Worst expirence pooping on a wall?

Brassmonkey wrote: Tom Evans took a picture of me while pooping and then gave it to me on a CD with other pictures he took as well. 

pics

Everett wrote:

pics

... or it didn't happen

Couldn't for the life of my poop before hopping on a Royal Arches . Got to the ledge and let one go. Had to end up smearing to be LNT and it was gnar. Wiped with some semi dry Moss and it got a bunch of little crusties up in there.  Finished the climb.

i've always managed to hold it in, like a big boi.

We were climbing in Lumpy and I got quite dehydrated and hadn't shit in two days, so we decided to go to CCC and do some sport climbing so as to avoid wall dumping. Well my buddy has just clipped the chains on a short-ish climb and I knew I had about 20 seconds before I was going to shit, pants down or not. So instead of lowering him, I had him set up for a rappel while I ran off to do my business, forgetting a bag to pick it up with. This was a glorious piece of shit, probably 24" long and all in one piece. After the dehydrated plug was past the sphincter, it was all soft serve from there...anyway, I have TP, no bag, but I had one in my pack. There were 10-12 other people milling around, and three dogs...one of which was running loose. So on my return journey to get the plastic bag, White Fang made a break for my pile and wolfs that whole thing down, paper and all in one gulp. Cujo's owner comes to see what is going on and I am just standing there laughing...I didn't say a word, but later I saw that dog lick her face.

^^^^
Way too much detail. 

Early 90’s in the New River Gorge I had a partners dog take off into the woods, then return to our small perch at the base of a little sport pitch- and proceed to Barf up a giant pile of Dookie and Toilet Paper right next to our packs and rope 

Phil Lauffen wrote: My friend climbed up to my alpine belay ashen-faced, moving faster than I'd ever seen him move before. With nary a word he scrambled up to a ledge 15 ft above, turned outward Honnold-style, ripped down his pants and shat behind the ledge, 250 ft off the deck. With an immense look of satisfaction he stood up and attempted to pull his pants up under his harness, nearly tipping forward off the ledge and onto my two nut belay.

We would have left a red/brown streak down that wall together.

I feel like I know who this is... 

My wife and I were attempting a new route on a remote 5,500-meter peak in Perú. Our route followed an extremely exposed knife-edge ridge. One of the pitches involved a 30-foot hand traverse over a sheer 500-meter drop. Upon completing the pitch I was so pumped, exhausted and shaken from the exposure that I collapsed into a straddle position on the ridge and sat with my eyes closed for a solid couple minutes while my tummy bubbled away, unsettled. Waves of nausea washed over me repeatedly. Eventually I sorta suppressed the nausea and felt well enough to belay my wife up/across the pitch. However when she arrived to my belay saddle, I hadn't yet recovered enough to lead the next pitch. My wife was gracious enough to volunteer the sharp end. When she reached the next belay, she began pulling the rope in to put me on belay. Just the slightest tug on my harness yanked my guts around juuust enough to stir the pot. Explosive diarrhea was inevitable. I think I yelled something like "it's happening NOW!!" It was a mad dash to get clothing out of the way; our belay saddle subsequently took on the appearance of a Jackson Pollock painting (sorry if that's excessively graphic). After cleansing my tush with snow and doing my best to clean up the artwork on the snowy saddle, I felt better and proceeded to follow the pitch.

Now, the punchline... Not long after this mini-event, the convergence of several factors (weather, time, etc.) forced us to bail on our summit bid. The geometry of the peak required us to backtrack along the corniced ridge until we could find a suitable spot to start rappelling down. That suitable spot, of course, turned out to be the Jackson Pollock saddle. I apologized to my poor wife as we tiptoed right back through the semi-covered art display and began arranging our first rappel on a nearby rock horn. Looking back on it, I guess our honeymoon was perhaps less romantic than most.

Not climbing, butt:
​Everest Brian Blessed story​​​