Ten Mountain Men’s Baby by Nicole Casey
Ryker
After three days of hiking and two nights of sleeping in a tent, I was in bad need of a shower and a fresh change of clothes. My next scheduled stop, Franklin, North Carolina, was still a two-day hike away when I paused to rest at a waypoint. It was little more than a wood shelter decorated with carvings of the initials of those who’d proudly passed through. It had been hours since I last came across another hiker. And while I enjoyed the personal space and the opportunity for reflection, I was in need of a little human contact, even a brief exchange of polite greetings or a simple “hello” and a smile to hold me over till Franklin. I had never considered myself a particularly social person, but a few days alone in nature revealed that I was more in need of interaction than I’d thought.
I sat down, my back resting against the shelter of the waypoint, and let my gaze drift along the dips and turns in the landscape before me. I listened for animals; I listened for other hikers. But what I heard instead, after much concentration, was the steady yet faint babble of water, a creek or a small river running through the vegetation below.
It was difficult to tell for certain where exactly the sound was coming from; the landscape offered a series of degrading hills, each cut with winding valleys obscured by trees. I decided that finding a creek would be worth the detour. Maybe it would be wide and deep enough for a swim; if not, at least I could wash up, even if only superficially so.
The descent wasn’t long, but it was steep. And I did most of it sliding on my butt, using my hands and the heels of my shoes as brakes digging into the loose soil. It was fun. It had been ages since I last played in the dirt, and I actually laughed as I slid down the slope. When I reached level land and looked back up to the waypoint, it seemed quite far away, like I may potentially have a problem getting back onto the trail.
Not to be discouraged, I figured I’d worry about that later, after I’d had a dip in some fresh, clean water. I set out in search of the babbling brook, skipping down slopes and following the bend of the land as the sound of rippling water grew more and more distinct.
At first, I was slightly disappointed when I reached the creek. It was little more than a narrow bed of rocks with thin streams of water navigating around them, certainly not enough to swim in and doubtfully enough for a decent bath. Nevertheless, I followed the stream down, conscious that I was drifting farther and farther away from the trail. As I walked, the stream gradually widened, offering pools of clear water. I talked myself into continuing farther still, in the hope that it would turn into a full-fledged river.
My optimism was rewarded not five minutes later. I hit a stretch of running water deep enough to submerge in. I took off my shirt, crouched by the bank, and gave myself a quick splash bath. Though the air was cool and the water very cold—too cold for a reasonable man to bathe in—I had walked all the way down here to have a swim, and I wasn’t going to let good sense stop me.
I was alone, not another soul within miles, so, without hesitation, I stripped, grabbed a bar of soap from my backpack, and dove in. The water was so shockingly cold that I let out a howl that reverberated along the surrounding cliffs and echoed off the distant hills.
I’d been brave enough to dive in but not foolish enough to stay in the water for long. I gave myself a quick and much-needed bath, rinsed off, and hurried back to the bank to dry off.
Naked, in the wild, not a soul in sight—it was quite an exhilarating feeling, one I didn’t want to let go of so soon. By the time I had more or less dried off, I had acclimated to the cool air. The sun was still out, so I laid myself down on a slab of rock jetting off the bank. Best let the sun finish drying me off rather than get back into my dirty clothes still wet.
I had already fallen behind my target itinerary with the late start I had gotten leaving Suches, the subsequent tangents I’d gone off on the following days, and now this detour at the creek. I lay there, calculating how fast and for how long I’d need to hike to make up the difference. There was no use. I resigned to simply arriving in Franklin a day later than planned. And I was fine with that. After all, the schedule I’d set and the appointments I’d made ahead of time were all approximate anyway.
I heard rustling coming from the bank farther downstream. I sat up and peered off in that direction. Though it was a straight line of vision, the sun glistening off the water was bright and made it difficult to see. I wondered what kind of animal would be by the bank of a river, yet surprisingly I was more curious than worried.
A few moments and a bit more rustling later, my curiosity was piqued even further. From out of the brush appeared a figure. It was the figure of a hiker, of a female hiker. I was naked and lying on a rock, pretty much exposed, but she was at such a distance I doubted whether or not she could really get a good look at me.
I shielded my eyes from the sun, yet I still managed to get only a faint, blurred look at her. She’d set down her backpack and was crouching by the bank, splashing herself much like I had done. I wondered if she, too, would get naked and go for a dip.
Staring from such a distance was making my eyes sore. I contemplated whether to get dressed and go down to her or remain where I was. The thought also occurred to me that she was only a mirage: my contact-craving mind conjuring the form of a young woman bathing by the riverside. Either way, I was happy for the distraction.
I watched and waited, hoping she’d disrobe or come toward me, or both. Instead, she stood and looked my way, shielding her eyes much like I was.
I lifted a hand and waved.
She waved back.
Since I hadn’t yet lost my city manners, and because I had started shivering from the cold, I slipped on a pair of boxers—clean ones; I was ever the optimist.
Again, my optimism was rewarded as she strapped on her backpack and came walking my way.
It would have been awkward for me to get dressed quickly. So, instead, I played it cool and laid myself back down onto the slab of rock, pretending to soak in the rays of the sun, but in actuality, I was freezing.
She stopped about fifty feet downstream. “Hey,” she called out.
“Hey,” I responded.
“Are you from the trail?” she asked.
I sat up and pointed upstream in the general direction from which I’d come. “Yep.”
She continued walking toward me. As she did, a cloud passed in front of the sun, dulling the bright backdrop and allowing me to get a good look at her.
Tall and slender with black hair tied in a ponytail, dark eyes, and full lips—she was gorgeous.
As she advanced, I felt an erection coming on, so I sat up and bent my leg to shield it from her view. It caught in my wet pubic hairs and pulled as it stiffened. It was painful; I badly wanted to reach into my boxers and adjust, but that surely would have sent her walking in the opposite direction, and quickly.
When she was within twenty feet of me, she said, “Hello.”
The cloud had passed, and the sun was again beaming in the background. I had to squint when looking in her direction. “Hello, stranger,” I said.
She stopped, set down her backpack, and took a seat on it. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
I kept my eyes on her, fighting the sun to get a good look. “Yes, it sure is.”
She turned to me. Her head blocked the sun, and in an instant, I could see her face clearly. She was obviously of mixed ethnicities—perhaps even Native American like me. Whatever her origins, she was exotic enough to be exciting yet familiar and comforting all the same. She wore a serious expression, all business, but her voice was light and casual.
Her gaze swept over me, from the top of my head to the tips of my feet. “You must be freezing,” she said.
I laughed. “I walked down here to take a bath, and I wasn’t about to let a little thing like common sense stop me. Now, I’m just drying off.”
“Do you need a towel?” She reached into her backpack then stopped, her eyes again sweeping over me. “Not that I mind.” Her lips didn’t stretch, but she smiled with her eyes.
I didn’t need a towel; I had my own. But I welcomed the idea of sharing with her, even if it was just a towel, to start. “Thank you.”
She handed me her towel, her eyes still perusing my body. At that moment, I was very thankful for the gym membership I’d invested in a few years back. Money well spent.
I dried my hair then handed her the towel back.
She chuckled.
“What?” I asked.
She pointed at my head. “If you’d looked like that a minute ago, I wouldn’t have come over here.”
Giving my hair a quick towel dry had made it stick up and out. I must have looked crazy lying on a rock in my boxers, wild hair sticking out in all directions. I ran my hands through my hair, flattening it and giving it a quick combing. “There. Is that better?”
She nodded.
I looked from her to the water then back. “Fancy a swim?”
She looked at me wide-eyed and shook her head. “No way. I’m a California girl. I’m already freezing out here.”
“You’re right,” I said, and I hopped to my feet. “I’m freezing, too, actually.” I stepped back onto the bank and slipped on a shirt.
“Ah,” she said, feigning disappointment. “The show’s over already?”
“I’m afraid so.” I slipped on my pants.
She pouted. “But I just got here.”
I sat back down on the rock and slipped on my socks and shoes, then I looked at her and said, “I’m sorry to disappoint. But you wouldn’t want me to freeze to death?”
She shook her head.
“Believe me,” I said, “I’m far more fun alive.”
She pulled a windbreaker from her backpack and put it on. She stood, looking upstream. “Did you come from there?” She pointed.
“Yep.”
“So, I could regain the trail up ahead?”
“Actually…” I rubbed my chin. “To be honest, I slid down a steep slope to get down here. I think it might be difficult—very difficult—to climb back up. Where did you come from?”
She pointed downstream. “There’s a path leading from the trail to the river over there, not far.”
I chuckled. “I must have missed it.”
“I suppose I’ll go back the way I came then?” She looked at me as if I should confirm her decision. Or perhaps she was waiting for me to make a move.
In Massachusetts, she would have been waiting a long while—I wasn’t shy, but I was far from what we’d call aggressive or audacious when it came to girls. But out here, in the wild of the mountains, I was feeling far more daring.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
* * *
She was a fast walker, which I appreciated—not only because of the delay in my schedule but also because the temperature was dropping at an alarming rate. When we reached the waypoint, I showed her the slope I’d slid down to get to the river.
“That would explain the state of your backside,” she said, and she brushed the dirt off the back of my pants.
I looked over my shoulder and down. “Did you get it all?”
“Good enough.”
I stuck my butt out. “Are you sure?”
She slapped me on the butt—and not lightly. “Get moving. It’s too cold to stand still.”
I obliged, and she kept pace at my side.
“So, what brought you from California to the trail?” I asked.
She chuckled. “It’s a long story.”
I smiled at her. “We’re not short on time. And I’m a good listener.”
“Well, I’m here mainly to document charity work.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yep. Volunteer doctors and nurses from around the country come to Appalachia. I’m documenting some of the work they’re doing.”
I stopped. “Wait. What?” I tilted my head to the side. “You’re not with—” The coincidence was too extraordinary that I didn’t finish my sentence.
Though I’d stopped, she continued walking and continued talking, too. “I stop off at towns and villages along the trail, visit the clinics, talk to doctors and nurses, take photos, write about them. It’s to raise money for the charity.”
She was well ahead of me now. I ran after her, stumbling over my feet.
“You okay back there?”
She paused long enough for me to catch up. “That’s crazy,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m always off doing crazy things.”
“No, I mean, the coincidence, it’s crazy. You… you’re.…” I stammered.
She stopped again and looked back at me. “What?”
“You’re—” I caught myself before repeating what Doctor Raskin had told me: You’re the eccentric wealthy socialite married to a politician who’s always off on adventures to raise money for charities.
“You’re here to do charity,” I said.
“To document the charity,” she corrected. “I’m just writing about it.” Then she looked at me. “And you? What’s your story?”
