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It seems that I become incredibly verbose when I commit these stories to digital paper.  The writing software shows I’m already over 1000 words, so to help with time management for everyone reading this, I will, once again, break it into two parts.  Nothing erotic in this entry, unfortunately.  In the past, I’ve tried to be as tasteful as possible when recording the sexy bits, but depending on feedback, I may try to be more descriptive in my next entry rather than gloss over the deed itself.  (This was a particularly good one, in my opinion.)  I’ll also try to be less wordy in the future.

Finally, kudos to afuckandaschmuck for reminding me of the word “frottage”.

Cheers all.


I stand on the front porch of my cabin, watching my breath swirl in the cold.  The coffee in my hands keeps my fingers warm, despite the air being just above freezing.  The sun has only just begun to consider rising, and the sky is still an inky indigo speckled by constellations I don’t quite recognize from this angle.  I can still just barely make out the shape of the redwood trees towering above me, which limit my view and lend an almost claustrophobic feel to my basecamp.  I peer upward while taking another sip of the rapidly cooling, incredibly bitter “field research” coffee blend.  The stuff tastes like battery acid most days, but it’s hot and caffeinated, so I can’t complain.

Beside me, Rosalyn inhales from the rim of her cup and sighs.  “Not a bad way to start the morning, eh?”

“Not too shabby,” I reply, and I smile at her.  Rosalyn is about my height, taller than average for her sex, with dark brown hair perpetually drawn into an efficient ponytail.  She has the dark natural tan of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors, and apart from her hiker’s figure, she’s really quite unremarkable in appearance.  Not pretty, and certainly not ugly.  Just quite average.  But she’s the only park ranger I’ve met that I can get along with, and she’s good company in the mornings before and evenings after data collection.  We’ve also been shamelessly flirting since I arrived, including one evening of slightly drunken making out and unfulfilling frottage.  I’m certain that, with minimal effort, I could get her in bed with me, but I’m usually too exhausted after long days of field work, so I haven’t made much of an effort, though I intend to pursue our interactions to their natural conclusion before I leave for home.

We share a moment of silence, savoring the battery acid, before Rosalyn asks me, “So when are you setting out today?”

“Oh, probably within the half hour,” I say.  “I want to get to the trail head by dawn, so I’ve got to hit it soon.”  I take another sip of my coffee and scowl at the bitterness, made more potent by how cold it’s become.  I pour the remainder into the grass.  “By the way, thanks for doing those waypoints for me.”

“No problem,” she says, adding her coffee to mine.  “Just watch out on some of those trails near the coast, there might be a lot of windfall.”  She passes me her cup, adjusts her coat, then gives me a quick hug.  “Be safe up there, and have fun.”

“Will do.”  I return her hug, then turn and go back inside.  After giving the cups a quick rinse, I double check my daypack, taking inventory of my hiking gear.  A change of wool socks.  Two sandwiches, three granola bars, a bag of carrots, and a water bottle.  Water-purifying iodine.  A small emergency first aid kit.  A map and compass.  A headlamp.  Extra batteries, both double- and triple-A.  Baby powder for chafing.  Imodium.  Baby wipes and toilet paper in a Ziploc (personal experience has long taught me that Mother Nature is more than happy to call you in the field, at the oddest of times and with varying intensity).  It’s overkill, but better safe than sorry.  I strap my hunting knife to my belt, step outside, and switch on my GPS.

After the boot screen clears, I’m pleased to see the first waypoint is already loaded and ready to go.  When I told her I was taking two days off to go explore the forest, Rosalyn had offered to fill my Garmin unit with various waypoints around the forest.  Nothing more than a few hours hiking time following the advanced trails, but a full day’s effort going from spot to spot.  She’d even taken the time to organize them by final destination and had included paths, stopping points, particularly nice views, and not-for-tourists sites familiar only to locals and park employees.  Rosalyn knows the forest better than just about anyone, so I trust her when she tells me that I’m going to love the hike.  I briefly wonder if she does this for everyone, or only for those whose tongues she had nearly bitten off, but I shake the thought off and start down the road toward the trail head.

Thirty minutes later and I’m well into the forest, following the trail marked on the Garmin.  This is my third week in the redwood forest, and I am still humbled by the environs.  Silence is palpable in the redwood forest, so deep you almost feel guilty as twigs snap underfoot.  All around me, the coastal redwoods stretch over one hundred feet into the air, standing proud and majestic by anyone’s definition, the dense canopy working with a thick fog to keep it so dark that I still use my headlamp to light the trail.  Wherever I turn my head, the light shines on understory every bit as dense as the canopy, thick with fallen trees and sword fern as tall as my chest.  Between the canopy and understory is a vast empty space, filled now only with fog and the occasional flash of movement as a bird or squirrel noiselessly navigates the branches, then vanishes again.  The ecosystem itself is practically a living organism in its own right, and I frequently pause to admire, and appreciate, being surrounded by something that is truly awesome.

I hike for a good eight hours, not an unimpressive time but certainly less than I had expected, when my GPS indicates that I’m on my way to the final objective.  Previous waypoints had been titled with the name of the location.  This waypoint description reads “IF YOU ARE TIRED”.  I’m not, but my curiosity is piqued, so I follow the trail until it curves sharply to the left.  The unit shows I should continue forward, into the understory, which surprises me but makes me even more curious.  I find the azimuth indicated by my Garmin overlords and push forward into the sea of sword ferns.

After walking a fair distance, I step out of the bush and into a small open-canopied meadow.  It being the beginning of the growing season, the grass is short and thick, and the ground slopes gently away from me, where a small one-man tent is pitched.  Rosalyn is sitting in the grass, her back against the base of a young conifer, with a book in her lap.  She grins as I step through the last of the fern and calls out, “Glad to see you survived the redwoods!”



  1. How perfectly wonderful.

  2. As much filth as possible. My vote ….xxx

    • Fuck and Schmuck, I adore you guys. As much as one can adore an anonymous digital fingerprint, anyway.

  3. this was so beautifully written. love sex, but sometimes it’s nice to see you write something different. no onto part 2.

    • Thanks Lynn! Sometimes I do want to write things that are less sexually oriented, and I like exploring how to portray scenery and landscape with words. I think that’s why I got so very wordy on these two posts. But, well… I just really, really love sex. 🙂

      *makes a mental note to write about non-sexual intimacy and related memories*

  4. How could I have missed this?? Bi… Despite no sexy bits portrayed I’m still anticipating. Something.

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