Some Hikers Love Pants With Pee Zippers. Others, Not So Much.

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When the Gnara Go There Pants hit the market a few years ago, they created a splash in the outdoor world. Along with a slew of other technical features, the pants featured a first-of-its-kind zipper, called the GoFly, designed to allow wearers with a certain anatomy to pee without pulling their pants (or a harness) down. The zipper, which extends from below the fly, through the groin, and all the way up the seat of the pants, keeps the wearer’s rear covered while they do their business. Thousands of hikers and rock climbers jumped onboard, claiming these pants solved lifelong problems associated with squatting on the trail or at the crag. But for others, they didn’t quite land. Two writers share what they love and hate about the pee zipper.

All in Favor

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s trekked through stinging nettle in search of a secluded spot to crouch. In those moments, I’ve felt burning jealousy of hikers who simply turn their back and pee without straying from the trail. Perhaps someday we’ll reach a point where we stop being weird about the one need literally every single one of us has in common. Until then, I’m wearing Gnara’s GoFly pants so I can simply unzip and go.

This summer, I wore the GoFly pants on two multi-day backpacking events in Sweden and England, each with hundreds of other hikers. There were rarely trees or rocks big enough to hide behind, so to pee was to be exposed. Previously, I would hold it until finding a discreet spot, or until I simply couldn’t wait any longer. (I’ve tried a pee funnel before, but found the learning curve much too steep—I peed all over myself the first try.) The GoFly pants emboldened me to be less discerning with my hiding spots, so that I could crouch mere steps from the trail, unzip, go, and zip up again without ever exposing myself.

I was skeptical about the idea of a secret crotch zipper at first. Surely that would be uncomfortable, I thought, not to mention gross. I assumed I’d have to go commando to take advantage of the design, but that’s not the case. I always opt to wear underwear with mine, and it’s surprisingly easy to pull them out of the stream’s way once I’ve assumed the crouch position. It’s no different than how I manage off-trail when I wear a bodysuit under other clothes. Choosing the right underwear can improve the situation. I found merino wool undies to be more comfortable, drier, and better for sweat regulation than synthetic options. The pants also have a flattering fit—far more so than I expected from something so practical—and just enough stretch for comfort. Thanks to clever flaps inside and out, the second zipper is unnoticeable both to the wearer and other hikers.

Before the GoFly pants, I had given up on the dream of peeing in peace. Now, I’ll happily crouch just off trail even when I know others will soon be within view. I feel much less exposed, and I don’t waste nearly as much time or energy thinking about my next private bathroom break. —Kassondra Cloos

All Exposed

I, too, have often envied the male member, because that little hose lets people pee with a level of ease and discretion that eludes me whenever I need to urinate away from a toilet seat. I have to pull down my pants and squat, which exposes my entire midsection to roving eyes and bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Ever used your hands to fan your naked, squatting fanny in an attempt to prevent bug bites while you wait for what seems like an eternity for your bladder to empty? I have, and it made me want a better system.

I thought I might have found that system with the Gnara Go There Pants. I liked the fit, which accommodated my hips without gapping at the waist. The fabric repelled drizzle and splashes of camp coffee. And the patented GoFly zipper proved to be as discreet and comfortable as promised. Though I still preferred to move away from others while I peed, I appreciated the skin coverage and reveled in my newfound protection from mosquitoes. But the habit of pulling down my pants turned out to be a hard one to break.

The first time I answered nature’s call while wearing the Go There Pants, I squatted as usual and yanked on the zipper-pull to open the GoFly. Then, I grabbed my sweat-dampened underpants and held them to the side so my pee could clear the fabric. Touching the crotch of my skivvies felt gross. Even a squirt of hand sanitizer couldn’t dispel the icky feeling.

I started to dread the routine, cringing from the need to grope around in the moist, dark cave of my groin. After a few rounds of reaching into my thigh crease to manipulate my underwear, I longed for the days when I could just grab fistfuls of my comparatively clean, dry waistband.

Call me a germophobe, or cast judgment on my relationship with my body (perhaps a more confident woman would feel no distaste when conducting this intimate operation). But as for me, I’ll return to the longstanding tradition of dropping trou, and be glad for it. —Kelly Bastone