The churning and merging is so vigorous that surrounding objects tremble with the movements, and so wet that a continuous sloshing sound is noticeable above the din of heavy breathing, rhythmic throbbing intonations and voices that betray heightened excitement and arousal. With pressure rapidly building and heat rising, the white frothy liquid reaches a point where it must burst from its dark enclosure. The bright juice sparkles in the sunlight as it is spewed, in copious amounts, into the air in repeated spurts from its chamber. Participants moan and shout in soaring states of exhilaration and ecstasy, each a witness to the eruption of a geyser in Yellowstone National Park.
Since Yellowstone contains anywhere from a third to a half of the world's geysers, the luminous, foamy eruptions in the park are many and varied. They differ in size, duration, frequency, intensity and other respects. Some erupt in bursts in different directions like fountains, while others spurt into the air streaming in one particular direction. Eruptions last for many hours or are done in a couple minutes, occur many times a day or once in a great while, and are loud or hardly noticeable, purring or groaning softly as they spew. Each variation may be spectacular to some and commonplace to others, depending on the circumstances and mood of those partaking in the action. The most massive, extensive, prolonged and beautiful among them tend to attract the most people and bring the greatest pleasure when they burst and spew.
All the frothy white eruptions in the park are not, of course, solely from geysers.
As a divorced and single park ranger stationed throughout the year at remote, isolated and sparsely populated Lake Village, there are days during the winter that I do not see another person. During the colder months travel in the interior of Yellowstone, including Lake Village, is restricted to over-snow vehicles such as snowmobiles or coaches. The few visitors that do come to Lake Village in the winter, around 40 people on average per day, only stay for long enough to finish their lunches or warm themselves by the warming hut stove. There are no overnight accommodations at Lake Village from mid October to mid May, save for the handful of heated ranger residences such as my own. Storms, drifting snow, subzero temperatures, unmaintained roads, grumpy buffalo or grizzly bears emerging early from hibernation, or other bad driving conditions often shut down one or more of the three routes leading to Lake Village. This means no one visits, or leaves, for perhaps days.
However, I did not become a park ranger for a dislike of the stillness, isolation, silence or unusual phenomena that often accompany the job. I, like the wolves that prowl nearby, crave such things.
It is my day off and I'm eager to take advantage of it by cross-country skiing on the Howard Eaton trail. The trailhead is a mile distant, just past Fishing Bridge Junction. The trail leads through the pine and fir wilderness along the Yellowstone River. Just a few steps into the wilderness is all it takes to enter a portal to a vibrant, entrancing and beautiful world.
As the sun rises the temperature isn't far above zero degrees Fahrenheit, yet at 7,900 feet in elevation the temperature varies more than at sea level and the high should approach a balmy 28 degrees today.
Announcing their arrival with mysterious and surreal trumpeting calls that reverberate over the otherwise silent, still and snow-coated landscape, swans float above the pine and fir forest to a dark patch of open water on the mostly frozen Yellowstone River, where they join other swans. The soft light of the sun, low on the horizon and partially veiled by a thin layer of clouds, illuminates the river ice which glows like a river of aquamarine. With the ethereal trumpeting of swans, ice that sparkles and glows like gemstones in the sunlight, the hypnotic, swirling movement of drifting snow and the comforting stillness and silence, I feel extremely awake, powerful and alive. I wonder what took me so long to venture into the snow-covered forest and splendor of the winter Yellowstone wilderness.
At the beginning of the trail I find a single set of cross-country ski tracks that are slender and close together. The tracks must have been made by a shorter and lighter person, most likely an adult female. Since there was snowfall last night, the tracks were definitely made this day.
Looking further down the trail I spot, beneath a grove of snow-covered subalpine firs, law enforcement ranger Anya Johansson waving to me. I catch up to her and soon we continue along the trail together, with Anya leading the way.
Anya is not a typical law enforcement ranger. She is still very feminine. At 33 years she has shoulder length blond hair, full pink lips, bright emerald eyes and a stunningly beautiful face and body. Her best feature is her thighs, which are shapely, curvy, athletic and flexible like a dancer's. I'd do just about anything to be between her bare thighs, holding her slender back and seductive hourglass form as I slide my considerable cock repeatedly in her wet pussy.
Anya, like me, loves the outdoors. This shared love helped bring us together on the Howard Eaton trail today.
However another shared love, fastidiousness and fussiness in selecting mates, hinders us from coming even closer together. We both are recovering from fractured relationships and are hesitant to become involved with each other or anyone else.
In this village with a dozen residents one notices if others are keeping a new flame, beau or mistress of any sort. No strange vehicles, sightings or footsteps have shown up in front of either my home or Anya's. We haven't had sex for months.
Both Anya and I are showing signs that we are about to break from our self-imposed regimens of chastity.
Just the other day Anya stopped by the warming hut where I am stationed. At the time I was alone splitting wood. Anya and I talked for half an hour about mundane things before she, without looking into my eyes, casually and indirectly mentioned she wasn't seeing anyone. Shy and particular as I am, I often need such hints to ask a woman out. I prefer to see signs that a woman is attracted to me before I take things a step further.
Anya and I agreed to go skiing together, though we didn't set a specific date as I should have insisted upon. It is fortunate that we happened upon each other on the Howard Eaton trail today, otherwise we might not have seen each other, as comfortable as I am with my lone wolf ways.
With Anya appearing in the warming hut and mentioning that she wasn't dating anyone, there was one sign that she was attracted to me, yet how does she feel about sex? Is she chaste and asexual as Christine O'Donnell claims to be? An answer to this question came soon after Anya's solo visit to me at the warming hut.
The other night at a co-worker's party Anya brought up the subject of Erin the sex-starved interpretive ranger from last summer. Erin, a young and insecure blond Texan with a beautiful bubble ass, carried on with a revolving door of men. Erin wasn't comfortable without a man desiring her and yet she was equally uncomfortable with the same man wanting her. Intriguing strange men, young and old, who caught her fancy, became an alternative wardrobe that she assiduously and continually assembled and used to give her pleasure, adorn her image, maintain her sense of well-being and discard as she pleased.
