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To The Wild Country Ch. 01

By: eCaldwell



In 1984, I worked a summer job as research assistant for my brother, Richard, a forestry professor at Boise State University. The job, conducting pine bark beetle surveys, took me into the wilderness four days each week, and during my time off, I stayed with Rich, my sister Abbey, and their young children, Chloe, 3, and Luke, newborn. 

June 4th was my first workday. In the forestry lab on campus, Rich walked me through the job. The western pine bark beetle, native to western North America, is an integral component of the forest ecosystem, attacking and killing weakened and diseased pines. In their absence, seedlings gain water and sunlight, regenerating forest growth. However, under certain conditions, beetles reproduce out of control and threaten entire mountainsides of healthy trees. 

Aerial photographic surveys were conducted over tens of thousands of square miles of public forest to locate areas with unusually high incidence of tree mortality which could be the result of many different natural forces. But only boots on the ground could verify whether beetles were the cause. And my boots would be the ones doing the walking. My job was to venture into remote forests all over Idaho and inspect dead and dying pines to ascertain whether the beetle population was normal or epidemic. And those inspections weren't based on subjectivity; a field manual I was issued outlined precise methods for making observations and recording data. 

Richard spread a large-scale topographic map of Idaho on a work table and showed me the regions where abnormally high rates of tree mortality were occurring. At the same time, I was overlaying mental maps of where I knew hot springs were located. No matter where my job took me in the 'Gem State,' there was a hot spring within easy driving distance. And many of those springs had a long tradition of nude use. Being an ardent outdoor adventurist and naturist, that was right up my alley. It was shaping up to be an awesome season in the wilderness. 

To access the rugged back country, the university supplied a white four-wheel drive Chevy Blazer. And they even paid for gas! Sweet! Armed with maps, aerial photos, field manual, camping gear, and boundless enthusiasm, I set off for my first day on the job. I was given a computer printout with my assignment for the week: up Black Warrior Creek, a tributary of the Boise River. 

After turning off the gravel Forest Service road, I was able to drive only short distance along a rutted jeep trail before a fallen pine blocked my path. Backpack slung over my shoulders, up the valley I hiked amid the aromatic evergreen forest. Five miles from the Blazer, I smelled sulfur. Without question, a hot spring had to be nearby. I sloughed my backpack. Following my nose, a short time of searching turned up a tiny hot seep in shallow gully. Its flow rate was so slow it might have taken a minute to fill a coffee cup. Discovering the seep was a pleasant surprise because it wasn't shown on my U.S. Geological Survey geothermal map. 

Below the seep was a tiny pool, bathtub size, and the temperature was perfect, 106 degrees Fahrenheit according to my small camping thermometer. Right then, I wanted to strip naked and soak, but with the day already half-gone, I had to get some work done. 

From the valley, dozens of brown pines were visible on the western flank of East Warrior Peak, my target destination. After pitching my tent, I tossed on my daypack and began climbing upslope. Way out there in the wilderness, clothing was superfluous. Standing beside a dead pine, I stripped off every stitch and went about my work as wild and free as the golden eagles soaring overhead. 

Following the procedure in the field manual, I counted the number of bore holes oozing sap between ground level and six feet, a gauge indicating the severity of the beetle attack. Next, I peeled off slabs of loose bark amounting to four square feet and counted the number of live beetles clinging underneath. Other required observations, measuring trunk circumference at four feet, estimating height of the tree and percentage of live growth in the crown, I performed and entered in the logbook. I finished by snapping photos of the inside layer of the bark, including beetles, and the entire tree from several angles. Using the collected data, Richard and others back in the lab would determine whether the beetle activity was epidemic or normal. And based on their assessment, the Forest Service could either remediate the beetle outbreak, or let nature take its course. 

My assignment was to inspect as many dead and dying pines as possible during four days in the field. No specific number was mandated, so I worked leisurely, but steadily. At intervals, I took breaks to perform other vitally important observations such as lying on my back, watching puffy clouds drift across the high country. 

That evening back at camp in the valley, I lowered my bare body into the tiny hot pool created by the benevolence of nature. Some organic matter swirled and clouded the water, but otherwise the pool was perfect. With a long, satisfied sigh, I gave thanks for my good fortune: I was getting paid for hiking, camping and hot springing way out in the wilderness and, as a bonus, was able perform my job duties in the nude. What a gig! 

With each sunrise I returned to the mountainside to inspect more dead and dying pines. And each evening in the valley, I soaked in the tiny hot pool. On Thursday, I was already so far up the mountain, I climbed the remaining distance to the summit of East Warrior Peak and took my lunch of trail mix and dried apricots with only the sun and the wind for company. Splendid solitude. 

* * * * 

Friday morning in the forestry lab on campus, Richard assigned one of his summer school students to help me enter the data I had collected into the IBM mainframe. Megan,19, had worked with the university's computer system during her freshman year and was familiar with the programs used by forestry department. Her assistance was greatly appreciated. 

Wearing leather sandals, denim shorts and an orange & blue Boise State Broncos T-shirt, under which her bounteous breasts bulged against the cotton fabric, this red-haired freckle-faced sophomore-to-be sat at the computer terminal beside mine, tap, tap, tapping away. Her slender fingers flew over the keyboard while mine struggled along, hunting and pecking. 

"How can you type so fast?" I asked. 

A few seconds passed before it registered I was addressing her but finally she stopped and looked up. "I dunno. I don't even think about it. I just do it." 

"Kinda like riding a bicycle?" 

"Uh . . . sorta." 

Megan smiled, then quickly clamped her lips together as if feeling self-conscious about her braces. She looked away and went back to work: tap, tap, tappety tap. At the rate she was typing she would accomplish most of the data entering, which, as it turned out an hour later, was the case. But she wasn't finished; she navigated through the program and found my assignment for the following week and printed it. I thanked Megan for her assistance whereupon she replied, "You're welcome!" She flashed another brief metallic smile then rose to her feet, turned away, and sashayed her shapely backside out the door. 

Richard didn't conduct class on Fridays. That was time for his students to pursue independent study in the lab and/or work on projects in the greenhouse. His teaching materials included an exhaustive map collection, maps of every type: geologic, topographic, hydrologic, geothermal and more. Since Fridays were informal time in the lab, he invited me to browse maps, and whatever else I fancied, at my leisure. And browsing Megan had certainly been pleasant. 

Ever since my youth, I enjoyed studying maps for a variety of reasons but the one reason surpassing all others is the male instinct to master his surroundings. Our Neanderthal brothers needed only to understand their immediate geographical region to find their way back to the cave after a day of hunting and gathering. But modern man ranges over vast domains reaching to the stars. Maps are windows to infinity. 

On a large work table I spread the U.S. Geological Survey geothermal map which was a newer version of the one I had acquired in Denver. On this map, the hot seep along Black Warrior Creek was shown, as were other seeps along creeks elsewhere. Rare was the creek valley in central Idaho that didn't have minor hot seeps. 

"Hey!" Megan's voice startled me. I was concentrating so intently on the map, she had approached undetected from behind. I turned and met her gaze. Eyes bluer than a summer sky . . . . 

"Hey," I replied, "I thought you left." 

She stopped and stood beside me. "Nah. I'm working in the greenhouse. Forgot my fertilizer." She hoisted a large plastic jug to corroborate her story. "Whatcha doing?" 

"Map brooding." I paused a moment then added, "You ever do that? Just look at maps for no good reason?" 

"Yeah, sometimes. Where you going next week?" 

"Way up here." I pointed at the tiny mountain town of Yellow Pine, deep in Payette National Forest, 100 miles north as the eagle flies. 

Megan looked at the map. "That's beautiful country up there." 

"Lotsa nice hot springs too." 

Megan nodded. While she perused the map, my fantasies took flight: This lovely young woman is extolling the beauty of wilderness hot springs and saying how she loves soaking her lithe body in the salubrious waters and, if I desired, she would accompany me to the mountains where we would spend four blissful days and nights indulging wet, wild, naked fun. 

Oh man! Get a grip! I scolded myself. Megan and I had met only that morning but already, in fantasy, we were sprawled in a wildflower mountain meadow, making sweet, sweet love. Entertaining fantasies like that would lead in only one direction: frustration. But at the same time, such fantasies would supply rousing masturbation fodder. 

"Well, I gotta get to work," Megan said. "Have fun up north!" 

"I will. See ya around." 

"Yeah, see ya next Friday!" Megan turned and walked away but the heat of her femininity remained, shimmering like a desert mirage. Eyes bluer than a summer sky . . . . 

* * * * 

Early Monday morning I departed for my next assignment along Quartz Creek north of Yellow Pine. On this second outing I was more organized and finished my work by Thursday morning which allowed me to spend the afternoon at Vulcan Hot Springs which wasn't far off the route back to Boise. According to my USGS geothermal map, Vulcan towered head-and-shoulders above every other hot spring in central Idaho when measured in terms of flow rate and temperature: an astounding 3200 cubic feet per minute at 191 degrees, near boiling. This spectacle of nature was a 'must see.' 

I steered the Blazer off the gravel road and parked at a small Forest Service campground at the trailhead to Vulcan. One car and two tents were there. A footbridge spanning the south fork of the Salmon River I crossed then hiked three-quarters of a mile through the aromatic evergreen forest. The trail followed alongside a substantial creek, smelling of sulfur. I stuck my hand in the water. Warm. 

Finally, I arrived at the Vulcan Hot Springs pool which, in actuality, was a lake. Some enterprising persons, probably quite a few, had been busy as beavers; in a wide swale, a log dam 35 feet long and 5 feet tall impounded a lake, 30×70 feet. The hot creek continued up the valley toward the source of Vulcan's power, unseen. 

One guy and two girls were floating on air mattresses, all of them 25ish and veteran nudists judging by their dark seamless tans. Wearing a red string bikini, one ordinary-looking brunette girl, same age, sat on the log dam "Hey y'all!" I greeted the group as I approached the muddy bank of the lake. They responded with a chorus of friendly greetings. 

In many situations, people aren't accepting of strangers invading their space. People erect mental barriers to keep others at a distance until gradually, acquaintance can be made. But in my experience, at hot springs no barriers exist. Newcomers are welcomed wholeheartedly. 

In addition to being an ardent naturist, I was also an unrepentant exhibitionist. This was the sort of setting I was seeking during my season in the wilderness. After kicking off my boots and socks, I stripped off T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boxers then carefully stepped onto the log dam, the cleanest, easiest entry into the lake. Much easier that trying to clamber down the steep, muddy bank. The bikini-clad girl seated there glanced at my midsection before making eye contact and offering, "Water's real good today." 

Standing close, with my dangling penis at her eye level, I replied, "Is it ever bad?" 

She smiled. "No, never! It's just finally warming up." After a long cold winter, snowmelt seeping in from surrounding terrain cooled the lake, but now snow was gone and the lake was warming nicely. From a seated position on a barkless pine log, I eased myself in. Perfect temperature. Right beside the dam the water was deep enough to actually swim although I couldn't go very far. 

Lying on her back on the air mattress, the busty nude blonde gestured toward an unoccupied mattress floating nearby. "You wanna use it?" she asked. No barriers. 

"Sure! Thanks." 

I had left my air mattress in Boise. I made a mental note: Next time bring your air mattress you big dummy! Aboard the borrowed mattress I climbed, laid on my back and struck up a conversation with Blondie. 

"Where y'all from?" I asked. 

"Boise," she replied then shooed a dragonfly away from its attempt to land on her naturally blonde pubis. 

"Same here. Where else do y'all go swimming?" Figured I would pick her brain for leads on popular skinny-dipping locales. 

"Sometimes we go to Atlanta (hot springs near the tiny mountain town of Atlanta, Idaho) but it gets kinda crowded." While listening to her expound on all the places she enjoyed running around naked, I couldn't help but smile. The world needs more girls like her. 

"You ever been to Worswick?" she asked. 

"No, that's a long drive. " 

"Yeah, but it's worth it. You oughtta go." 

I was familiar with Worswick Hot Springs having read its description in my hot springs guidebook. However, with scores of thermal springs much closer to Boise, I hadn't seriously considered making the long drive over to Ketchum and beyond into Sawtooth National Forest. Nevertheless, Worswick sounded intriguing: dozens of individual vents spread over acres of mountain meadow, seven rock-lined pools raging from small to party size, and the whole place clothing optional. On Blondie's recommendation, I made another mental note: Visit Worswick. 

Blondie relaxed and laid her head back, affording time for a leisurely inspection of her trim, toned body featuring ample breasts, nipples the size of thimbles and sparse, wispy pubic hair which allowed unimpeded viewing of her ruddy, tightly-pinched cleft. The other nudist girl, short dark hair, was in a pair bond with the shaggy-haired, bearded guy. In chest-deep water the two of them were now standing face-to-face, closer than close. No telling what their hands might have been doing below the waterline . . . but I had a fairly good idea. 

I rolled off the air mattress, thanked Blondie for its use, then waded upstream toward the hot creek where it entered the lake. There, the water was much warmer. As I continued wading upstream toward the source of Vulcan's power, the creek grew hotter. Before long the water became so hot I had to abandon the creek in favor of walking on bare granite in the 'dead zone' where nothing grew because of the heat and high dissolved mineral content. And then, at last, there it was: The Source. 

As if spewing from the gates of hell, scalding water gushed into the light through dozens of vents and flooded across a mountain meadow. Sulfurous steam hung heavy, like fog over the valley. Treading carefully across naked granite that felt warm to my bare feet, I wandered through an area half the size of a football field, peppered with bubbling vents and steaming trenches. In the center of the cauldron, bathed in steam, I stood gawking at the spectacle, the power which had continued unabated for centuries. Nowhere else in North America, save for Yellowstone, does there exist such a concentration of intensely hot thermal springs. Each day, enough energy to supply a small town with domestic hot water and space heating simply flowed downstream into the south fork of the Salmon River. But that was better than having despoilers of the earth enter with bulldozers and exploit the resource. Let it be . . . let it be . . . . 

Back at the lake, all of my new acquaintances were seated on the log dam, passing a joint. As I swam toward them, the guy held up the joint and asked, "Wanna toot?" No barriers. Beside Blondie I sat and joined the party. The joint went 'round and 'round and the buzz came down. For the longest time we rambled on and on about everything and nothing. Typical stoned conversation. And all the while I enjoyed the privilege of partaking of Blondie's nakedness as she enjoyed partaking of mine. 

Much longer I could have remaining in their company but the sun was sinking low in the west and I had many miles to travel to reach Boise. I didn't care to navigate those unfamiliar, twisting, turning gravel roads after dark. Reluctantly, I got dressed and bid my new friends farewell. But I vowed: to Vulcan, I would return. 

* * * * 

Tap, tap, tappety tap . . . . 

Her fiery red hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail, Megan sat at the computer terminal beside mine, tap, tap, tapping away. Four days of beetle observations in the mountains north of Yellow Pine resulted mountains of data to be entered into the IBM mainframe. Her intense concentration on the keyboard enabled me to indulge a leisurely inspection of her lean, toned, body. Megan looked like she was dressed for running; black gym shorts and a skintight gray sports bra. But no. She was dressed for casual Friday in the lab. Her bounteous breasts bulged against the gossamer thin fabric but oddly, no nipple pokies whatsoever. 

When at last all of the data had been entered and my next assignment printed, Megan turned to me and asked, "So, how was your trip north?" 

"Fantastic! I've got the best summer job in the world!" Truth. I expounded on my week in the wild: the rugged grandeur of the mountains, the splendid solitude, the satisfying nature of the work . . . "And I went skinny-dipping at Vulcan Hot Springs." 

At the mention of skinny-dipping, Megan's blue eyes sparkled. "I've never been there. Where's it at?" 

"C'mon, I'll show you." We rose to our feet and headed for the resource library down the hall. From the map file cabinet I retrieved a large-scale topographic map and spread it on a work table. At Vulcan I pointed. Megan studied the location, along the south fork of the Salmon River. 

"You wouldn't believe the flow rate," I said. 

"Is it faster than Atlanta?" 

"Oh hell yeah! You could fill a backyard swimming pool in only a few minutes!" 

Her eyes widened. "Wow . . . I gotta go there!" 

For the longest time we stood at the table perusing the map. Megan pointed out trails she had hiked, mountains she had climbed and hot springs she had visited. Every single one of the springs she mentioned had a tradition of nude use according to my hot springs guidebook. A lightbulb flashed on in my head. I looked her in the eye and asked, "So, are you a-" I made 'air quotation marks' with my hands, "-nature girl?" 

Grinning, she understood my inference. "Yup! That's the only way to soak!" 


To The Wild Country Ch. 01



I nodded. "I agree!" 

She smiled, briefly, then clamped her lips together to hide her braces. "Where you headed next week?" 

I read the printout. "Deadwood River." 

It took a moment to locate the river on the map. "That's right by Pine Flats," (clothing optional hot springs) she observed. 

"Yeah, it's a tough job but somebody's gotta do it." 

"I'm envious!" She sighed then continued, "Well, I gotta get some work done. See ya next Friday." 

"Yeah, see ya." Indeed, I would see Megan on Friday. And I was hoping beyond hope to see even more of her in the future: every square inch of her bare freckled skin. 

Megan turned and hurried away toward the greenhouse and once again, her feminine essence hung suspended in space, as enticing as the lingering scent of her perfume. Eyes bluer than a summer sky . . . 

* * * * 

Throughout the remainder of June I was assigned to inspect more parcels on National Forest land. My travels took me into regions so remote that no foot trails existed, not even a trace. Standing on pine-speckled mountainsides, I was gripped with the feeling that I was the first human to ever set foot on those pieces of terra firma. Perhaps that was so. 

On one trip I visited Rocky Canyon Hot Springs along the middle fork of the Payette River where I had the chain of pools to myself. And on another trip, I hung out at Vulcan with three nudist backpacker women who shared their killer weed. Woo hoo! 

In my state of altered awareness, I stood bathed in sulfurous steam issuing from The Source. It wasn't just my imagination; along with steam, truth was revealed, truth of inner earth and my inner self. Attentively, I listened and opened my mind, waiting for the ancient oracle to impart the wisdom of the ages. Immersed in the wilderness, I felt overarching peace. Perhaps that is the wisdom of the ages. Peace. 

After each assignment, Megan met me in the forestry lab on Friday morning to assist in entering the voluminous data into the IBM mainframe. She was always cheerful and diligent, two positive character traits. Her assistance wasn't entirely altruistic; Richard was giving her extra credit for helping me. Each Friday morning I wanted to ask her if, perhaps, she would like to accompany me on an outing to Atlanta Hot Springs. But I was hesitant to broach the subject; would she accept an invitation to spend an afternoon naked with a man she barely knew? A man 11 years her senior? 

* * * * 

My next assignment took me way up the middle fork of the Salmon River into some spectacular mountain backcountry. As always, I relished my sojourn in the wilderness. And, as always, most of my time was spent clothed in nothing but sunshine. 

Friday morning in the forestry lab: tap tap tappety tap . . . Megan's slender fingers flew over the keyboard, entering volumes of dull, dry information; pine bark beetle counts, sap-oozing bore hole analysis and dead tree measurements. After all the data had been entered she printed my next assignment, up the south fork of the Payette River. I mentioned that Sacajawea Hot Springs were in that vicinity and how eager I was to check them out. That must have struck a chord with Nature Girl; she spoke of growing tired of being stuck in town and would love to get away into the wild. 

I looked Megan in the eye and asked, "You wanna go with me on an assignment?" I had hope, but no real expectation, that she might accept my invitation to accompany me on a field assignment, so I wasn't disappointed when she replied, "I can't. Got classes." 

"What about between sessions? You're off that week, right?" 

"Yeah." Her tone was lukewarm and she said nothing more. Megan seemed hesitant, as if questioning the wisdom of venturing alone into the wilderness with a man she barely knew. 

"Bring Kelly along," I suggested. "Maybe Rich'll give you both extra credit." 

Her tone shifted; she sounded genuinely interested. "You think?" 

"Well, I'll ask him." 

Her mood became upbeat. "Okay! If he would do that," she nodded, "yeah, I would go." 

I was acquainted with Kelly, Megan's housemate, having talked with her on Friday mornings in the lab. Like Megan, Kelly was an all-American co-ed; energetic, inquisitive, fresh-faced, radiating health and vitality. Both girls were about the same height, five-feet-five, and possessed similar lean, toned bodies which meant they probably swapped clothing on a regular basis. Fantasies of the two of them standing before a mirror in their underwear, trying on each other's wardrobe, provided masturbation fodder on more than one occasion. Kelly's appearance differed from Megan's in two significant respects; brunette hair and small breasts. On casual Fridays Kelly routinely wore tube tops that drew attention to her dearth of endowment. The possibility that both of them might accompany me on a field assignment had my excitement on an upward track. But it was dependent on whether or not Richard would allow it. 

* * * * 

The gravel Forest Service road leading to my assigned work area passed right by Sacajawea Hot Springs, on the banks the south fork of the Payette River. No one was there on that Monday morning. Hot springs are usually referred to in plurality because most sites have more than one vent gushing hot water. Sacajawea had at least a half-dozen steaming vents spread along 100 yards of riverbank. Only three vents had been impounded in pools behind semicircular rock dams set right in the riverbed. The rest flowed directly into the river although in places, foundational remnants remained of once-upon-a-time pools, long since washed away by vernal freshets. I had no time to tarry that morning, but if my work week progressed smoothly, I planned to indulge a soothing hot soak before heading back to Boise. 

After driving to my assigned work area, then backpacking an additional four miles up the north fork of Baron Creek, one look at the mountainside verified I had my work cut out. Scores of brown pines awaited my postmortem examination. Once I established camp, I stripped naked and set about my work, all the while keeping my eyes on the prize: Sacajawea. Monday I toiled until twilight and did the same on Tuesday. Toil might be overstated; at no time did I feel rushed or harried. Never could I feel that way in the wilderness because nature never hurries; like time itself, nature flows at its own leisurely pace, unconcerned with the vain striving of man. 

Daily, I fell into a rhythm that carried me along as easily as clouds drifting across the blue summer sky. With each tree examined, another notch toward completion. Then another tree and another and by Wednesday evening I was finished, having conducted thorough inspections of 87 dead and dying pines. 

Thursday morning I arrived back at Sacajawea. My hot springs guidebook stated that no clothing requirement was posted, but swimsuits were recommended because the gravel Forest Service road ran immediately adjacent, about 100 feet away. But the road was uphill, about 30 vertical feet; people driving past had little chance of noticing soakers way down below. Only those who stopped and pulled to the roadside might spy nudity, but since they would be stopping for a soak . . . so what? 

Two cars were parked alongside the road and their owners were at riverside. Five suited twentysomethings, two guys and three girls, were soaking in one small pool, and 40 feet downstream, a guy and a girl, both 30ish, were busy stacking rocks to build another pool at one of the unexploited vents. The long-haired, bearded guy was naked. His raven-haired female companion wore nothing but a blue thong bikini brief. The two of them gave me all the encouragement needed to indulge Sacajawea as nature intended. 

"Hey," I greeted the pair as I stepped down the slope. The girl plopped a grapefruit size, rounded granite stone in place on the growing dam then raised upright and slung her long ponytail back over her shoulder. "Hey!" she replied. Had she been wearing a top its only purpose would have been covering; her small breasts didn't need support. 

"You want some help?" I asked. 

"Sure!" the guy answered. No barriers. 

I closed the remaining distance then stripped naked. Only then were proper introductions made. The pool under construction was being built upon the foundation of a former pool. "This one here," Mike said, gesturing toward the fledgling pool, "gets washed away every spring and we hafta rebuild it." Their motivation for working hard to rebuild the dam sprang from two sources. The vent just upslope had a significant flow rate of scalding water which made it possible to supply a large pool which, according to Mike, had developed a reputation for being the most popular at Sacajawea. "And sweat labor does the body good!" Sheila chimed in with a smile. Indeed, it had done her lean, toned, tanned, petite body worlds of good. And being able to labor unclothed in plain view of her, and the three bikini-clad girls soaking nearby, did my exhibitionist's nature a world of good. The three girls glanced and grinned, seeming to be amused by the sight of nudists at work. Whenever I bent over to wrest big rocks from the riverbed, I pointed my posterior in their direction and lingered a moment, mooning them without mercy. Glancing between my legs confirmed they were watching the gonad-dangling spectacle. 

Onward we labored, stacking rocks of every size to build the dam higher for what was shaping up to be a pool 20 feet in diameter. Our cause gained momentum when the two suited guys added their energy to the project. Their three female friends pitched in as well although the blonde spent more time standing around watching than working. The two brunette bikini girls gave a yeoman's effort; granite rock after rock they trundled from riverbed to dam, not seeming to mind working within elbow-rubbing proximity of two naked men. 

After plopping a big rock into place on the dam, the girl wearing a black string bikini lost her balance and stumbled sideways. Reflexively, her arms flailed for something, anything, to grab that would prevent falling. In the ensuing panic, one of her hands rammed my butt while I was in a compromised position: bent over, wresting a big rock from the riverbed. She might have crashed to the ground if not for the support she gained from practically giving me a prostate exam. Her profuse apologies were entirely unnecessary, yet charming; embarrassed girls possess a magical quality that makes them even more endearing. 

By noon we had succeeded in restoring the largest pool at Sacajawea; 20 feet in diameter and 16 inches deep. All eight of us waded in and sat down chest-deep in our joint accomplishment. Temperature control was tricky. Time spent tinkering with rocks in the dam to admit just the right amount of cold river water produced limited success; alternating waves of hot and cold rippled from one side of the pool to the other. One moment Sheila was comfortably ensconced chest-deep and the next she screeched, "Oh fuck!" and leaped to her feet to avoid getting scalded. Likewise, the rest of us did our share of jumping to escape the capricious thermal currents. Not exactly the kind of relaxing experience I associate with hot spring soaking. 

That may have been the reason the five suited individuals returned to the other pool. And that was one of the reasons I bid Mike and Sheila farewell and headed on down the road. The other reason: I had many miles to drive to reach Boise. 

* * * * 

"He will? Great!" Friday morning in the forestry lab, Megan was excited because Richard had agreed to give extra credit to both her and Kelly if they accompanied me on a field assignment to make pine bark beetle inspections. The extra credit wouldn't count toward their general course work but would apply to the work accomplished during the week-long field trip the entire class would be taking in mid August. Megan was so pumped, as soon as we finished entering data into the IBM mainframe, she wanted to hustle home and begin assembling her camping gear for Monday morning. 

But first, she navigated through the computer program and printed our assignment for the following week: two parcels in Sawtooth National Forest. I was pumped as well because the assigned zones placed us in the vicinity of Worswick Hot Springs: scores of individual vents spread over several acres of mountain meadow, a substantial hot creek, seven rock-lined soaking pools and the entire place clothing optional. The prospect of skinny-dipping with Nature Girl and Kelly, had my excitement rising higher than the Sawtooth Mountains themselves. 

* * * * 

Monday morning, I pulled the Blazer to a halt in front of Megan's off-campus apartment, one of three units carved out of a stately, formerly single-family home. On the front porch, seated on a ratty old sofa, she and Kelly waited. Both were dressed in trail garb: dark T-shirts and cargo shorts. Both had their long hair pulled back in ponytails. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat Atop Megan's fiery red head. 

Their overstuffed backpacks, leaning against the porch rail, made it appear as if they were headed for a months-long expedition to Katmandu rather than four days in the Idaho mountains. At the curb, I stepped out of the Blazer and greeted them, "Hey!" 

"Hey!" they returned my greeting in unison. 

I walked up the steps onto the front porch. "So, y'all ready to rumble?" 

"Yup," Kelly replied and the two of them rose to their feet. The housemates lugged their backpacks to the Blazer, tossed them in back, and off we rumbled down the road. 

On the long drive to our destination, we listened to Bob Seger's Live Bullet. When Bob belted out, "K-k-k-k-k-k Katmandu, that's really, really where I'm going to . . ." I had to grin, thinking about the girls' overstuffed backpacks. Megan and Kelly sat in back so they could talk. And talk they did, excitedly and nonstop. Both were in good cheer. And whenever the spirit moved them, they sang along with Bob. Getting away from the classroom and heading to the mountains does the soul a world of good. 

Our assignment for the week was to inspect two parcels in Sawtooth National Forest, the first one 9 miles north of Ketchum. I was able to drive the Blazer a quarter-mile up Murdock Creek Valley before the rough jeep trail petered out. From there, we hoofed it. Watching the girls hoist their monster backpacks onto their shoulders, I felt fortunate not to be in their hiking boots. Whenever I venture into the wild, I travel light. We didn't have very far to hike, two miles up the winding valley which gradually narrowed, flanked by steep mountainsides speckled with pines. At a flat spot along the creek, we sloughed our backpacks. After pitching our tents, we climbed upslope to an area beset with dead pines and began our work. Both girls were attentive while I outlined the procedures for conducting inspections. The extra credit Richard agreed to extend would depend on my report on how well they performed. 

Hand job, 5 points. 

Blow job, 10 points. 

Doggy style, 20 points. 

Oh man! Stop it! In Megan's company, such fantasies came easily. 

While I outlined the procedures, Megan's sky blue eyes peered out from beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat. She took additional precautions to prevent ultraviolet radiation from burning her freckled, sun-sensitive skin: lots of sunscreen on her arms and legs. Kelly, olive-skinned, wasn't worried about solar exposure. After turning the girls loose to begin the inspections, Kelly stripped off her forest green T-shirt, revealing a yellow tube top. Although she had small breasts, huge nipple pokies were noted, pressing against the thin fabric. The girls began counting sap-oozing bore holes and immediately ran into difficulty. 

"I lost count," Megan said. 

Kelly pointed at a hole. "Did you count this one?" 

"I dunno." 

I stepped in. "Here's how I do it." A short stick the diameter of a pencil I picked up and poked it into the sticky sap bulging out of the bore hole. After withdrawing the stick, an indentation remained in the sap. "See that?" I asked. They nodded. "That's how you know it's been counted." 

Both girls picked up short, thin sticks and began counting and poking on the same tree but more difficulty arose. Neither was sure who poked which hole and they lost count again. So I advised each to select their own tree to inspect and the process went much smoother. 

Megan and Kelly were fast studies and diligent in their work; on their respective trees they accomplished the entire range of observations mandated by the field manual, after which I took the requisite photos. But none of this felt like work. The girls remained upbeat and high-spirited. And so was I, even though it wasn't certain we would have time to indulge a hot soak at Worswick Hot Springs. That depended on how quickly we completed the inspections. By evening, we were only half done. The remainder we deferred until morning. 

After supper, after dark, we sat cross-legged on the ground around the campfire. Dreamy dancing flames sent plumes of pine-scented smoke spiraling toward the treetops. Between the dark looming crags of the Sawtooth Range, billions of stars sparkled in the clear mountain sky. 

I discovered what was making the girls' backpacks so bulky: multiple bags of snacks. "We're gonna hafta tie those up in a tree to keep bears out of camp," I cautioned. 

"Not if we eat it all!" Kelly shot back, grinning. 

"What's your favorite?" Megan asked me. 

Red hair, five-feet-five, charming personality . . . . "Doritos." She rummaged through her backpack, pulled out an unopened bag of the zesty tortilla chips, and tossed it at me. "Here ya go!" 

I caught the bag. "Thanks! Nacho cheese! Yummy!" 

The evening passed pleasantly, munching snacks and engaging in convivial conversation. In the company of these delightful young women, I felt like a college student again, filled with hope for the future. And no, we didn't succeed in eating all the snacks. Not even close, although we gave it the ol' college try. The leftovers I placed in a large nylon bag onto which I tied a long rope then hoisted it high into a tall pine. 

The following morning, Tuesday, we resumed our work and finished the inspections by midday. By 2:00 P.M. we were back at the Blazer. The second parcel on our assignment, up Black Horse Creek, was smaller than the first and judging from the aerial photos, had fewer dead trees to inspect. With three of us working, I made a calculated decision that only one day, Wednesday, would be needed to perform the inspections. So, by unanimous acclamation, instead of proceeding to the parcel we blew off work and headed to Worswick Hot Springs. 

Thirty-two miles of twisting, turning gravel Forest Service roads deep into the mountains delivered us to Worswick. A dozen vehicles were parked alongside the road when we arrived at 3:30 P.M.. In a vast mountain meadow largely devoid of pines, scores of vents sent plumes of white steam wafting toward the blue summer sky like smoke rising from as many campfires. 

While Megan and I rummaged through our backpacks at the Blazer's open tailgate, in the front passenger seat Kelly changed into her swimsuit. She was right there only a few feet away, but all I saw was bare shoulders and the back of her brunette head . . . until I noticed visor was down. Reflected in the vanity mirror, I caught a fleeting glimpse of nipple, one sizable nipple. Kelly finished changing then stepped out of the Blazer wearing a hot pink string bikini. Stealthily, I scanned her lean, toned body. At the apex of her small breasts, huge nipple pokies. And her top wasn't even wet yet. Pronounced camel toe led me to speculate she shaved or at least trimmed. 

Daypacks slung over their shoulders, the girls proceeded up the trail toward the hot pools. Right behind Kelly I followed, watching her backside. The patch of polyester comprising the seat of her brief left most of her cute caboose exposed, showcasing the tiny butterfly tattoo on her left bun. 




To The Wild Country Ch. 01



Megan was still dressed as she had been all day: trail garb and wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her sun-sensitive skin. Knowing she was a naturist, my anticipation was building sky-high, awaiting the moment when the last stitch of her clothing lay discarded on the ground. 

The first pool we arrived at had been created by impounding a substantial hot creek behind a dam constructed of logs, rocks, and gravel. Fifteen feet wide and 40 long, the shallow pool was occupied by two dozen people, both genders in their twenties and thirties, half of them naked. Acting unperturbed by the nudity, Kelly dropped her daypack on the meadow grass, kicked off her sandals, and waded in knee-deep among the bathers, some of whom extended friendly greetings. No barriers. 

Megan began undressing. After taking off her straw hat and kicking off her sandals, she peeled off her T-shirt, revealing a plain white brassiere that formed tantalizing cleavage. She unbuckled her belt, unzipped and unsnapped her cargo shorts and pulled them down. For weeks, my imagination had supplied visions of Megan's bounteous bare breasts, so when she reached behind her back, unfastened the clasp on her brassiere and pulled it away from her chest, they seemed familiar. But I hadn't suspected they would have such tiny button nipples scarcely larger than some of the freckles surrounding them. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her black cotton panties and, in one fluid motion, slid them down and off. She tossed them on the discard pile then looked at me and grinned. I grinned back. 

Nature Girl indeed! Neither scissors or razor had tamed her wild ginger bush. Its fiery hue virtually matched her ruddy labia which gaped, revealing wrinkly inner lips and prominent clitoral hood. 

Megan held out her bottle of sunscreen. "Will you please?" She didn't need to ask twice. I took the bottle. She turned her back and pulled forward over one shoulder her long, bushy ponytail. A generous measure I squirted onto her shoulders then began smoothing it down her sculpted back. "And rub it in real good," she added. My pleasure. 

While spreading the creamy white lotion, willpower of the highest magnitude was required to prevent my hand from wandering south to explore the contours of her fine freckled fanny. I didn't want to overstep any boundaries; I assumed she would prefer to slather her buttocks herself. For the better part of two minutes I rubbed it in 'real good' until it had soaked completely into her pale supple skin. "Thanks!" she chirped then turned around and took the bottle. 

The remaining sunscreen on my hand I rubbed on my arm then perfunctorily stripped naked. Both girls glanced in my direction but otherwise displayed no reaction. I expected as much. Both were veterans at clothing optional hot springs and this outing was simply one more. Nevertheless, how pleasing it was being naked in their company. Re-creating thusly with friends adds a layer of familiarity otherwise unattainable. 

Into the pool I waded and sat chest-deep beside Kelly. Megan continued rubbing sunscreen all over her body: arms, legs, face, buttocks, torso . . . . While slathering her classically proportioned breasts, her hand squeezed and smooshed the soft pliable flesh. And she rubbed it in real good. Her behavior resembled self-fondling and commanded the attention of every man present. When she finished slathering, Megan didn't get in the pool. She just stood there. 

"Aren't you coming in?" I asked. 

"Yeah, but I gotta let the lotion soak in so it won't wash off." 

While waiting for that, I suggested, "You wanna walk around and check out the other pools?" 

"Sure! Let's go!" 

I made eye contact with Kelly, reclined with her head resting on a clump of meadow grass growing at water's edge. "You wanna go?" I asked. 

"Nah, you guys go ahead." She slumped down even farther so that only her face remained above the surface. 

I climbed out of the pool then off we went, the bearded tree inspector and freckled Nature Girl, wearing nothing but sunscreen and her wide-brimmed straw hat. I've always liked that look; a naked girl wearing a hat. Doesn't matter what kind. Hat, that is. 

Worswick had a long tradition of nude use even though scant few trees screened the pools from the gravel Forest Service road. However, the main pool was 400 feet from the road and the other six were slightly upslope, which made it unlikely that anyone driving past would notice nudity. And each step we tread through the meadow took us farther from the road. The walk was exciting; out there in the wide open spaces with mountain vistas at every point on the compass. And walking alongside, a perfectly-at-ease young lady whose bounteous breasts bounced gently with each unhurried step up the trail. 

Following the hot creek upstream, before long we arrived at another pool, a smaller one, occupied by a nude 20ish couple seated side-by-side. As we approached, their sheepish grins hinted we might have interrupted some underwater mutual masturbation. We didn't intrude on their space and kept moving. 

The hot creek forked many times, each fork leading to one, or a cluster of vents. In areas where terrain was favorable -swales, depressions, bends- volunteers had utilized native materials -logs, rocks, gravel- to dam the creeks and impound pools, a total of seven. Most of the upper pools were vacant. When I stuck my foot into one I discovered why. "Ow! That's hot!" I screeched. Indeed, waaay too hot for soaking. Worswick was a popular four-season destination. Nordic skiers and snowmobilers could soak in the upper pools in the middle of winter. But in the middle of July, they were unusable. 

"C'mon," Megan chided, "it can't be that hot." 

"Oh yeah? You try it." 

She stuck a foot into the pool but didn't react in any way whatsoever. It must have hurt like hell but she would never let me know it. Casually, as if in no distress, she pulled her foot out. "Nothin' to it." She feigned cool indifference even though her foot was scorched beet red. 

"Okay miss smarty pants, let's see you climb all the way in." 

"Can't. My sunscreen hasn't soaked in yet." 

"Sure . . . handy excuse." 

Megan's sense of humor made me smile. Another positive character trait. Both of us grinning, we headed downslope toward the main pool. Walking behind Megan, I was blessed with extended viewing of her fine freckled fanny. With each light footfall, one jostling bun, then the other, vied for my attention. It was like watching a tennis match. Ohhh, I'd love to slide up behind, grab her hips and . . . 

Into the main pool I waded and sat chest-deep beside Kelly. She roused from a restful drowse. Megan waded in and sat beside me on the pebbly bottom. Conversations were going on all around us, but for a time, no one in our threesome said a word. Lying back with our heads resting on clumps of meadow grass, we allowed the heat to penetrate every pore. At length, Megan rolled her head and her sky blue eyes met mine. "You're right, you've got the best summer job in the world!" 

"Yeah, sometimes I feel guilty getting paid for it." I paused a few seconds then blurted, "No I don't!" Megan laughed and flashed a dazzling metallic smile, then quickly clamped her lips together. Too bad she felt self-conscious about her braces; she had a lovely smile. 

The ambiance at Worswick was similar to any other clothing optional hot spring; a congenial assembly of suited and naked, all bound by the commonality of sharing the same place on the planet at the same time. Conversations flowed as freely as hot water cascading over the dam. Never were exchanges forced or contrived. Everyone felt free to speak their minds. At times, bathers sat on the pool's edge cooling themselves; men, women, suited, unsuited. 

I couldn't speak to Megan's and Kelly's mindsets, but socializing with naked men must have been pleasant as evidenced by their bright expressions and animated mannerisms while talking with other guys in the pool. Whenever men sat above the waterline, on rocks or the dam, the housemates didn't stare at the penises arrayed before them, but neither did they feel it necessary to avert their eyes. They allowed their gaze to fall wherever it pleased, following their instincts as naturally as the wildlife inhabiting the high country. 

Through all of this, the sunscreen slathering, the stroll through the mountain meadow and now, as she sat on the dam with her body visible to one and all, Megan's behavior verified she wouldn't have cared if the whole world saw her naked. Nature Girl was at home in the wilderness clad only in fresh air and sunshine. That her nakedness was shared with others was incidental to her pursuit of embracing Mother Earth. Megan was truly a naturist in every way the concept can be defined. Even if she had been alone in deep solitude, I earnestly believe her enjoyment would have been just as gratifying. 

The afternoon passed much too quickly. As the sun sank in the west beyond the mountains, we prepared for approaching night. I made the walk to the Blazer naked and so did Megan. She slung on her backpack and waited for Kelly, still wearing her hot pink string bikini, to sling on her pack. Once I locked the Blazer and slung on my pack, back to the main pool we went. Being late in the day, we had the entire meadow to ourselves. 

The girls doffed their backpacks then set about erecting their tent. With each tent peg Megan bent over to press into the ground, her buttocks splayed, revealing her puckered anus and gaping cleft. I didn't get the vibe that her mooning was intentional; it was simply a posture she had to assume to accomplish a job. That her posterior was pointed in my direction each time she bent over was coincidental. Or was it? 

Surprisingly, Kelly didn't utilize their tent to change into dry clothing. Standing in front of the tent, she simply turned her back, stripped off her hot pink bikini brief then immediately pulled on black gym shorts. The quick-change took only 5 seconds, but how pleasant, the fleeting glimpse of her cute caboose. Her bikini brief shadow, the inner curvature of her buttocks, was many shades lighter than her overall olive-skinned color. Her back still turned, she traded swim top for a red T-shirt. 

Sundown. Twilight. Darkness. 

All of us fully clothed to ward off the encroaching chill of night, we sat cross-legged around a crackling campfire, passing the evening in convivial conversation while munching the girls' seemingly inexhaustible supply of snacks. After a time, everyone fell silent and the night sounds assumed prominence. Somewhere in the meadow a small four-legged creature scurried. Unseen, a night raptor swooshed overhead, seeking prey. On a distant mountainside, a coyote sang a lonesome song. 

Megan looked away from the flames and our eyes met. She smiled, briefly, a glint of yellow-orange firelight reflecting off her braces. Her sublime expression said it all: this is where she wanted to be. In the wilderness is where she found peace. 

* * * * 

In the predawn twilight I awakened to the rasp of the girls' tent door being unzipped. Megan, naked, crawled out into the chilly air then rose to her feet and scurried through the dewy meadow grass toward the hot pool, into which she waded and lowered herself chest-deep with an audible sigh. My first impulse was to join her. But no. Somehow, I knew Nature Girl desired solitude. I rolled over for more shuteye. 

Awhile later, I roused from a half-sleep just as the sun's first rays broke above the jagged Sawtooth Range far to the east. Seen in profile, Megan sat on a rock waist-deep. Eyes shut and hands folded in her lap, she faced the rising sun, a scene of utter tranquility; naked nature and naked humanity existing in balance, in harmony, each loving the other. For the longest time, in silence, I gazed upon her meditations. 

Megan might have continued her meditations much longer if Kelly, fully clothed, hadn't crawled out of the tent and spoken to her friend. "You want some tea?" Kelly asked. 

Megan opened her eyes. "Sure. Thanks." 

Kelly fired up their propane camp stove and put on a pot of water to boil. I unzipped my tent door which got Megan's attention. She looked in my direction. Her pale freckled breasts glowed pinkish in the dawn's early light. 

" 'Bout time sleepyhead," she chided good-naturedly. 

"Yeah," I said, "another day at the office." 

Out of my tent I crawled naked then rose to my feet. Briskly, I stepped toward the pool, waded in, then reclined neck-deep, resting my head on a clump of meadow grass growing at water's edge. Megan repositioned herself and reclined neck-deep beside me. Without making eye contact, she said, "I suppose we oughtta listen to the traffic report and see if the freeway's clogged." I ran with the joke. "Yeah, good idea. I'd hate to get stuck in gridlock." The only gridlock was flocks of Mountain Jays descending from their overnight roosts on the pine-speckled mountainsides. 

Both of us grinning, we sat up and accepted the cups of tea Kelly graciously prepare for us. Kelly sat on the rocks dangling her bare feet in the water. In the quiet of morning, few words were spoken; everyone turned their thoughts inward as we sipped our tea. 

Eventually, I asked Megan, "You want a morning bath?" 

"Uh . . . isn't that what we're doing?" 

"No, I mean a real bath." I described the method of bathing using a baking soda/water mixture. With soap, detergent action washes away dirt and oil. With baking soda, abrasive mechanical action is what cleanses. It takes more time and effort but it's a pollution-free way to achieve bodily cleanliness. 

Megan declined. "No thanks. I'm good." 

But I was up for a real bath and not just to wash my dirty, oily skin. Bathing in public was a means to enhance my exhibitionistic activities; washing gives you an excuse to grope your privates with impunity. From my tent I retrieved the required supplies: a box of baking soda and my biggest aluminum cook pot. In the pot I mixed the soda/water slurry then set it on a flat rock on the edge of the pool. Standing knee-deep, I proceeded to rub the mixture onto my arms, legs, and torso. 

A vigorous scrubbing I gave myself all over. Both girls acted nonchalant: Ed's washing. Big deal. But when my hands wandered down and began washing my penis, Kelly politely looked away. Megan's sky blue eyes remained aimed in my direction as one hand peeled back the skin sheathing my shaft and all five fingertips on my other hand clamped around my glans and gave it a good scrubbing. This was a motion that always gave rise to rapid fluffing and now was no exception. Within the span of ten seconds my penis lengthened and fattened considerably. 

"Okay, you got me curious," Megan admitted. 

"Then step right up!" 

She rose to her feet and stood beside me. Rivulets trickled down the slopes of her breasts and dripped off their globular undersides. Handfuls of baking soda slurry she scooped out of the cook pot and began scrubbing; face, arms, armpits, legs, torso . . . 

On wilderness excursions, extra emphasis is placed on washing body parts where bacteria levels can mushroom and cause skin irritation. Having voluminous back country experience, Megan understood this. She scooped a measure of mixture and splashed it onto her pubic mound. In what seemed slow motion from my male-centric viewpoint, her slender fingers raked through her gorgeous ginger bush and slid up and down her gaping cleft. She wasn't content to cleanse merely the exterior; two fingers she plunged inside to root any grit that may have lodged there. Megan was cleansing her body as she would in the privacy of her bathroom at home; her behavior wasn't intentionally provocative. But tell that to my libido; watching Megan finger herself fluffed my penis to a significant angle from vertical. Kelly grinned but otherwise betrayed no indication that she noticed my half-mast condition. Once the frontal portion of her lower zone was clean, Megan scooped another handful of slurry and gave her anus a good scrubbing. 

Megan dunked herself underwater to rise off. She stood up knee-deep and slid one hand up and down her forearm. It was squeaky clean. "It really works!" she gushed. "I was skeptical." 

"It works fine on skin but it's a real chore washing hair." 

"Well, maybe I'll try that later." 

We didn't have time to tarry at Worswick; work awaited. Standing in front of her tent now, Megan toweled dry then proceeded to get dressed. The panties she had worn for two days she held under her nose and performed a sniff test. Fail. She made a sour face then stuffed the soiled underwear in her backpack. Clean pink cotton panties she stepped into and pulled on, then donned a clean black sports bra. 

Once everyone was fully dressed and breakfast consumed, we broke camp and headed for our assigned work area, up Black Horse Creek, 4 miles away. As expected, the parcel didn't have very many dead trees to inspect and the work went smoothly. By early evening, we had finished. 

After dark, seated cross-legged around a crackling campfire, we continued munching the chips, pretzels, popcorn, and mixed nuts the girls brought. The conversation rambled but eventually, I steered it into personal areas, endeavoring to flesh out more about these alluring young women with whom I was sharing this high country adventure. 

"So, how long have you two been housemates?" 

Kelly answered: "About seven weeks but we've been best friends forever." Both girls expounded, telling how they had been friends since early childhood, grew up in the same neighborhood, attended the same schools, were in the same Girl Scout troop . . . 

Megan looked at Kelly and exclaimed, "Oh! Let's sing Little Bunny Foo Foo. You remember it?" 

"Yeah!" The girls began singing about Foo Foo and while doing so, pantomimed his fieldmouse -bopping behavior along with the lyrics. When one or the other messed up by pantomiming incorrectly, they laughed like young schoolgirls. In many ways, it seemed they had regressed back to their formative years, to adolescence. Charming. Two more Girl Scout campfire songs they sang and when finished, Megan said, "Sing us a song." 

I finished chewing and swallowing a mouthful of Doritos. "I'm not much of a singer." 

"Awww, c'mon," Kelly implored, "everybody can sing." 

They weren't going to let me slide. "Uh, okay. Lemme think . . . " 

Deep into my mental database I searched, trying to decide which one of the Boy Scout campfire songs I had learned as a youth could possibly compete with Foo Foo. Perhaps, Alice. 

I cleared my throat and sang: 

"Alice where are you going? 

Upstairs to take a bath 

Alice with legs like toothpicks 

And a neck just like a giraffe raff raff raff raff raff raff raff 

Alice stepped in the bathtub 

Alice pulled out the plug 

Oh my goodness! Oh my soul! 

There goes Alice down the hole! 

Blub blub blub blub . . . . " 

And, like Megan and Kelly had done, I pantomimed along with the lyrics. They smiled approvingly at my amateur effort. The campfire camaraderie lasted late into the evening but finally, bedtime arrived with dreams of the morrow: an entire day at Worswick. 

* * * * 

At daybreak, I crawled out of my nylon mountain tent while the girls were still sound asleep in theirs. Seated cross-legged on a thick carpet of brown pine needles, I put a pot of water on my propane camp stove. Not until I poured my second cup of coffee and warm morning sunlight flooded the valley did Megan awaken and look out through the screen door of her tent. Wearing a white T-shirt, she sat up. Her eyes were mere slits. A disheveled shock of long red hair hung in her freckled face. "Mornin'." She sounded sleepy. 




To The Wild Country Ch. 02



The two weeks until the field trip crawled past. Each Monday morning I departed for my work assignment in some far-flung corner of the Idaho wilderness, spending warm sunny days and cool starlit nights in splendid solitude. And each Friday morning, Megan met me in the forestry lab on campus where she sat at the computer terminal beside mine, helping enter the pine bark beetle data I had collected into the IBM mainframe. On the Friday night before the field trip, she, Kelly and I went out for pizza. We were joined by Tina, another of Richard's forestry students. I was well-acquainted with Tina. Every single Friday, this petite energetic blonde was eager to drag me into the greenhouse and show me how swimmingly her western white pine seedlings were coming along. Over supper, Megan mentioned that Vulcan Hot Springs was a nudie place whereupon Tina, smiling, said, "Good! I hate wearing a swimsuit." Yesss! The skinny-dipping juggernaut junket was gaining momentum. 

At daybreak on Monday, August 13th, Richard's forestry class convened in the southeast corner of the football stadium parking lot, the mustering point for the week-long field trip. Amid piles of camping gear spread over the pavement, 19 students milled around, talking, joking and laughing. All wore wilderness trail garb: hiking boots, T-shirts, utilitarian shorts, and various styles of hats, baseball caps the predominant favorite. 

Is it just my observation, or is it true that college girls are hotter than their nonacademic peers in the general population? Such was the case for all eleven of Richard's female students. All were trim, toned, fresh-faced, bright-eyed; an assemblage of blondes, brunettes, and Megan's fiery red head atop which sat her wide-brimmed straw hat. And the eight guys were wholesome handsome fellows, nary a nerd among them. 

Richard took the role; all present and accounted for. Also present were two male teaching assistants and a raven-haired female research assistant, all three in their mid 20s. In addition to augmenting Richard's multidisciplinary teaching approach with expertise in their respective fields, they, and myself as well, would also be serving as chaperones. In my opinion, 19-year-olds didn't need oversight. Inside, I laughed at the notion of me, a quasi perv, being a chaperone. As far as I was concerned the students could do whatever they pleased during their free time. 

Once everyone's camping gear was loaded, off we went headed north on highway 55, a convoy of seven vehicles, a mix of privately owned and university owned. Sitting beside me in the Blazer, Megan spent most of the time half-turned in her seat, facing Kelly and Tina in back so the trio could talk. Girls will be girls. In the rearview mirror I studied Tina's round elfin face. Although she was 19, she looked much younger. 

Two hours of driving delivered the convoy to the small Forest Service campground at the trailhead to Vulcan. By prior arrangement, the university had reserved the site for the week. To ensure no one else tried to camp there, Richard closed the steel gate across the entrance drive. 

After unloading gear and establishing camp in the shady pine grove, Richard gathered his students for a primer on what he expected to accomplish academically during the week. While the class stood in a wide circle around their professor, I scanned each alluring female face and recited a silent litany: Amanda, Shannon, Patricia, Bethany, Rachel, Lisa, Nadia, Helen, Tina, Kelly, Megan . . . Their names swirled in my imagination, each a resounding chord in a timeless symphony. 

I wasn't the only man hearing beautiful music; the male students, Albert, Mark, Eric, Walter, Phillip, Jason, Ryan, Dustin, occasionally glanced at the girls. Perhaps they, like myself, were wondering which might bare their bodies at the hot springs and which wouldn't dare. My prurient self wanted to believe that every single girl would strip naked and frolic in the salubrious waters of Vulcan. But my pragmatic self attenuated that fantasy; in addition to Megan and Tina, only a handful might. Whatever that number turned out to be, my exhibitionist self was anticipating a gratifying week being naked in the company of eleven lovelies, twelve counting Sandra. 

"Okay," Richard began, "this week's gonna be very informal. Out here we're on a first name basis. Anyone who calls me Mister Andersen gets an automatic F!" The students chuckled. He introduced the male TAs, Dave and Randy, with backgrounds in biology and chemistry respectively. He then introduced Sandra, with a B.A. in zoology. Her summer research job was conducting raptor studies in the upper elevations of Idaho's coniferous forests. She acknowledged the students with a smile and a nod. While scanning her lean body and short, shaggy black hair, I wondered if she was going to skinny-dip. I sure hoped so. 

Richard gestured in my direction. "All of you know Ed, my research assistant for pine bark beetle surveys." Looking at me, Megan flashed a dazzling metallic smile then quickly clamped her lips together to hide her braces. Yes, she knew me better than all of her classmates combined; knew every nuance of my naked body. 

The primer over, students, assistants, and professor donned daypacks filled with notebooks, water bottles and lunches. Then, like the Pied Piper, Richard led his charges out of the campground and into the pine forest. The remainder of the forenoon and into the afternoon was spent studying disparate forces of nature that interact synergistically to maintain a balanced ecosystem. Climate, soil types, elevation, insect and animal populations, disease, wildfire, human pressure . . . each plays a role in the overall health of the forest. I placed myself in the persona of student and considered the opportunity a learning experience. 

By 3:30 P.M. the day's instruction was finished and everyone filed back into camp. Now I understood what Richard meant when he said they always made time for soaking; many daylight hours remained which could have been spent on academics, but all of the students were preparing to make the three-quarter mile hike to the hot springs. Those girls who hadn't already done so, stood in front of their tents fixing their hair in ponytails. 

Inside their nylon mountain tents, Amanda, Bethany, Patricia, Shannon and Kelly changed into swimwear. Amanda, brunette, wore a black one-piece with a high neckline which did nothing to visually minimize her decidedly top-heavy figure. The other four wore colorful bikinis. 

Helen, Nadia, Lisa and Rachel didn't change into swimwear, leading me to believe they, along with Megan and Tina, planned to skinny-dip. My excitement spiked. None of the guys changed into swimwear. I expected all of them planned to get naked in the company of their female classmates. Why wouldn't they? They're guys! Oink! 

Daypacks on backs, the procession of students crossed the footbridge spanning the south fork of the Salmon River then along the meandering trail through the pine forest leading toward the hot springs. Bringing up the rear, how pleasant it was, watching round, toned, bikini-bottomed buttocks jostling beneath gossamer thin layers of polyester. The seat of Kelly's hot pink string bikini brief left most of her cute caboose exposed, which allowed viewing of the tiny butterfly tattoo on her left bun. Walking directly behind her, Eric ogled it. 

"You say it's gotta lake?" Megan's voice interrupted my single-minded focus on the female promenade. 

Walking beside her, I answered, "Yeah, and it's plenty big enough for this group." 

The soaking accommodation at Vulcan was big; in a mountain meadow ringed by pines, a volunteer-built log dam impounded a hot lake, 30×70 feet. Most hot spring pools are crystal clear but the lake at Vulcan was somewhat turbid and became even more so with increased numbers of bathers. Nevertheless, the previous times I had visited, the lake was always eminently soakable. Megan continued talking with me and I held up my end of the conversation, but part of my attention remained focused on the girls' beautiful, barely covered backsides. 

Once we arrived at the lake, the swimsuited girls wasted no time getting wet; they dropped their daypacks, kicked off their sandals, then stepped carefully onto the log dam, the easiest, cleanest entry point into the lake. Much easier than attempting to scramble straight down the steep muddy bank about six feet high. From seated positions on the barkless pine logs, they slid into the hot water. 

The guys began stripping off their clothing. Sandals, T-shirts, shorts, and underwear they removed until all were naked. Everyone, that is, except Sandy-haired Dustin; his tidy whitie jockey briefs stayed on. What the hell was wrong with him? What red-blooded American male wouldn't leap at the opportunity to be legally naked in view of eleven hot college girls, his classmates no less? When I looked at his bulge, or rather, the lack of one, my question was answered. 

None of the girls acted embarrassed by the dangling dicks in their presence. Being college students who fancied themselves worldly and sophisticated, they behaved nonchalantly. However, beneath their calm façades, they couldn't hide their wide-eyed delight. And the lion's share of delight was generated by Albert. Now I understood why his buddies called him 'Big Albert.' His hair and penis shared the same description: long, tawny and thick. As he swaggered toward the lake and onto the log dam, his six fat flaccid inches swayed like an elephant's trunk. I half-expected to hear it trumpet like the wild beasts on the Serengeti. From a seated position on a log he slid into the water and only then did multiple sets of female eyes shift their focus elsewhere. 

I stripped naked then stood there waiting for Megan to do likewise. A few girls glanced in my direction but their eyes didn't linger very long; Big Albert's walk of fame had set the bar sky high. I was in good company; all the other guys were like me, average length and girth. But even so, every single penis, including mine, received smiling consideration, if only for a moment. The girls were just being polite. One by one, the guys walked onto the log dam, sat down, and slid into the water. 

Megan kicked off her sandals and doffed her daypack then, like she had done at Worswick, casually stripped naked. And once again I was blessed to behold her unadorned loveliness. She draped her duds over a pine branch then turned and looked me in the eye, grinning, as if she were thinking, Well, here we are again! Indeed, the way God intended his children to enjoy the great outdoors. 

Being late in the day, most of the lake was lying in long shadows cast by the pine forest. Megan didn't bother with sunscreen and she discarded her wide-brimmed straw hat atop her daypack on the ground. She ambled toward the dam. I followed, watching her fine freckled fanny, a soul-stirring vision I never tired of. Both of us stepped carefully across the barkless pine logs. From a seated position she slid into the water. I slid in right behind her. 

As anticipated, Tina stripped off her green T-shirt and denim shorts. She wore no brassiere. Her tiny breasts with tiny nipples seemed a perfect fit on her petite frame, barely five feet. Without skipping a beat, she peeled off her pink cotton panties, revealing her pinched cleft and wispy patch. Her diminutive stature, narrow hips, and tiny bits gave her the appearance of a preteen girl in the midst of puberty. Short, shaggy blonde hair, a round elfin face, and doe-like brown eyes all supported that misconception. I had to remind myself she was a 19-year-old college sophomore-to-be, not a seventh grader. At a brisk walk, a trot really, Tina hustled her skinny butt onto the log dam. Instead of sitting down on the logs and sliding in, she jumped feet first into the lake which was about four feet deep at that point. 

Helen, Nadia, Lisa and Rachel stood onshore, removing their clothing. Sandals, T-shirts, shorts; with each garment they stripped off my hope that all planned to skinny-dip gained steam. When Rachel, her back toward the lake, unfastened the rear clasp on her plain white brassier and pulled it away from her chest, I felt certain all would join the bares. Piece by piece, the remaining brassieres and panties were stripped off and soon, all four wore nothing but the lingering imprints of underwear on their seamlessly tanned skin. 

My male sensibilities commanded me to admire their beautiful bare backsides as they draped their discarded duds over pine branches. One by one, they turned and made their way toward the water. All stood about the same height, within an inch of five-feet-six, and all sported natural bushes. Helen and Nadia both possessed average sized breasts and fair hair, but only Helen was a natural blonde. Nadia's yellow mane contrasted vividly with her brunette pubic patch. I've always considered it a huge disconnect when a female naturist dyes her hair blonde then fails to color her pubes. I suppose if she's an unashamed nudist and not sensitive about body issues, having her cuffs not match the collar isn't a huge deal. But I think it looks odd. 

Lisa and Rachel, brunettes, occupied opposite ends of the spectrum when measured in terms of breast endowment. Lisa was in league with Tina, having tiny breasts with small nipples. Rachel was in league with busty Megan. But unlike Megan's tiny button nipples, Rachel had succulent nipples with areolas the size of silver dollars. It wasn't just me and the other guys who were checking out Rachel. Amanda was too, an unblinking stare. 

Standing in the deep end, I watched the foursome slowly and carefully step upon the dam, lower themselves into seated positions on the barkless pine logs, and slide into the water. 

The lake easily accommodated our group of 20 without crowding. Some floated on air mattresses while others sat on logs in the dam, both above and below the waterline. A few waded around or reclined in the shallows where the hot creek entered the lake from The Source, Vulcan's vents 200 yards upstream. Megan stood in the deep end by the dam with her tiny button nipples just above the surface. I waded over. Her sky blue eyes were smiling when she said, "This place is everything you talked about." 

I stopped beside her and nodded. "Let's go over to The Source. It's awesome." 

"Maybe later. Right now I'm enjoying this too much." She dunked herself neck-deep then cast a sidelong glance at Albert, seated on the dam above the waterline with his astounding asset on prominent display. 

And I was enjoying this too, not Albert, but the overall experience. Forever and always I derived great pleasure when attending socially nude gatherings. Sharing this common interest with like-minded friends grows the bonds of fellowship. 

Megan was correct; taking a walk to The Source, the power of Vulcan, could wait until later; the week had just begun. And it was off to a flying start: six girls out of eleven baring all on the first day. Not bad. And with time, I had hope that ratio would improve. 

* * * * 

Tuesday morning, up with the sun. The small Forest Service campground had a single privy, a single occupancy outhouse. Under ordinary circumstances, when only two or three small parties might be camped at the site, the facility could easily accommodate those numbers. But first thing in the morning when 24 adults awoke at the same time, a line formed, exclusively female. The men in the group simply stepped to the edge of camp, turned their backs, unzipped, and let it fly. None of the girls acted like open urination was offensive. In the wilderness, the rules are different. Tina was so desperate to pee, instead of waiting in line she trotted off into the pine forest, almost, but not quite, out of sight.

The students were responsible for their own meals. Everyone wearing lightweight jackets or sweatshirts to ward off the early morning chill, small groups sat cross-legged on a carpet of brown pine needles, preparing breakfast on compact propane camp stoves. Most consumed simple fare -oatmeal, granola bars, trail mix, dried fruit, coffee, tea, etc.- but Mark went the extra mile and brought bacon which filled camp with savory aroma. Bacon: another word for bear bait. That a bruin didn't come sniffing around camp in the middle of the night and break into his car was a miracle.

After breakfast, Richard gathered his students to outline the day's agenda: a trek onto the forest to expand on the lessons of Monday. That done, we proceeded as a group through different forest zones: lowland valley, mountainsides both sunny (south facing) and shaded, (north facing) an area recovering from wildfire and a recently logged clear-cut where tens of thousands of lodgepole pine seedlings were growing. 

In each zone, Rich brought the group to a halt. After making preliminary comments, he handed over teaching duties to his assistants. We weren't limited to expounding on topics related our respective fields, rather, whatever insights we offered sparked freewheeling discussions with the students. This was precisely the sort of informal learning experience Richard sought for his backcountry classroom. 

In a valley beset with dead pines, Rich brought the group to a halt. Looking at me, he said, "Ed, you take this one." I gave an overview on pine bark beetles, how they play a vital role in forest ecology but under certain conditions they do more harm than good. Then I demonstrated how inspections are conducted. At the end of my 15 minute presentation, Rich smiled approvingly. 

Once the group was underway to the next location, Rich fell back and walked alongside. "You ever thought about going to grad school?" he asked, then added, "and maybe teaching?" 

"I dunno, I haven't given much thought to what I wanna do with my life." 

"That's something you oughtta consider. You're good." 

Rich slapped me on the back then picked up his pace to catch up with Sandra. Never had I sought my brother's approval on anything. But having received it, it felt good. The notion of teaching at the college level took root. I projected forward in fantasy: geology professor Ed takes his students on a week-long field trip into the high country. On a sunny mountainside, all the guys and girls voluntarily strip naked to work on their summer tans while, with hammers and picks, they collect rock specimens. Hey! It could happen! Or not.

By 4:30 P.M. we were back at camp. In groups of twos and threes and fours, students began migrating toward the hot springs. I would have joined them but Richard convened a meeting of his assistants to outline to following day's agenda. By the time the meeting was over 30 minutes later, all of the students had already left for the lake. Sandra emerged from her nylon mountain tent wearing a figure-flattering one-piece swimsuit: cobalt blue with abstract black patterns on the front. 

"You going swimming?" she asked. Implied, was that she wanted a walking companion. 

"Sure am! Lemme grab my stuff." My stuff amounted to my small daypack holding a water bottle, towel and a rolled-up air mattress. 

The footbridge spanning the south fork of the Salmon River we crossed then headed up the trail meandering through the pine forest. On the 20 minute hike we engaged in small talk, the kind of lightweight banter new acquaintances exchange; the field trip, the weather, the scenery. And the female scenery walking beside me was very easy on the eyes. Too bad the good parts were destined to remain under wraps. Once we arrived at lakeside, the subject shifted to having fun. Sandra must have expected me to strip naked because when I did, she didn't bat an eye. Standing at arm's length, she indulged a lingering look at my groin then turned away and stepped onto the log dam. From a seated position, she slid into the water and joined the students. 




To The Wild Country Ch. 02



Everyone who skinny-dipped the previous day was at it again and now, Bethany had joined the bares; she laid naked on her stomach on a red air mattress. I wasn't present to witness her unveiling but it didn't matter; that she made the leap was more than pleasing. Her rich butterscotch tan contrasted vividly with her alabaster buttocks which alternately glowed and paled as she paddled her air mattress in and out of late day sunbeams slanting through gaps in the pine forest. She rolled off the mattress and submerged herself, then, upon surfacing, with one hand brushed a shock of soggy blonde hair out of her eyes. She glanced in my direction. I grinned, but the full extent of my delight seemed to have escaped her. 

Seated on the log dam, I huffed and puffed and inflated my air mattress. From the shallow end where the hot creek entered the lake, Megan came wading over waist-deep and greeted me. "Hey!" 

"Hey. You wanna float?" 

"Sure. Thanks." I tossed her my air mattress. She climbed aboard and laid on her back. Her ample breasts slumped to the sides. Into the water I slid just as Richard and the two male TAs, Dave and Randy, arrived lakeside. After kicking off their shoes and removing their T-shirts, all three stepped onto the log dam wearing swim trunks. I was puzzled why Rich, an inveterate nudist, was wearing his black trunks. But only a moment of pondering delivered the answer: to avoid the appearance of impropriety. 

Richard couldn't prohibit skinny-dipping by his students. They were on their free time and the hot springs were on public land. Exercising that sort of self-determination was part of the learning process of becoming an adult. However, Rich felt it best to remain clothed because of 'conservative elements' on the faculty council. He never talked much about university politics but I could easily imagine self-righteous zealots gleefully crucifying a professor for exposing himself to his female students, regardless of whether or not they were offended. In my estimation, none of the girls in his class would have taken umbrage at his nakedness. 

Rich always behaved with utmost professional decorum. In the lab, he never placed himself in a situation where he was alone with a female student, not while clothed and certainly, never while naked. At Vulcan, even though some of the girls were skinny-dipping, his career risk was minimal; he had multiple witnesses to counter any unfounded charge of sexual misconduct. For the same reason I presumed, career preservation, the male TAs kept their suits on. At least the trio could indulge the other half of the equation and be voyeurs. 

Richard slid into the water, followed by Dave and Randy and all three joined the festivities. The lake handily accommodated 24 bathers with room to spare, allowing Megan space to paddle her air mattress around without ramming anyone. I had to wonder what she and the other naked girls thought about Richard being in their presence. Likely, they had never before encountered this situation with him or any of their college professors. 

Straightaway, my question was answered: they didn't give hoot. All of them conversed amicably with Richard like I had seen them do many times in the lab when all of them were clothed. Megan floated up beside Rich and asked where the class was going to plant the hundreds of evergreen seedlings they brought (the seedlings they had been growing all summer in the greenhouse) and while doing so, her casual demeanor verified that Nature Girl was unbothered sharing her nakedness with her professor. 

As Rich waded waist-deep across the lake, Bethany, seated chest-deep nearby, spoke up. "Mister Andersen, what're we gonna do tomorrow?" 

Rich shot her a stern expression. "Uh oh! Someone just failed!" The rest of his students erupted with laughter. They knew Rich was blustering. His expression flipped from stern to smiling. "We're going to the test plots and do some comparative analyses." (That was the subject of the meeting earlier.)

Like all of the students, Bethany was taking a variety of science courses as required components of her forestry major. Earlier in the day, while hiking from forest zone to zone, she walked alongside, picking my brain, geologically speaking. Rocks, minerals, faulting, volcanism, mountain building, erosion, continental drift . . . all of those topics, and more, we touched upon. Elucidating, entertaining and pleasing it was, conversing with this intelligent, inquisitive girl. So pleasing in fact, I sought further engagement.

Bethany and Mark sat chest-deep in the shallows, talking quietly. Wading thigh-deep, I approached them. Bethany's green eyes shot to my penis, hanging long and plump. Addressing her, I said, "Do you know that earthquake last October changed Vulcan's flow rate?" 

She looked up and met me eye-to-eye. "Up or down?" 

"Up. Way up. You wanna walk over and check it out?" 

"Sure!" 

My motive wasn't entirely academic; I wanted to get Bethany out of the water and have a better look at her body. She rose to her feet and waded into shallower and shallower water, bit by bit revealing herself until finally, her feet stood on dry granite bedrock. She possessed a perfect physique; toned and strong, having an optimal proportion of body fat which gave her exquisite curves in all the right places. She turned and faced me, allowing time to scan her two-toned bikini shadow: creamy white lower zone and slightly tanned upper; at some point, her bounteous breasts had been kissed by the summer sun. 

I turned my attention back toward the lake. "Hey Megan," I shouted, "we're goin' over to The Source. Wanna come?" 

"Yeah!" She rolled off the air mattress and began wading in my direction. Our exchange got Tina's attention. She began wading toward me also. That petite elfin blonde was always game for any kind of fun that required being active. 

Upstream the four of us waded toward The Source. The creek grew hotter and hotter. Before long the water became so hot we abandon the creek and walked on the bare granite alongside. And then, at last, shrouded in cloud of steam, there it was: The Source. Scalding water gushed to the surface through dozens of vents spread over an area half the size of a football field. This trip was my fourth to Vulcan. Although I was fully aware of the geologic processes underway, each time I beheld The Source, the spectacle of millions of BTUs springing from the earth always amazed me. 

My companions must have felt the same; they slowed the pace and gazed wide-eyed at the power which had continued unabated for centuries. Treading carefully across naked granite that felt warm to our bare feet, we wandered among bubbling vents and steaming trenches, all the while enveloped in clouds of sulfurous steam. 

"This is like a steam bath," Megan observed. 

"Yeah," Bethany agreed. "If we had lawn chairs we could hang out here!"

Tina took off at a trot and disappeared into the fog like a spirit in the night. I squatted and pointed at a steaming trench about eight inches wide in the granite bedrock, brimful with scalding water. "Okay, see that?" I asked. Bethany stepped closer. Her naturally blonde pubis was right at eye level. She looked where I was pointing and scrunched her nose. "What're we looking at?" 

What we were looking at was evidence that Vulcan's flow rate had increased as a result of the October 28th 1983 magnitude 7.3 Borah Peak earthquake, the strongest ever to strike Idaho in recorded history. That single seismic event raised Borah Peak by 18 inches and lowered the rift valley to the west by five feet. Major movement. And it also affected subsurface hydrology throughout the region, altering one or more of the following: the flow rate, temperature, and dissolved mineral content of many central Idaho hot springs. Crystallized mineral deposits, (a 'high water mark') clung to the trench walls, marking where the surface of the flow had been for years. Now, the water's surface was two centimeters above the uppermost of those deposits, verifying that increased flow was spewing from Vulcan's vents. 

Bethany assumed a posture to have a better look; bent over with hands on knees. Tantalizingly close, her pendulous breasts swayed slightly with her subtle movement. Beads of sweat trickled down and dripped off her sizeable succulent nipples. "How much do you think the flow's increased?" she asked. I pondered her question but not too quickly; I was in no hurry for her to stand up. Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . . Taking into account the volume of water both above and below the former high water mark, and the cross-sectional area of the trench, I guessed, "Oh . . . fifteen percent, maybe twenty." Bethany smiled, apparently pleased to have received another geology lesson. And I was pleased playing the role of teacher for an eager, alluring student. Bethany stood upright then turned around and began walking toward Megan, standing nearby. 

"A little help here!" Tina sounded far away. I stood up then walked through the fog in the direction of her childlike voice. At the edge of the pine forest, she was pulling log about eight inches in diameter and fifteen feet long. Crouched, grunting and groaning, she was struggling to tug a tree that beavers had gnawed and toppled, then abandoned. The muscles in her skinny butt flexed and strained as she inched the tree along. Tina was like a little ferret, or some other small, constantly-in-motion creature with a high metabolism. She always had to be doing something active

I almost laughed. "What're you doing?" 

Still tugging, she answered, "I wanna sit on this!" 

"Why?" 

"Just because." 

"Okay, here, lemme help." 

I closed the remaining distance then grabbed ahold of the trunk. Together, we dragged the log into the fog, into the very maw of the cauldron, amid bubbling vents and steaming trenches. Tina ceremoniously plopped down on the trunk and exclaimed, "Ta Da!" 

Megan and Bethany tried to stifle their laughter. I was amused as well, but figured I'd at least give Tina's impromptu bench a try. I sat down beside her. She looked pleased. The rough bark felt funny on my bare butt but otherwise it wasn't bad. Better than sitting on hot granite bedrock would have been. 

A short distance away, Megan and Bethany ambled about, inspecting the numerous vents. As if sensing my desire for a thorough examination of her body, Bethany turned this way and that; now, her alabaster buttocks aimed in my direction, ghostlike in the fog; now, her bounteous breasts displayed in profile, sweat dripping off their globular undersides; now, facing me, her arms hanging relaxed at her sides. Standing thusly, she turned her head and looked at Megan, walking around off to one side. It seemed, or I wanted to believe, Bethany intentionally focused her attention elsewhere to offer me a moment to stealthily devour her nakedness. At leisure, my eyes roamed from head-to-toe, and made repeated circuits of the golden triangle described by her breasts and vulva. Her wispy blonde pubic hair was entirely inadequate to mask her puffy labia which glowed the same ruddy hue as her succulent nipples. 

"Hey! Let's get another tree!" Still seated beside me, Tina's voice broke the spell. 

"Why?" 

"More seats." Tina had a notion that if there was more seating, everyone would come over and hang out in the natural steam bath. I didn't feel that would meet with much success; taking a steam bath may be pleasant, but playing in the lake was far more fun. 

"Well," I said, "let's do it later. It'll be dark in a half-hour and it's a twenty minute hike back to camp." 

"Okay, we'll do it later." Or not. 

Back at the lake, only a handful of students remained and those were in the process of drying off and getting dressed. That evening after supper, everyone gathered around a blazing campfire, some seated cross-legged on a carpet of brown pine needles and others on logs pulled close to the hearth. And yes, Tina played a major role in the log-pulling effort. Everyone fully clothed, we talked and joked and laughed and roasted marshmallows. Phillip strummed his Gibson twelve-string and sang a collection of folk standards. Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing . . . .

Those who felt moved by the music sang along in not-so-perfect harmony. This time of socializing was a perfect complement to the day in the forest spent learning, and the afternoon at the lake playing. Having become better acquainted with these kids, (I can call then kids; these 19-year-olds were 11 years younger than me) I was feeling what they were feeling: fellowship that springs from sharing good times with friends. 

Eric tossed another pine log onto the hearth, sending plumes of sparks spiraling toward the starlit sky where one by one they winked out, sacrificing their essence to Vulcan, the Roman god of fire. Was it just a coincidence? Or was the meteor that streaked across the heavens a message from the Great Beyond? 

* * * * 

Wednesday morning after breakfast, Richard gathered his students for a briefing on the day's agenda: comparative analysis. In the vicinity of Vulcan Hot Springs, Boise State University maintained scores or forest plots used for outdoor laboratories and research, not just for the forestry department but also for other undergraduate programs in the natural sciences. In these plots, averaging between five and ten acres, long-term studies had been underway for decades. On this day, the students were tasked with making observations in the plots and noting changes since the last observations were conducted. Richard divided his class into four groups and assigned an assistant to each group. 

The briefing done, the students, daypacks on backs, fanned out across the forest. My group was assigned to inspect a plot two straight-line miles from camp but turned out to be more like three accounting for switchbacks on the steep trail up the mountainside. Had I not reined Tina back, she would have covered that distance in no time. Wonder how much coffee and sugar that energetic little ferret consumed at breakfast? And I wasn't the only one imploring her to slow down. Shannon and Patricia were doing the same. Jason and Ryan, both dark haired, tall and long-legged, weren't complaining about the pace. They could easily keep up. Besides, I believe they enjoyed it when Tina broke into the lead. Only then could they watch that petite blonde's buttocks jostling beneath her skin-tight lavender spandex shorts. You would think that since they had seen her naked, her covered buns wouldn't hold much appeal. Not. It's all in the presentation. 

The test plot, high atop a mountain ridge, was marked with scores of small flags, the type commonly used to mark underground utilities during road construction: a plastic banner the size of an index card on a stiff wire standard. White flags marked the overall perimeter of the plot and grid lines at ten meter intervals were delineated in red. A plethora of different colored flags marked individual features. The plan was to proceed systematically, inspecting one grid square and noting changes therein before moving on to the next. 

Every plant of every kind was numbered and mapped on a large chart. Descriptions of each, including its state of health, were scribed in a thick logbook. Beginning with one square, the students scanned the zone, looking for any changes since the last observation. And they found plenty, mainly new seedlings. Changes included a mature pine splintered and killed by lightning. All of these observations I entered into the logbook. This wasn't serious academic study; the object of the lesson was to hone observational skills and to have fun in the mountains while doing so. 

Unlike most days in the arid west, the atmosphere had a decidedly humid feel. Cumulus clouds spawned and grew, a harbinger of the summer monsoon in the Rockies. When not eclipsed by clouds, the high-elevation sun beat down relentlessly. Jason and Ryan removed their T- shirts. Tina looked at me and asked, "Can I take off my shirt?" 

"Why're you asking me?"

"Well, I don't know if I'm allowed to." 

"Em, if you wanna take yer shirt off, go right ahead!" 

"Okay! Thanks." Chaperone Ed on the job. 

Having received permission, Tina peeled off her black T-shirt, leaving her bare-chested. She never wore a brassier. Jason and Ryan broke into wide smiles. I felt what they were feeling: Tina topfree during instructional time was in a class by itself. 

"You guys gonna be able to concentrate?" I asked. 

"Yeah!" "Sure!" they booth answered, smiling. 

"Okay, let's get back to work." 

Shannon and Patricia, brunettes, had worn bikinis at the lake two consecutive days so I wasn't surprised when they left their T-shirts on. Both were diligent in their work; while scanning each square in the grid, they stayed close together as if two sets of brown eyes were better than one. When one or the other discovered a notable change, they high-fived. A friendly competition evolved between them and Jason and Ryan, to see which team, shirts or skins, could discover more changes. Early on, Shannon and Patricia established a lead over the guys. But the guys gradually gained ground. Tina? She was a loose cannon, running around (literally!) by herself making discovery after discovery. And each discovery was announced with a resounding, "Hey Ed! C'mere an' lookit this!" I did lots of running too. 

"How's it going?" I didn't expect Richard to make the long climb up the mountain but there he was just downslope, striding toward me. He stopped alongside and glanced at Tina, a short distance away. "So . . . what's going on here?" he asked. 

"Well, she wanted to take her shirt off, so . . . " I shrugged. 

For a moment Rich remained silent, his expression neutral. Finally, he said, "I'd rather she not do that during class time."

"Okay, I'll tell her to cover up." 

Before I took a single step, Rich place a halting hand on my shoulder. "Wait. Are they getting the work done?" 

"Yeah, they're being real thorough."

He nodded. "All right. Just make sure it stays that way."

"I will." 

The corners of Richard's mouth slowly turned up and he quietly commented, "That Tina. She's a live one!" 

I chuckled. "She sure is!"

Richard approached his students. They stopped working and gathered around. He spoke with them for several minutes but didn't mention Tina's state of partial undress. Upon leaving, he slapped me on the back and said, "Carry on!" He smiled then proceeded down the trail, shaking his head, perhaps thinking: That Tina. She's a live one! 

After lunch, more grid squares were inspected, one by one. Tina remained topfree for the duration. By herself Tina accounted for more observed changes than her four classmates combined. The plot consisted of more open ground than trees and the work went smoothly. 

All day, cumulus clouds had been building. By midafternoon, a solitary cumulonimbus billowed above the mountain range to the east, filling the sky with drama. Lightning lashed distant rain-shrouded peaks, over and over . . . Barely heard, grumbling thunder reminded that in the wilderness, beauty and danger exist as one and the same. The last place you want to be during an electrical storm is on an exposed mountain ridge. Keeping an eye on the sky, we continued working. The storm kept its distance and remained virtually stationary, allowing us to remain on the mountain until late afternoon when we finished the test plot observations. 

On the hike down the mountain, Tina's T-shirt rode in her daypack. The thunderstorm was in its death throes; it had nearly rained out its moisture and the cloud base was lifting. Low angle sunbeams sliced through the residual rain shafts, painting a rainbow of brilliant intensity. Everyone stopped and, in silence, gawked at the spectacle of nature. One by one, I scanned each student's smiling face. Without question, this was the highlight of their day. 




To The Wild Country Ch. 02



Once we arrived in camp, Tina didn't put her shirt on. Why bother? Her next stop was the hot springs. Only one of her classmates, Phillip, was present to witness this petite blonde striding into camp with her tiny breasts proudly on display. Standing in front of his tent, he was stuffing his daypack in preparation for the hike to the lake. Tina spent a few minutes gathering her beach essentials and stowing them in her daypack. Once finished, she slung the pack over her slender shoulders then set off at a trot over the footbridge spanning the Salmon River. 

By this point in the week, Wednesday, it was prime time to offer the students an opportunity for a baking soda bath. While packing for the field trip, I pondered how much sodium bicarbonate to bring. I erred on the side of caution and brought two ten pound boxes. Figured that should be plenty for all the girls to wash every square inch of their bodies, including the yummy parts. And I had every intention of watching them do precisely that. 

My group was the last to finish the test plot observations and come down off the mountain. By the time I arrived at lakeside, almost everyone else was already there, sitting on logs in the dam, floating on air mattresses or reclining in the shallows around the lake's perimeter. Those who had skinny-dipped before were naked again and those who declined to bare all, Amanda and Dustin, remained covered. Such an idyllic scene; everyone relaxing. Everyone except Tina. Below the dam, she was busy shoring up leaky spots with sticks she had scrounged from the surrounding forest. After a day of physical activity, that indefatigable little ferret was still going strong. 

The only students unaccounted for were Shannon and Patricia. Shortly after I stripped naked and slid into the water, they arrived lakeside wearing bikinis, Shannon's scarlet and Patricia's midnight blue. Both had their long brunette hair pulled back in ponytails. They draped their towels over a pine branch then doffed their daypacks and kicked off their sandals. For a moment they stood with their backs toward the lake, engaged in a cloistered conversation below the threshold of hearing. But gradually their voices increased in volume. 

"We talked about this," Patricia stated emphatically. 

Shannon responded meekly. "I know but . . ." 

"Well, I'm gonna!" 

With both hands, Patricia reached behind her back and unfastened the clasp holding her bandeau bikini top. After pulling the garment away from her chest, she draped it over the pine branch beside her towel. Guys in the lake caught the drift of what was happening ashore atop the steep muddy bank and focused their attention there. Hesitantly, it seemed, Shannon matched Patricia's bravado; she reached behind her back and untied the string on her bikini top, pulled it away from her chest, and now both girls stood topfree with their backs toward the lake where everyone was watching. 

Patricia hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her low-rise bikini brief. "Okay," she said, "we'll go on three. Ready, one, two, three!" Patricia whipped down her brief, exposing her creamy white buns. But Shannon reneged; her brief remained in place. As if to shame Shannon into compliance, Patricia rapidly completed the task; down her tanned legs she slid her brief, stepped out of it, and draped it over the branch beside her discarded top. 

Patricia stood with her shapely bare backside toward the lake, her arms folded cross her chest. She looked over her shoulder and flashed a devilish grin. She must have noticed the guys grinning back. Shannon remained frozen with indecision. She glanced over her shoulder and met the collective gaze of those in the lake. Confirming she had an attentive audience probably wasn't a wise choice for someone contemplating a public nudity debut. 

"C'mon Shannon," Helen called out, "you can do it!" Others in the lake, male and female, voiced similar encouragement. Shannon's body language screamed reluctance; rigid torso, blank stare . . . 

Nevertheless, as if in a trance, she hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her bikini brief and, in one smooth fluid motion, peeled it inside out, down and off. Peer pressure is a wonderful thing. 

Blushing, Shannon spun around and hustled toward the lake. Perhaps she wouldn't have felt so exposed if she hadn't trimmed her pubic patch: shaved on the sides and a general thinning elsewhere. In haste to submerge herself, she didn't use the preferred entry point into the lake, the log dam. Instead, she took the most direct route, straight down the steep, muddy bank. With her arms extended wide to each side for balance, she made it only four steps before her feet shot out from beneath her and she plopped down hard on her pale posterior, on which she slid the remaining distance into the water. That must have crammed some mud into private places! All of Shannon's classmates enjoyed a hearty laugh but also gave her a round of applauds, acknowledging her bravado. Grinning sheepishly, Shannon looked relieved to be in the lake where no one could see her bits. 

Meanwhile, Patricia took the preferred, longer route onto the log dam, affording leisurely inspection of her youthful body. Every set of eyes, male and female, followed her progress as she stepped carefully onto the dam, lowered herself into a seated position on the barkless pine logs, and slid into the water. 

Having beheld Shannon and Patricia bikini-clad for two days, I was familiar with their lean, toned physiques. Now, like an artist who had finished a preliminary figure sketch, I was able to shade in the details: pale pleasingly plump breasts with succulent rosy nipples, divine derrières, and wrinkly inner folds dangling between gaping outer lips. 

"I brought lotsa baking soda." Megan didn't hear what I said. Seated beside Nadia on a submerged log in the dam, both were laughing so hard at a dirty joke told by Walter that I had to repeat myself. Once she caught her breath, she responded. "Good! I'm gettin' kinda grungy." 

"Well, whenever you wanna take a bath . . . " 

"How 'bout right now?" 

"Let's do it!" If only . . . 

From my daypack on shore, I retrieved my aluminum cook pot and a ten pound box of baking soda. Megan met me at the creek just upstream from the lake where the water was crystal clear and perfectly hot for bathing. After mixing a batch of soda/water slurry in the pot, I placed it on a flat spot of bare granite. Megan scooped a double handful then surprised me when she splashed it onto my back and commenced scrubbing. 

"I owe ya one," she said. "You did my sunscreen at Worswick." Megan continued scrubbing, up, down and sideways and, being polite, her hands never strayed below my waistline. Dang!

Megan didn't make any announcement like: Okay, anyone who wants a bath, come and get it! But our behavior drew the attention of those in the lake. Kelly came over. She reached behind her back and untied the string holding her bikini top. After pulling the garment away from her chest, she rapidly stripped off the brief and tossed it, and her top, onto the bare granite.

On our assignment, Kelly always wore a bikini while soaking at Worswick Hot Springs. Now, she must have felt it was more efficient to bathe without the hindrance of hot pink polyester. Or, perhaps, she finally felt ready to cut loose and get naked like almost everyone else. During those four days in Sawtooth National Forest, Kelly did a few quick-changes in the open, during which I briefly glimpsed her bits, but not all of them at the same time. Now, beholding her completely naked was like all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle had finally come together and I was able to see the entire picture. 

Her brunette pubic patch had grown somewhat thicker during the three weeks since she and Megan accompanied me to make pine bark beetle inspections. But the additional hair couldn't conceal her meaty labia. Oversize brown nipples and areolas looked freakishly large for a girl with virtually no breast tissue. Very odd. And, oddly captivating. Whenever I caught myself staring, I had to look away so as not to seem insensitive. But her posterior was perfectly proportioned: firm and round with a small butterfly tattoo on her left bun. 

From the cook pot Megan scooped a double handful of slurry and splashed it onto Kelly's back. I did the same to Megan. In a daisy chain we rubbed and scrubbed. Since Megan had taken no liberties while scrubbing my back, I restrained my behavior again. But it was difficult to prevent my hands from wandering south to explore the curves of her fine freckled fanny. At least I could admire it -and fantasize. 

Others converged to bathe. Dustin, Eric, Phillip and Mark along with Nadia, Helen, Lisa, Rachel and Bethany. The guys may have genuinely wanted to freshen up but I felt their motive was equal parts seeking 'hands on' time with their female classmates. And they found it. Over the course of ten minutes, guys scrubbed the girls' backs and vice versa. Everyone talked, joked, and laughed all the while. Once the first pot of slurry was gone, I mixed another. And shortly thereafter, another. 

Bathing is far more fun when it's a social activity. Everyone's hands politely observed boundaries, but no one had any qualms about touching themselves in private places to wash away grit and grime. Blonde Nadia spent so much time vigorously scrubbing her brunette bush I had to wonder if she was easily orgasmic and was inducing precisely that. While watching her rub her crotch, I silently solved quadratic equations to prevent my penis from engorging into a major faux pas. And I wasn't the only guy struggling; a few other semis were evident. 

Yes, everyone's hands respected boundaries. Everyone's except Eric's; he grabbed the rear waistband of Dustin's tidy whities and yanked hard, exposing most of his pale buttocks. "HEY!" Dustin hollered and twisted away from his assailant. All of the girls laughed. Like a shiver of sharks circling in bloody water, Phillip and Mark pounced on Dustin and, along with Eric, tugged at his underwear, trying to rip it off. "YOU FUCKERS!" Dustin screeched and tried to get away. The girls laughed even louder.

Several times over the years I had witnessed girls stripping girls completely naked at clothing optional venues. It always involved swimsuited girls physically 'persuaded' by friends to join the bares, albeit reluctantly. Sometimes with vehement reluctance. One occasion stands out. 

Earlier in the summer I went to Pine Flats Hot Springs after completing one of my assignments. A dozen bathers, both genders, most of them naked, were already there, reclined in the large rock-lined riverside pool filled with crystal clear water. Shortly after I arrived, four college age women, all with long brunette ponytails, came to soak. After depositing their stuff, including a large cooler, on the ground, three of them stripped off every stitch of their lightweight summer clothing and underwear. The fourth stripped off her red camisole and denim shorts down to a black string bikini. The four of them waded into the pool and sat down chest-deep. They popped the tops on their beers and, over the course of ninety minutes, quaffed can after can. Their collective level of intoxication set the stage . . . . 

The foursome climbed out of the pool and went for a cooling dip in the Payette River. What a vision: receding in the distance across the wide gravel bar, three seamlessly tanned backsides and one barely covered. After their swim, while walking back toward the hot pool, one of the naked girls used both hands and, with lightning-quick finesse, untied both bows, -back and neck- on bikini girl's top. She didn't react fast enough to prevent her friend from snatching it away. "Carly! Gimme that!" bikini girl hollered then spun around and clamped both hands over her smallish breasts. 

As if the assault was planned, another naked girl immediately untied the strings on the right side of her bikini brief. "Laura!" bikini girl yelled and wedged her right hand into her crotch to keep the tiny triangle of black polyester in place. That shift exposed her right breast until she extended her left forearm across her chest. At the same time Laura was untying the right strings, the third naked girl was untying the left. "Mandy! Dammit!" The seat of her brief fell away, exposing her pale buttocks. 

Bikini girl was in a pickle; she needed more hands but, having only two, abandoned any hope of hiding her breasts in order to recover her lower zone. She clamped her legs together to prevent her brief from falling to the ground while trying, with both hands, to retie the left side strings. Her effort was futile; all three of her friends were tugging at her brief, trying to rip it off. "You guys! Stop it!" 

"C'mon, Amy," Mandy said, laughing, "give it up!" 

Amy wasn't giving up easily. Frantically, she slapped her friends' hands away while trying to retie the strings. When that didn't work, she walked away, fast. That didn't work either; they followed, still tugging. 

Meanwhile in the pool, the dozen spectators were being entertained by the antics. Had the four girls been alone at the springs, perhaps Amy wouldn't have put up a fight. She might have surrendered and joined the bares. But she was determined the men present, strangers all, weren't going to see her naked. Too late; she was virtually there already. 

Carly, Laura, and Mandy kept pressing the attack and quickly succeeded in separating Amy from her bikini brief. "You guys! Gimme that!" Waving the brief overhead, Carly took off running down the gravel bar while Laura, waving the top, took off running in the opposite direction. Not hiding anything with her hands, Amy just stood there glancing back and forth at the two pieces of her suit going their separate ways. She looked mortified. 

Amy had three options: say "What the fuck" and stay naked; try to reclaim her bikini and somehow put it back on; or get dressed in her camisole and shorts. The first option was dead on arrival. The second seemed impossible given her friends' determination to make her a nudist. The third was unpalatable because that would involve returning to the pool, giving the men soaking there an up-close-and-personal view of her body. But the last was the only viable option, the lesser of three evils. 

Amy looked toward the pool, at the smiling male faces. Holding her right forearm across her chest, and her left hand over her vulva, she stepped three dozen brisk paces toward the pool and when she arrived, didn't make eye contact with anyone. She bent over and, with her right hand, retrieved her clothing and while doing so, briefly uncovered her perky pale breasts with rosy button nipples. She turned her back, stepped into her denim shorts, then pulled them into place over her fleshy round buttocks. She tossed on her camisole, smoothed it down, then turned around. And again, she didn't make eye contact but must have noticed all the smiling faces. Quickly, she packed her stuff in her daypack and donned her sandals. Scowling, she stormed away toward the parking area. Clearly, she was pissed. 

Moments later her friends returned to the pool. "Sheeseh," Mandy said and shook her head. "Yeah," Carly agreed, "Amy can't take a joke." They waded back into the pool, sat down chest-deep, and waited for Amy to return. Thirty minutes passed and she didn't. The trio climbed out of the pool, toweled themselves dry, got dressed, and departed. I always wondered what came afterward. Was Amy waiting in the parking lot? Or, still furious, did she drive away, leaving her friends stranded? 

That kind of stripping doesn't happen often enough, at least not in my world. Watching Dustin suffer the same fate wasn't pleasing like the female-on-female variety, but it was hilarious listening to him screech and cuss and beg for mercy. 

Slightly built, standing five-feet-seven, sandy-haired Dustin was no match for his taller, stronger friends. Eventually they succeeded, not only in ripping off his jockey briefs, but ripping them to shreds in the process. Acting embarrassed, Dustin stood with his back toward the girls, holding both hands over his package. 

"C'mon Dustin," Rachel implored, "let's see it!" The other girls employed similar cajoling; they really wanted to have a look at his man parts. Dustin glanced over his shoulder and found seven bright-eyed girls wearing wide smiles. Make that eleven counting those still in the lake. Even Tina quit working on the leaky dam and focused her attention on the creek bed commotion. 

For Dustin, it was crunch time: either run for cover or face the truth. His primal male instinct demanded the latter. Relenting, in a resigned tone he groaned, "Ohhh . . . all right," then turned around and pulled his hands away from his groin. 

"Awww! It's sooo cute!" Lisa's comment wasn't exactly music to Dustin's ears. Neither was the sing-song chorus of female voices harmonizing on the same theme. Was it really necessary for Helen to step closer and bend down, as if only from inches away she could see it? Despite the playful small penis humiliation, Dustin's wry grin intimated he was warming up to the female attention. So much in fact that his member, all 2 ½ inches, fluffed a bit, adding minor percentages to its length and girth. Likely, he felt fortunate that Big Albert remained seated on the log dam at a distance. Had his monster meat been dangling alongside in the same view, Dustin's nub would have looked even smaller. 

Dustin wasn't the focus of female attention for very long; once everyone finished bathing they migrated back to the lake. All of them were his friends so he held no grudge about the forced exposure and subsequent good-natured ribbing. He embraced the spirit of the moment and remained naked although he went back in the lake where his wee willy could hide. 

Megan removed the scrunchie holing her ponytail and shook her head, releasing a riot of long red hair that fell past her shoulders. She placed the scrunchie around her wrist then, with a double handful of slurry, doused her head and began massaging her scalp the same way you would use regular shampoo. "No, that's not how you do it," I said. "You hafta comb it through." From my daypack I retrieved my comb then returned to the creek. "Would you like help?" I asked. "Please." 

Standing behind Megan, from a cup I drizzled a steady flow of slurry onto her head while running my comb from her crown all the way down to the ends of her long red strands. The mechanical action of the comb's teeth, aided by the abrasive slurry, would remove oil and dirt. Drizzling, I ran the comb from crown to ends, over and over, on one side then the other. With each run, the comb was doing its job; dirty water dribbled down her back. I've always enjoyed watching girls fuss with their hair. And when I'm the one fussing with their hair, so much the better. 

This method of hair washing takes much longer than conventional shampooing. Megan didn't question why I was taking so long; she just stood passively and allowed me to continue. Perhaps she, like myself, was feeling contentment. In the spectrum of human relations, interaction involving touch engenders a sense of intimacy surpassing mere friendship. 

For five minutes I drizzled and combed. And whenever Megan shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her shapely buttocks shifted as well. Eventually, the water dribbling down her back ran clear; her hair was clean. I stopped combing. She turned and faced me then raked the fingers of one hand through the long red strands. "It certainly feels clean. Thanks!" 

"You're welcome."

"Would you like help?" 

I hadn't considered the possibility that Megan might return the favor. "Please." I turned around. 

Megan didn't need coaching; learned from how I washed her hair, she did the same for me: from a cup she drizzled slurry and combed from my crown down to the ends of my long brown strands. Her touch was pleasing. Five minutes later, she stopped combing. I turned and faced her. "Thanks." "You're welcome." Her sky blue eyes locked onto mine. My hair was clean and all too soon, social bathing time was over. Megan turned away and stepped toward the lake.