Lumbersexual (Novella) (14 page)

Reaching a hand over to me, he ran a finger down my skin, making my goosebumps return and my nipples pucker even more.  I arched my back, and he turned on his side.

“Don’t think it would be too comfortable to fuck on a rock, but I’m tempted.”

I laughed.  I didn’t think it would be comfortable either, but I considered it.

Stretching out, I dried off, looking for clouds and enjoying the feel of the mountain breeze over my skin.

But then I heard a whistle like a coach used on the playground.

What the fuck?

Court and I both sat up quickly and looked around.

Bushes rustling.

Dust rising on a path.

Chattering voices.

Young people voices.

Oh no.

A dozen Boy Scouts laden with backpacks that looked much too big for them, along with a half dozen adults marched into view.

“Court!”  I tried to cover myself with my arms, but there was no way they wouldn’t see us in a few moments, and no way we could get our clothes without being caught.

While a panicked look crossed his face, he didn’t act on it.  He let out a breath and raised his eyebrows.  “I’ll take care of it.”  

He calmly picked himself up and strode over to our clothes, totally naked, and gathered our clothes for both of us.  The scouts didn’t see him until he’d picked up the clothes and managed to cover himself.  Then they stopped and gaped.  As he walked back carrying an armload of clothes, covering his cock, he waved at them as if he were fully dressed and was simply on a walk around the neighborhood.  “Hi, guys.”

They stared at him.

I dissolved into peals of giggles.

No way did we just get caught having a skinny dip session by a Boy Scout troop.

The leader of the troop took one look at us and called, “Move along, boys, it looks like this camp site is occupied.”  And they gathered up their things and, very quickly, moved along.

Court handed me my clothes, and we got dressed, refreshed and laughing.  We hiked the rest of the way to our campsite.

Once we got there, we made dinner over tiny backpacking stoves—macaroni and cheese—and ate it sitting on a rock, looking at the High Sierra landscape, bundled in warm clothes.  We couldn’t have fires in the backcountry, and it got cold at this elevation.

Thing was, we were so tired, we went to bed early.

After I turned the flashlight off, I set it down next to me and lay on my stomach, listening to him rustling in his sleeping bag, the nylon sliding over the mattress pad on the floor of the tent.  Everything felt off-kilter in the tent, a sort-of shelter, with walls so thin they could rip with a sharp twig.  Funny that we thought the fabric would protect us, but it seemed to do its job.  I stared at the roof.  I heard the wind howl through the trees and then stop.

We were way more than seven miles from civilization.  More like a million miles from anywhere and everyone.  The stillness of the night permeated the air.  I listened for animals creeping by and heard bugs buzzing and plants rustling in the wind.

“Night, Maggie.”

And his warm, toothpaste-tasting, wet mouth found mine.  The whiskery kiss reminded me that I wasn’t alone in the wilderness.  And then my sleeping bag was unzipped and his big body was on mine.  Clothes off.  Beard rubbing my cheek and my chest, hands exploring in the dark—both mine and his.

Our bodies joined together, keeping ourselves safe in the woods.  Connecting.

I nuzzled his chest after.  I had him.  And with that contented thought, I said goodnight and fell into a fast sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and somehow I’d ended up curled up against him, his chin over my head.  Frankly, I was pleased that my first night backpacking had gone so well.  Other than startling a few Boy Scouts, nothing had gone wrong.  He sleepily stretched next to me.  And then I found his arms around me and his mouth on mine.

We got dressed, ate a breakfast of dried oatmeal with craisins, and packed up.  Fortified, we took off down the trail.

Our planned trip was a loop, rather than hiking up a trail and back the same way.  But we’d decided to cut off the end of the loop by cutting cross-country and meeting up with the return trail rather than following the path all the way around the mountain.  It seemed like a good idea to just go over the mountain, which would cut several miles off of our trip.  Judging by the map, it looked way shorter.  Just up the mountain, down the mountain, find the trail.

Well, that was easier planned than done.  The slope, while not a sheer cliff, was difficult to climb because it was made up of loose rock.  Every step we took sent rocks flying down below our feet, like Frodo and Sam seeking to throw the Ring into Mount Doom.  We balanced precariously along the face of the ridge, exposed to the elements, picking our way up the slope, backpacks making us unstable, trying not to fall.  Slow going.  

And my fear of heights went haywire.  “Court, I didn’t realize.  It’s just so far down.  What if I slip?”

“You won’t slip.  Trust your legs.  Trust the mountain.  Don’t look down.  Just look up.  Where you have to go.”

Just look up.

Where I have to go.

My legs shook, sweat poured down my face, and I felt like the blood was drawn from my head, both from the altitude and from fear.

But I couldn’t faint because then I’d fall.

Slow.

Steady.

He reached out his hand, looking me in the eyes, and pulled me, giving me his strength, which made me feel stronger, too.  “Keep going.  You can do it.”  He kept telling me that, and I started repeating it to myself.

I can do it.

So even in my head, he comforted me, this big bear of a man, helping me through my fears.  Because I was fucking facing them at this very moment.

He held my hand again over a few big boulders.  It took us more than an hour to climb up to the top, even though it wasn’t that far.  It was just so precarious, every foothold unsteady.  But we made it.

Then we looked down.

And I really did almost faint.

The landscape was the same loose rock and rubble on the other side, but now I just knew that I was going to fall—that a landslide would bring us down, like in that Fleetwood Mac song Matt played.  

Court looked at me.  “No other way out of this than down.”

“I know.”

My legs had burned going up over the unstable surface.  Now, going down, my whole body was engaged, like trying to stay upright on a moving platform.  Falling down these sharp rocks would be painful.  It would be easy to break a limb.

I’d never been so scared in my life.  I would take a step and keep going, the little rocks giving way with the force of our weight and gravity.  I’d yip and he’d stop whatever he was doing and talk me through it.

One.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

Court and I had to separate to make sure that we wouldn’t send rocks into the other’s path.  

It took another hour to make it down the mountain.

When we finally hit the bottom of the ridge, my legs and abs were shaking from the exertion of trying not to fall and from being so scared of the heights.  But I realized that I was mentally exhausted too.    

I’d just gone through abject terror.  But now that it was done, it washed over me.  I’d completely faced my fear of heights and gone through it.

I passed.

And I needed several minutes of sitting to gather my thoughts and relax.  

Looking me in the eyes, he said sincerely, “I’m sorry, Maggie.  I didn’t think it would be like that.  I wouldn’t have made you do something that scary intentionally.”

Going over that ridge tested me—made me focus on each step, thinking I could fall at any moment.  “Getting off the map was a lot harder than I thought.”

He nodded and kissed my forehead.  “It really was.  Are you okay?”

I thought about it.  “Yeah.  I’m still shaking, though.”

“Let’s sit.  You need to recover.”  

We drank some purified water, checked the map, triangulated, and proceeded to walk in the direction to find the trail back home.

Only we didn’t find it.

With every step, around every rock, every tree, we were supposed to be hooking up with an established trail.  We were sure to see footprints, a marking, a way.

Nothing.

We pulled out the map again, drawing lines from the peaks to our location, matching them up.

The fucking trail was supposed to be right under our feet.

I started to see nothing but blurry conifers, indistinguishable rocks, and dirt.  Plain dirt, not a trail.  Not an established trail that was a dark line on a map—one that people planned their trips around, walked every day.  If it was on the map, it existed.

But we couldn’t find it.

And I was so scared.

My mouth got dry.

I pushed the panicked thoughts to the side.

We weren’t lost.  We weren’t lost.  We’d find the trail.

But then the freak-out thoughts started coming.  We were miles and miles away from civilization, with only enough food for another night or so.  No phone, no means of communication.

The trail was supposed to be right there.  Under our boots.

And it just wasn’t.

We’d never find it.  We were going to become carrion for some wild animal.

No.  Don’t think that way.

I got pissed, because it was either that or burst into tears.  I stopped and looked into his handsome face, which now was dirty from the climb up the ridge and sweaty from being in the sun.

“Where is the fucking trail?”  I tried to keep my voice under control and failed.  “We’ve been off it for three hours.  What’s going to happen?  Are we going to be okay?”  I pointed to the map.  “Right there.  It’s supposed to be right there.  The trail.  The goddamn trail.”

“I know.  
I know
.”  He wiped sweat from his brow and seemed to be trying to keep it together.  “God, this is frustrating.”  Then he took a deep breath and his eyes blazed with intensity, but also certainty.  “We’ll find it.  We’re not really lost.  It’s just that we can’t find the trail.  We just need to find a hint of it and we can find our way back home.”  He gave me a quick kiss, but was too distracted to do more.

We needed to find ourselves.

This continued on for another half hour—now we’d been three and a half hours off of the trail, and I started to really imagine all sorts of horrible things.  What if we’d marked the map wrong?  Identified the wrong peaks.  What if we were completely in the wrong part of the park?  What if—

“Here, babe.”

He pointed.  We were standing on the trail.  We’d crossed it, not recognizing that the wide path over rocks was the way to go because it blended into the landscape so well.

I got down on my knees, even with my backpack on, and kissed the path.  And then I sat down on the ground and burst into tears, crying with happiness.  

His face looked the way I felt—complete relief.  “Take your pack off.  Let’s rest.”

We shrugged off our backpacks and sat in the middle of the trail we’d searched for.  Then he leaned over and hugged me hard, so hard, like his arms were going to crush me.  We smelled like sweat and had dirt all over our hands and faces.  The tears made streaks down my face I’m sure.  But in his arms, I realized that while I’d been scared this whole trip—out here alone in the wilderness, his steady presence had been supporting me the whole time.

“Court.  This was the scariest three and a half hours of my life.”  I wiped my tears with the back of my hands, and he kissed my eyelids.  “I thought we’d be dinner for the vultures.”

He loosened his grip and looked at me.  The moisture in his sea glass eyes and the relief on his face told me that he’d been as freaked as me, even if he’d hid it to some degree.  And his tongue was in my mouth, tasting of sweat and tears and trail dust and somehow that was the most real thing I’d ever tasted.  Beyond comfort.  It was home.  It was security and . . . I almost thought the word love.