'Re-Vent, You Sinners!'

According to Chabad.org, the ancient Hebrew word for sin—chet—means something akin to missing the mark. Think of an archer squinting at a bullseye, drawing back the bowstring with confidence, releasing the arrow . . . and hitting the snack bar behind the target instead. A near miss. A squandered opportunity. A moment when things could have gone right, but instead went spectacularly wrong.

We humans are naturally gifted at identifying these missed marks. We are a species of armchair referees, born with an innate ability to spot the "chet" in others and, more importantly, in their products. Providing a "negative review" is perhaps our most practiced spiritual discipline. We relish the opportunity to vent our frustrations when we encounter a level of incompetence that defies the basic laws of logic. Occasionally, we are faced with a failure so spectacular it feels like an archer failing to hit a target from three feet away.

Which brings me to the composting toilets at Yosemite’s Glen Aulin Backpackers’ Campground.

On my last evening there, I found myself in a conversation with two fellow backpackers, a husband and wife. I had passed their campsite several times while performing the noble wilderness rituals of fetching water and stashing food in the nearby bear boxes—because nothing ruins a trip faster than a 400-pound food critic named Bruno.

I stopped to inquire about their itinerary. "Leaving in the morning," the man said, his voice weary but satisfied. I nodded in solidarity; I, too, was scheduled for a sunrise exodus. We engaged in the standard trail small talk: the weather, the elevation gain, the inexplicable beauty of the High Sierra. Then, I asked the fatal question: "How would you rate the campground overall?"

On a scale of one to five, they both gave the Glen Aulin landscape a resounding five. The prominent granite peaks, the ever-present Tuolumne River nearby, and the relative tranquility of being in a pristine environment—all hit the bullseye.

However, the woman, who had spent most of the conversation quietly and methodically poking at their campfire with a stick, suddenly looked up. Her eyes held the haunted glint of someone who had seen the abyss and found it lacked proper airflow.

“Except the toilets get a zero,” she suddenly protested. “Oh?” I inquired, inviting her to offer a review of the “facilities”.

Admittedly, in most social settings, polite conversation does not drift toward the topic of human waste management. At dinner parties, one does not casually ask, “So, how’s everyone feeling about ventilation in confined sanitation units?” Yet in the wilderness, these matters rise to the top.

For backpackers, the “Number Two Moment” is not theoretical. It is inevitable. Plus, the ethics of “leave no trace” require thoughtful planning, careful digging, and occasionally the packing out of items one would rather not itemize. So, when a structure appears in the trees—a small wooden sanctuary promising relief without a shovel—it is greeted as a beacon of civilization.

And, at Glen Aulin, that beacon gleams.

"A small wooden sanctuary promising relief without a shovel."

The composting toilet structure rises from the landscape like a humble chapel of mercy. Not one but two units stand ready to serve. Inside, the walls are bright white. The seats appear reassuringly sturdy. Three steel rods hold multiple rolls of toilet paper—a bounty that whispers, “Rest easy, traveler. We’ve got you covered.” Or, to a hiker who has spent three days rationing four squares of single-ply, this is an ostentatious display of wealth. It is the "Enjoy the Go" lifestyle that tissue commercials promise.

At first glance, the Glen Aulin backpackers’ toilets hit the bullseye.

The woman, still poking at the campfire, noted otherwise.  She took a deep breath and

then launched into her role as commode critic, speaking with the intensity of a war victim.  She said that upon entering the unit, she was met not by the scent of pine or mountain air, but by a suffocating, sentient stench. It was a physical wall of odor so dense it seemed to have its own zip code. She described an escalating "deficiency of oxygen" in her brain, a physiological emergency that forced her to flee the building before her internal systems shut down.

Once outside, in the pristine mountain air, her body staged a protest. She vomited. Her "Enjoy the Go" moment had turned into a "Despair the Departed" event.

She gazed at the campfire, as her voice trembled slightly.  She was uncertain what she would do next.  She gratefully reminded herself that she had packed a small shovel with her other essentials to accommodate a more typical backpacker bathroom experience if needed.

I agreed with her assessment of the air impurities in the closed-in space; I supposed I could ration my breath more adequately than she.  Assuredly, the restrooms had not merely missed the mark; the arrow had circled back and struck the archer.

The problem? Ventilation. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Yes, there is a small slatted vent in the door—presumably to let hope in. But there is no exit vent. No upward airflow. No elegant chimney effect whisking away yesterday’s decisions. Instead, the air lingers. It contemplates. It develops personality.

Ironically, one composting toilet manufacturer proudly proclaims on its website: “While our toilets do not require electricity, proper ventilation is crucial for optimal performance. Natural ventilation can often suffice, but in situations where enhanced airflow is needed, options such as solar fans or whirlybirds can be effective. These solutions ensure that your toilet remains odor-free and functions efficiently without the need for electrical power.”

Odor-free.  Optimal performance.  If “odor-free” was the bullseye, this arrow not only missed—it landed in another county.

In theological terms, this toilet manufacturer--Toilet Tech Solutions-- had committed chet. It had missed the mark. Spectacularly. Heroically. Memorably.

And then, as if the wilderness wished to drive the lesson home, the next morning I encountered two workers hammering away at a rock building near the campground.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

They explained they were hired by the National Park Service to remove an aging flush toilet and replace it with—wait for it—a composting toilet.

I froze mid-step.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Please, please, not another Toilet Tech Solutions composting toilet”! 

Now, let me be clear: composting toilets are marvels of sustainability. They conserve water. They function off-grid. They are, in theory, the environmental equivalent of a gold star. When properly vented, they can be efficient, dignified, even pleasant.

But without ventilation? They become cautionary monuments to what happens when crucial details are treated as optional.

In theology, sin is a missed opportunity to rise to a higher standard. In toilet engineering, it is a missed opportunity to install the obvious: adequate venting.

The tragedy of the Glen Aulin commode is not that it tried and failed, but that it came so close. The structure is solid. The location is ideal. The paper supply is generous to a fault. All the visible elements say, “We have thought of everything.”

Except the air.

And air, as it turns out, matters.

In life, as in lavatories, proper ventilation makes all the difference. Without it, things stagnate. They intensify. They overwhelm. With it, even difficult processes can be transformed into manageable activities.

So, here is my humble plea to composting toilet manufacturers everywhere: if you are aiming for the bullseye of odor-free performance, check your bow. Inspect your arrow. And for the love of all that is breathable, install an internal exit vent.

Re-vent, you sinners.

Because in the wilderness, when nature calls, we answer. But we should not have to hold our breath while doing so.