grandpa, my dad, and his siblings crammed into a 1970s white Chevrolet Silverado truck and trailer stacked with dirtbikes to spend time exploring the Mojave on two-wheels. When they were done, they returned to Grandma covered in dirt and smelling like two-stroke combustion engines, greatly inspired by the adventures they had.
As time went on, my family passed on that desire to escape the city and play in the dirt to my sister and me. When we were really young, my parents brought baby cribs to the desert so we could see and smell the workings of a Mojave camping trip through the bars. To grow accustomed to loud noises and high speeds, my sister and I took our first rides on the gas tanks of my dad’s motorcycle.
The author and his grandparents, at home in Cloverdale, California.
When I got a little older, I got my own battery-operated ATV. I remember crashing the ATV into a toddler-swallowing hole I’d dug out with my cousins and grandpa the day prior.
When it came time to straddle my first gasoline-powered motorcycle at the ripe age of eight, I learned on my cousin’s 100cc Honda dirtbike. Years later, we all rode our own full-sized dirtbikes, galavanting around the desert like a family biker gang.
Over the years, family camping trips in the desert dwindled. My grandparents stopped coming as they got older. My family transitioned from owning a truck and trailer to renting and borrowing for the few trips we went on. Then, as my sister and I grew up, it became harder to find a time when everyone could reconvene in our desert mecca. Life was too busy. Eventually, when we went off to college, pilgrimages to the Mojave stopped completely.
It’s sad to think that we don’t go camping as a family anymore. But our time in the Mojave still impacted how I grew up. The seeds that were planted in the sandy soil there grew into an intense appreciation for the outdoors.
Camping, in particular, fed into and enabled my love for rock climbing and backpacking once I grew up and left home. In college and graduate school, I frequently disappeared into the desert or sauntered off into the mountains in search of stone. Sleeping on the ground, shower-less nights, and camp-cooked meals from cans became normal for me as I explored the natural world.
Eventually, the seeds that I fostered in my young adult life bloomed into my career. Now, as a climbing and backpacking guide, I’m responsible for teaching many of the skills I learned from my family in the Mojave. (Teaching clients how to properly poop outside is a particular specialty). Even better, I’m able to supplement what I learned from my own adventures with my family with nuanced perspectives and better practices to mitigate the impact I have on the wild world.
Besides helping establish the foundation for my career as a guide, camping in the Mojave left me with a propensity for adventures in my free time, too. In 2022, my wife Whitney and I purchased a 1998 Ford van and moved into it. Whitney was fresh out of graduate school with a brand new Ph.D. and wanted to take a gap before starting her career. I was in between guiding seasons, working remotely as a writer. For the better part of the year, we explored the western United States, from the dry deserts of southern Arizona to the soaked pine forests of Oregon.
Along the way, we focused on weaving together rock climbing and camping with visits to family and friends we hadn’t seen in a while. We planned a pit stop in Cloverdale, California, to visit my grandparents. We wanted to introduce them to our dog, Dottie, show them the van, and share stories of our adventures.
Upon arrival, my grandpa and I quickly went out for a walk. He showed me some of his favorite nearby trails, trails he hadn’t been able to use in a little while because walking alone on the uneven terrain was too risky. But with a companion, he was more comfortable. This reminded me of how the desert terrain beyond our corral of trailers was once an intimidating and unknown world for me as a child. (Unless, of course, Grandpa was there.)
We enjoyed the cool spring afternoon together, walking slowly. I collected wildflowers and arranged a miniature bouquet for my grandma while my grandpa told me stories. After the walk, we rejoined Whitney and my grandma at home for lunch. Eventually, we retired to the backyard patio. We sat and enjoyed the afternoon sun, chatting about our trip. Like most curious people, my grandparents inquired how Whitney and I performed daily tasks from the confines of our van, like cooking, doing laundry, and, of course, going to the bathroom.
As the evening drew near, it became time to hit the road. Whitney and I were on our way to Crescent City and, eventually Smith Rocks State Park outside of Bend, Oregon. In preparation for our departure, my grandma prepared multiple grocery bags of road trip snacks, fruit, and soup. To Whitney, she gifted three books. Grandpa, in typical fashion, slyly handed me cash so I could take Whitney out on a date at his favorite fish and chips spot in Crescent City.
The author and his unlikely inheritance, somewhere in the Utah Desert.
While we spent a little time readying the van and packing our new groceries in the front yard, my grandpa disappeared back inside. Not long after, the familiar mechanical sounds of a garage door opening drew my attention. As the door slid slowly upward he reappeared, like a magician from behind an aluminum curtain. In one hand, he had his toilet seat, and in the other, he held his shovel speared with a fresh roll of toilet paper.
Smiling, my grandpa explained how our conversation on the patio about going to the bathroom in the van reminded him of his old toilet seat stool and shovel from the desert days. He wanted me to have it. He hadn’t used it in many years and it needed some action.
So, with a shit-eating grin on my face, I graciously accepted his gift. I carefully loaded the seat and shovel into the roof box of the van and climbed down. Then, with that weird feeling of being so happy and grateful for having gone to visit family but sick to our stomach to leave, we hugged and kissed, fired up the van, and rolled away.
Before we could exit the neighborhood and hit the highway, I was already scheming the next backcountry spot on our route that would be devoid of modern toilet facilities and where, inevitably, my grandpa’s seat and shovel (which are now my seat and shovel), would undoubtedly be the best solution. The prospect of walking off to a quiet nook to do my business, digging a textbook cathole, positioning my seat, and enjoying the view excited me. No flushing toilet anywhere could beat that.
Teddy Dondanville is a freelance writer focused on the outdoor industry and adventure sports. When not enjoying the cerebral and caffeine-fueled pursuits of writing, he works as a rock climbing guide in upstate New York. You can learn more about Teddy on his website.
