It was a bright, cloudless morning when we pulled into White Sands National Park, excited for a day of sledding and exploration. The dunes stretched out before us like a blinding ocean of snow, soft and endless. The kids were already bouncing in the backseat, eager to tumble down the hills and dig to their hearts’ content. But before the adventure could truly begin, we made the mandatory parental announcement:
“Everyone use the bathroom now, because once we go in, we’re not coming back for a while.”
Grumbles, eye-rolls, and half-hearted “okay”s followed as we all filed into the restrooms at the main entrance. Some kids went. Some claimed they didn’t have to. One—who will remain nameless—probably just stared at the sink and pretended.
Once the restroom stop was out of the way (or so we thought), we waited in line for sled rentals, got our maps, and chatted with the park ranger who showed us the best spots. That part took longer than expected, and by the time we were finally ready to head out, the kids were buzzing with so much anticipation they were practically vibrating.
We drove into the park, further and further into the dunes, marveling at how alien and beautiful everything looked. After a while, we pulled into a quiet parking area that seemed ideal—big dunes, not too many people, and plenty of room to spread out.
We geared up, grabbed our sleds and backpacks, and started hiking into the hills. But White Sands is no walk in the park. The gypsum sand is soft, deep, and dry, and every step feels like three. Half a mile in, we were all breathing a little harder, sweating a little more. But it was worth it. We reached a massive, perfect dune and dropped our gear, ready for fun.
That’s when one of the kids froze.
“I have to poop,” they whispered, voice full of urgency.
Jamie and I looked at each other in disbelief. “You just went to the bathroom. Back at the entrance.”
“I didn’t go. I forgot. But I really have to now.”
Of course. Classic.
“We are not hiking all the way back to the car, driving out to the front entrance, standing in line again, and repaying admission just because you forgot,” Jamie said firmly. “You had your chance.”
“But I think there was a bathroom near the parking lot!”
“I didn’t see one,” I (Taylor) said. “Figure it out.”
There was some desperate pacing, some internal bargaining, and a few near-tears before the inevitable happened: our child accepted their dusty fate.
With great reluctance—and a roll of emergency toilet paper from our backpack—they took a small camp shovel and disappeared behind a large rock and a conveniently placed cactus flower.
We gave them space. It was a private matter, after all, even in the middle of the world’s most visible landscape.
To their credit, they did everything right. Dug a hole, did their business, buried it properly, cleaned themselves up, and even packed out the used materials in a sealed bag like a true leave-no-trace veteran. We didn’t pollute. Nothing was left behind. No harm, no foul.
“Dogs poop out here all the time,” Jamie reminded them.
Still, it was a moment they wouldn’t soon forget—and neither would we. Nature has a way of humbling even the most confident adventurer.
We continued with our day, sledding down hills, building weird little sand castles, and letting the kids run themselves into exhaustion. It turned into a great afternoon filled with laughter, sunscreen, and sand in every imaginable crevice.
But the true punchline came later.
As we made our way back to the car, Taylor slowed down and pointed to a small structure partially obscured by some tall plants and a wooden fence.
“Wait… is that a bathroom?”
Sure enough, just a few yards from our parking spot, tucked away with zero signage visible from where we entered, was a perfectly clean, fully operational restroom. With toilet paper. And shade.
We stared at it in silence.
“I swear I didn’t see it earlier,” Jamie said.
The child in question, now red-faced and mortified, muttered something about betrayal. “I told you it was there!”
And they had. But in our confidence, we dismissed it. Whoops.
“Well,” I said as we loaded up the car, “this is what we call a character-building experience.”
“More like trauma,” they mumbled, but we could see the smirk starting to creep in.
As we drove out of the park, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the white hills, we laughed—hard. Because that’s what you do when your well-planned family outing turns into an accidental survival story.
And now, we have a tale that will be retold for years to come, especially during holidays or in front of new friends.
So here’s the moral of the story, now etched in our family lore forever:
Always poop when you have the chance. And never underestimate hidden restrooms in a national park.