Warning: The following story – which is true and really shouldn’t be, not in this civilized world – involves bodily fluids and can offend most people, unless you Googled “bodily fluids” and wound up here. Then again, these probably aren’t the bodily fluids your are looking for. And if they are, well, to each his own. Just don’t contact me. Ever.

The Navajo Reservation is northeastern Arizona is a beautiful place, as long as you are prepared. It is a good idea to keep plenty of gas in your vehicle because services are few and many miles apart. It’s also good to have a water bottle or two because there may come a time when you will need both, the water and the bottle. Trust me on this.

It is shortly past noon in Chinle where I am finishing a lunch of burgers, fries and two large glasses of Diet Pepsi. Or maybe three. Hard to tell because the waiter, during the few times he stopped by, made sure to bring another large glass of Diet Pepsi, which I dutifully drank as water is scarce up here and I would hate to resort to water when the Diet Pepsi flows like wine (though wine is not allowed on the reservation. Nor is beer. Or any alcohol. And that is a good thing considering the number of narrow two-lane roads that cross great, and very empty, distances.

Mark and I, in separate cars and on assignment here, got into our respective vehicles for the two-hour drive to Kayenta and our hotel just 30 miles from Monument Valley.

We go over the map before heading out.

“We’ll take 191 up to Many Farms,” Mark says, his finger tracing the black line. He points to a red line angling off to a large empty space on the map. “Then we’ll take this road. I think it’s pretty good, that’ll save us lots of time instead of going up and around on the highways. But first I’ve got to gas up.”

We stop at a Chevron at the edge of town, which was about a mile from the center of town. Navajos tend to spread out on the reservation, and why not given that 300,000 people live in an area larger than 10 states. No need to put up with neighbors, not when there’s one person per 12 square miles. Follow one of the dirt roads or ruts that trail off into the desert and you will eventually run into a someone’s property, on which may be a mobile home or hogan (traditional eight-sided dwelling easy to maintain but, as I see it, darn uncomfortable to live in; god bless the Navajos). It is like a labyrinth off the main road. One trail will branch, then branch again. You just keep following because there is no way to turn around. This is SUV hell, where the vehicles have to really work for a living, none of this going-to-the-store crap. These are teeth-jarring, bone-rattling roads, and no little pansy Toyota Camry is going to cut it..

After topping his tank, Mark heads into the mini-mart. On this particular corner of Chinle, the last sign of civilization for the next 70 miles, there are gas stations with mini-marts on each corner. Each one is busy. Each has a couple of dogs lolling about, getting up to avoid the trucks pulling in and out. Navajo dogs are the most car-savvy in the world, a product of evolution and survival of the quickest.

“I’m pretty tired, I’m gonna grab an energy drink,” Mark says, and I follow him in. Not a bad idea.

He snags a Red Bull from the refrigerated case. “I love this stuff,” he says. “You get a decent buzz and you don’t have to pee.” I don’t know, $2.39 for nine ounces of caffeine? Having never tried an upper-laced drink, I opt for a Tab Energy, on sale for $1.99. Little did I know how handy this would come in. Well, kind of.

We hit the road, driving north to Many Farms over rolling desert. Land stretched endlessly on all sides. The only sign of man’s influence, other than the asphalt that disappears over the horizon, are the power lines that intersect the road every 20 miles or so.

I hit the scan button on the radio, switching between the AM to FM bands. No use. Of the two FM stations, one has country music and the other is Jesus. I rank country music slightly ahead of Jesus, but neither are ahead of static. On the AM, I go between two Navajo-language stations, enjoying the vowel-dominated, arrhythmic patter of the language. And every now and then the DJ says something in English, usually a time (“something something something 7:30 p.m. something something something”) as if Navajos never got around to really caring about the clock. Which makes a lot of sense the more you’re on the res.

A sign announces the Many Farms town limits, though there is nothing amid the scrub brush save for an abandoned gas station and a left turn. We take the turn.

Buttes and mesas begin to break from the desert floor, exploding on either said of the (remarkably smooth) two-lane road. The road lifts us over a rise and as we crest, a valley unfolds, bisected by the straight line of asphalt that continues for miles.

Mark keeps his pickup at a steady 70mph and I stay about 100 feet behind, the hum of the pavement challenging the whoosh of the air conditioner for sound dominance.

I glance at the digital thermometer on the dash. It breaks triple digits for the first time. 101 degrees. Near-record heat for the res, which sits at 5,000 feet.

All the while I’ve been sipping the Tab and wondering why I didn’t hit the bathroom back at the Chevron. Well, because it wasn’t nearly this urgent, that’s why. The pressure on my bladder continues to grow. Sure, I could pull over and take care of it. Only the landscape does not afford privacy. And Mark would continue to speed on because he’s just that way.

I looked at the can of Tab. There was a swallow left. Maybe two. Which my body would only manufacture more liquid waste, adding to my problem. But in one swallow, maybe two, the energy drink would become something much more important. A container.

I weighed the possibilities, and that involved eyeing the can’s volume (nine ounces, but that’s filled to the brim, no allowing for any tilting during the fill) and well as its opening at the top (fine for sipping, not to generous for other purposes).

The view offered no relief to the emptiness. Oohh, relief. Relief would be so nice.

There was really no choice to be made. There was only one thing to do. Now it was a matter of logistics.

I roll up the right leg of my shorts, matching the side with the dominant hand. This was not something to attempt with a hand and arm that could not shoot a basket, throw a baseball or even write a simple sentence.

I reach in and carefully withdraw myself. OK, if I shove the shorts up a little more, lift a bit and pull, yeah, looks like we’re ready for launch.

I drain the last of the energy drink and place the can in position, knowing that once I start, there’s not stopping. At least for 8 ounces or so.

My eyes dart between the road and the business at hand. This is worse than talking on the cell phone. Thank god for a absolutely no traffic. Not even coming from the other way. If I had thought about that at all, I would have considered it strange. Maybe even reasoned an answer so that what would happen in the next 30 minutes would no have been such a surprise.

The can is in position. With my index finger, I place the other subject in this experiment where it looks like the mission would be best accomplished.

Now all I need to do is release.

Focus. Yes, you are seated behind the wheel of a car going 70mph, but it’s OK. Mr. Bladder refuses to cooperate.

“I am not, repeat, not going to let you piss your pants,” Mr. Bladder says. “Not if I can help it. No way. In your sleep, maybe, when you are dreaming about going to the bathroom because you drank to much right before going to bed, but not when you are fully conscious.”

Please, just this once. Come on, I really need this so as to avoid impending internal injury. Trust me, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

“I know about internal injury, I’m the one doubled up from cramps,” Mr. Bladder says. “This is so humiliating. Don’t put me in this position.”

Just this once. I promise. I’ve never done this before and will never do it again. Once it’s done, it’s done and we’ll never speak of it again.”

I can feel progress. Yes, the troops are advancing. Ah, yeah, that’s it, right there, right there. Just keep it going, yeah, just like that baby, you got it.

I glance down, though at this point the concern about aim is secondary. But it’s all going well. The right hand has placed the can in the perfect position, to both support and receive contents. Beautiful.

Another decision to be made. It appears that liquid is quickly approaching the brim, and overfilling will not be tolerated. But there’s still more to come.

Focus. Ease back. Squeeze.

Got it.

The can, I realize, is very warm. Thankfully there is little smell. This is new pee, stuff generated in the last hour or so. Not like old pungent pee that’s been sitting around for a while. This is OK.

But it still has to go.

A bit of advice. When emptying contents of a can, consider the physics involved. For example, tipping a can over a sink is one thing. Tipping a can in 70mph winds is quite another. For example, should you need to empty a narrow-mouthed container during a Category 1 hurricane, I suggest you grasp the container as near to the bottom as you can without having it blow out of your hand. Then tip the can slowly so that the open end is downwind from the bottom. No need to tilt is much past 90 degrees. Let gravity do the work and watch as the contents are neatly swept away with no splatter.

These are all the things I would learn in the next 20 seconds after I rolled down the window. Gripping the can near the top, I thrust it outside and flip it upside down. The wind carried the liquid back for a few millimeters or so before prevailing aerodynamic laws took control. Some of the liquid was quickly caught up in the small eddies that had formed behind the can, throwing it up and onto the nearby hand.

At this point I could have released the can, but that would have been wrong for two reasons: it would be littering and, more importantly, I might need it later.

I hold onto it, which turned out to be a very good thing to do. Sort of.

I bring the empty can inside, and using two fingers place it in the cup holder that will need a severe cleaning before I ever use it again. I wipe my hand with tissues from the glove compartment, glad the duty is done and feeling so so so so so much better.

I see a car in my rearview, miles behind us, and am glad there was no one behind me just a few minutes ago because it could have led to the only incident of road rage on this desolate road. I round a slight bend in the road and the car disappears. It is the first vehicle I’ve seen since we turned at Many Farms. My eyes glance at the mirror every now and then, until I can make it out a little better. Looks like a white pickup. Its hazards are blinking. And it seems to be catching up very quickly.

About three minutes later it veers into the right lane and blasts past me. There are two men in the cab and one in the bed. The one in the bed looks sternly at me, as if I should have pulled over. I notice it has U.S. government plates.

Odd.

It passes Mark and soon goes out of view. I think little of it.

About 25 miles into the 50-mile road, we crest another small hill and I see what looks like a large semi ahead. Only it’s not moving. Looking more closely, I can pick out a line of cars behind it, maybe three or four. No, there are more. Eight, maybe 10.

Must be a construction zone. The semi is waiting for its turn as cars heading east are allowed access to the narrowed road.

Only there hasn’t been a car coming from the opposite direction since, well, ever.

Less than a quarter-mile from the line, I notice flashing blue and red lights further up the road. And what appears to be another semi, only it’s on its side. Mark and I slow as we reach the back of the line. We get out of our cars and wonder what the police officer is telling the drivers at the head of the line. It’s bad news as two SUVs turn around. Another towing a U-Haul trailer does a three-point turn and heads in the opposite direction. The driver slows and rolls down his window.

“Road’s closed for at least three or four hours,” he says. “Pretty nasty.”

I look at Mark. “What if we go back and take the long way around? Better than sitting here in the heat.”

“No, it would take us forever.” Mark turns toward the driver. “What are you going to do.”

“There’s a dirt road about a mile away. We’re going to take that.”

“Hey, you mind if we follow you?”

“Not at all.” The driver rolls up his window and pulls away. Mark and I get into our cars. Or should I say Mark gets into his truck. I get into my Toyota Camry built for smooth roads and decent gas mileage.

And I need to go again.

We follow the SUV towing the U-Haul as it turns left on a wide, fairly flat dirt road. I stay as close to Mark as possible, the dust limiting visibility to about 15 feet.

Only the road, as we know t, disappears a few minutes later. It narrows as it passes a mobile home sitting in a fenced yard.

What we are on could no longer be classified as a road. It is a trail fine for high-clearance vehicles and covered wagons. Two ruts straddle a week-choked median, closely following the uneven contours of the terrain. Have you ever been on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland? You know how the vehicle bounces around as if negotiating a trampoline? That what this is, only without the assurance that you will get to a point when the ride is finished.

And I really have to go.

I keep my eye on the trailer, figuring if it can get through this, my Camry can make it. The first two times I pan out on the sandy soil, I give thanks to the Japanese engineers, as well as my belief in foreign cars.

I slow was Mark’s pickup struggles up a rather large bump, its tires doing little more than spitting up sand and dust. My hands squeeze the steering wheel and I lean forward, hoping Mark clears that hill because I’m going to need a running start.

“C’mon, man, you‘ve got to make it now or I’m stuck and there is no way to turn, no way,” I say. I imagine being stranded with no cell phone service. No water. No Tab energy drink.

His wheels suddenly fine some purchase and his truck lurches over the top and bounces down the other side. I press the gas pedal, feel the back end slide out but I am up and over.

For a few precious seconds, I forget how badly I have to go. And then I eye the Tab can, remembering.

No chance to do it now, not when every ounce of concentration has to be on the path ahead.

The Toyota thumps the sand again as it crosses a wash. Weeds scrape the undercarriage as the trail twists and turns through the desert. I do not see any signs of life, nor the road we left behind. I place my faith in the only two things that can save me – my Camry and the Tab can.

I look ahead and can no longer see the U-Haul. It is, I convince myself, a good sign. The driver is so far ahead, we are about to hit a good patch or road. It beats the alternative line of thinking – we took a wrong turn and are hopelessly lost.

Mark’s pickup hits another bump, spraying sand in a thick cloud. He disappears in dusty brown smoke. I plow ahead, driving purely on faith. The Camry’s nose points up and drops with a thump, and I press the gas ever so slightly to maintain momentum amid the pillowy soil.

And I burst through the cloud to see a wide, flat, hard-packed dirt road leading to the left and right. I look right, toward another dust cloud, and can make out the top of the trailer. Somewhere in the dust between the trailer and the Camry is Mark’s pickup.

Score, baby. The worst is over. This road must lead back to pavement.

Relies sweeps over me. Then something else. An urgent need not felt since, well, the last time I was on asphalt.

I look at the Tab. Faithful friend. Loyal comrade. Will you serve me now as you served me then?

The can stands straight and proud, answering my without a word.

Tab is ready, but the road is not so helpful. Tires bounce crazily over the washboard surface, the car vibrating as if beaten like a snare drum. Mark is getting further ahead, so I do the only thing I can and goose the pedal. The car’s suspension reminds me it was built for the road, not for the off-road.

Mr. Bladder speaks.

“Remember how I was a bit reluctant to give it a go the last time,” he says. “I am quite ready now. Extremely so. Here, I will prove it.”

I lean against the steering wheel until the cramp disappears. OK, we’re going to have to do this. Tab is ready. Mr. Bladder is ready. I take a deep breath until another pain radiates from below the belt.

I roll up the pants leg, reach under and set the stage. Only the constant rattle rearranges the furniture and I must start again. A pull there, a tuck there. Ready.

I place Tab at the proper angle. There. No, there. There. There.

The bumps do all they can to make this all but impossible. Just a few more seconds, maybe until we reach the road. Can’t be more than 10 minutes or so.

Mr. Bladder makes the decision. I look down, then up, down again, up, my eyes bouncing as much as the car.

I feel a warmth at the bottom of the can. Then on my hands. Then on my shorts. Spreading on the shorts.

Can’t stop, no. I shift Tab. Back in the can. For a moment. It wanders again. Hand. Back in the can. Hand. Shorts. In the can. Shorts.

All the while keeping my left hand on the wheel, out of harm’s way.

Can is getting full. I look down. Yes, pressure is gone, Mr. Bladder eases off. Much much much better. I am truly blessed to have a bladder half empty rather than half full.

I roll down the window and hot desert air slams into my face. Remembering my physics lesson, the emptying of the can goes flawlessly.

I put it back in the cup holder, roll up with window and check the damage. I roll down the pants leg and probe at the fabric. Damp, wet, wet, soaked.

Oh crap.

I hadn’t peed my pants this much since I was 5 (any stories you hear of that happening past that age are patently false, no matter what my college roommate back in 1978 might say about that night of binge drinking). I lift my butt off the seat to check the Scotch Guarded fabric beneath.

Dry. A miracle.

And the bumping stops. The dust cloud is gone. I am turning left on a paved road, and in 25 minutes I would be in Kayenta.

I thought about taking off my shorts and holding them out the window, where they would dry in minutes. Then I imagined accidentally letting them go, and the only worse thing then wet shorts would be no shorts. Besides, I had a hard enough time rolling up the pants let to assume the position. Trying to strip them off at 70mph, well, I wouldn’t want my son to read this in the newspapers.

“A 48-year-old Phoenix man was killed when he lost control of his vehicle on a desolate highway. Paramedics responding to the accident found the victim with his shorts at his ankle. He was alone in the car.”

No thank you. Instead I turned the AC on high and closed all but the vet to the right of the steering wheel. For the next 20 miles, I cupped my hand to direct the air to my shorts, taking a break for a few seconds when muscles started to weaken. By the time we pulled into the hotel, all but the seam was dry.

No one ever knew. And I proudly wore those shorts the rest of the day because they didn’t stink at all.

I did toss the brave little Tab can, giving it a small, almost unnoticeable salute as it dropped into the recycling can outside the Best Western.

May you come back as a full-sized Tab can. And if so, perhaps we will meet again.