The parking lot of the Outdoor Store in Fayetteville, Arkansas, looked like a yuppie convention must have been going inside. There were glistening mini-vans and shinny SUV’s everywhere, all lined up side by side, color by color, suburban driver by suburban driver. I had a few days and was hoping to spend them backpacking in the Ozark Mountains somewhere along the Buffalo River. I had all my gear but had been thinking about trying some fly fishing for some of the area’s trout. Thus, my trip to the yuppie collection at the Outdoor Store.
I had backpacked, canoed, rafted, rock climbed, and hunted most of the area but never fished it. The cute kid in the store, surely a Arkansas college student, was really very helpful. Her smile and clean spiffy sandals were fun and she even knew something about the equipment. I ended up with a moderately expensive fishing rig for my backpack and bid her goodbye.
My plan was to drive out of the Fayetteville area only so far. I would park the rental car in a National Forest I knew and hike in maybe fifteen miles to spot on the river I had used for a campsite on a canoe float trip some years ago. It was a great place to camp unobtrusively. The river banks were nice sized but there was a long river gravel beach on one side with trees just on its edge. My tent in the trees wouldn’t be seen or bothered. No one would know I was there unless I wanted them to. A great way to unwind alone for three or four days.
I got the car parked in a safe spot with a note to the park ranger on the dash. The hike into the park was easy and I found my spot without hassle. It was just as I remembered it. Wonderful. The first night yielded a clear sky full of stars and a forest full of night sounds. It left me wondering how I could always do this, live this way. The next morning was a clear and bright spring morning. All my cooking stuff was put away a little after noon. I pulled on some khaki shorts, a tank top, and some Teva sandals before settling in to begin serious fishing, or serious enough to say it was fishing. I had brought along a good pair of binoculars, made by Nikon, on the off chance I might see something interesting. Birds or deer or bobcat or wild boar was what I was thinking, not necessarily what I ended up seeing. So I took the binoculars down to the water with me.
To be honest, I could never really fish worth a shit. I fooled around with the gear for awhile, trying to cast, trying to be serious, but I finally gave up for the most part and began sipping Wild Turkey and scanning the trees with my binoculars just to watch what was moving. This is the good life, I remember telling myself.
I heard her before I saw her. It’s that way most times in the woods. She was running happily toward me on a trail on the other side of the river. She was a striking woman, short black hair, medium height and build. I think her eyes might have been blue. She was wearing blue jeans and a man’s long sleeve white shirt. It took me a moment to notice the white shirt was unbuttoned completely. And she wasn’t wearing a damned bra. Her breasts were medium sized and firm enough to not be troubling as she ran. She was smiling, laughing maybe, definitely happy.
She stopped on the river bank just opposite where I sat on the river gravel with my bottle of Wild Turkey and my trusty binoculars. I smiled and waved. She smiled and waved back without doing a damn thing about her shirt. She turned and I could tell she was talking to someone else coming down the trail. It was a man. I don’t know why but I got up from where I was sitting and moved back into the trees behind the gravel beach. She watched me all the way. Then she turned and hugged the man who had arrived with a picnic basket, blanket, and big camera case.
They seemed to have gotten to where they had intended to come.
The man was black headed like the woman. He was taller than she by several inches with a slender, muscular build. He also wore blue jeans but with a light blue t-shirt. He worked steadily to spread the
blanket near the edge of the bank, open the picnic basket, and begin to spread the things from inside. She seemed nervous and anxious at the same time, happily pacing the bank while he worked. She finally made an exaggerated gesture with her arms, almost as if to say, “Come on.” He responded by setting the basket aside and opening the camera case. She clapped her hands and began to bounce up and down with anticipation.
As the man pulled up the camera and aimed it at her I watched in pleasant amazement as she lowered the shirt to her waist. She was topless as she turned and looked my way on the other side of the river. I assumed the man was clicking away, talking to her, but I somehow felt her attention was directed toward me. She was posing for the camera, sure, but I truly believe she was also posing for me.
He moved around her with the camera, preparing other shots, encouraging her, I imagined. With my binoculars I could see her face well, her breasts well, the special personality of her nipples exposed outside on a spring afternoon. I watched holding my breath as she unfastening her blue jeans, dropped the shirt, and pushed the jeans down to her ankles. She wore nothing underneath. I think I heard the man whoop an intimate cheer but I was truly focused on her ass, the curve of her hips and upper legs, the look of her black pubic hair.
She seemed to be pleased, having fun, as she moved around the man, striking poses. She was completely naked except for white socks as she stretched out on her stomach across a big flat rock. I imagined the chill of the rock on her stomach and breasts. I looked closely at the full round curve of her ass, wishing I was in position to see what was between her legs.
She must have read my mind.
