To the Wild Country

The two weeks until the field trip crawled past. Each Monday morning I departed for my work assignment in some far-flung corner of the Idaho wilderness, spending warm sunny days and cool starlit nights in splendid solitude. And each Friday morning, Megan met me in the forestry lab on campus where she sat at the computer terminal beside mine, helping enter the pine bark beetle data I had collected into the IBM mainframe. On the Friday night before the field trip, she, Kelly and I went out for pizza. We were joined by Tina, another of Richard's forestry students. I was well-acquainted with Tina. Every single Friday, this petite energetic blonde was eager to drag me into the greenhouse and show me how swimmingly her western white pine seedlings were coming along. Over supper, Megan mentioned that Vulcan Hot Springs was a nudie place whereupon Tina, smiling, said, "Good! I hate wearing a swimsuit." Yesss! The skinny-dipping juggernaut junket was gaining momentum.

At daybreak on Monday, August 13th, Richard's forestry class convened in the southeast corner of the football stadium parking lot, the mustering point for the week-long field trip. Amid piles of camping gear spread over the pavement, 19 students milled around, talking, joking and laughing. All wore wilderness trail garb: hiking boots, T-shirts, utilitarian shorts, and various styles of hats, baseball caps the predominant favorite.

Is it just my observation, or is it true that college girls are hotter than their nonacademic peers in the general population? Such was the case for all eleven of Richard's female students. All were trim, toned, fresh-faced, bright-eyed; an assemblage of blondes, brunettes, and Megan's fiery red head atop which sat her wide-brimmed straw hat. And the eight guys were wholesome handsome fellows, nary a nerd among them.

Richard took the role; all present and accounted for. Also present were two male teaching assistants and a raven-haired female research assistant, all three in their mid 20s. In addition to augmenting Richard's multidisciplinary teaching approach with expertise in their respective fields, they, and myself as well, would also be serving as chaperones. In my opinion, 19-year-olds didn't need oversight. Inside, I laughed at the notion of me, a quasi perv, being a chaperone. As far as I was concerned the students could do whatever they pleased during their free time.

Once everyone's camping gear was loaded, off we went headed north on highway 55, a convoy of seven vehicles, a mix of privately owned and university owned. Sitting beside me in the Blazer, Megan spent most of the time half-turned in her seat, facing Kelly and Tina in back so the trio could talk. Girls will be girls. In the rearview mirror I studied Tina's round elfin face. Although she was 19, she looked much younger.

Two hours of driving delivered the convoy to the small Forest Service campground at the trailhead to Vulcan. By prior arrangement, the university had reserved the site for the week. To ensure no one else tried to camp there, Richard closed the steel gate across the entrance drive.

After unloading gear and establishing camp in the shady pine grove, Richard gathered his students for a primer on what he expected to accomplish academically during the week. While the class stood in a wide circle around their professor, I scanned each alluring female face and recited a silent litany: Amanda, Shannon, Patricia, Bethany, Rachel, Lisa, Nadia, Helen, Tina, Kelly, Megan . . . Their names swirled in my imagination, each a resounding chord in a timeless symphony.

I wasn't the only man hearing beautiful music; the male students, Albert, Mark, Eric, Walter, Phillip, Jason, Ryan, Dustin, occasionally glanced at the girls. Perhaps they, like myself, were wondering which might bare their bodies at the hot springs and which wouldn't dare. My prurient self wanted to believe that every single girl would strip naked and frolic in the salubrious waters of Vulcan. But my pragmatic self attenuated that fantasy; in addition to Megan and Tina, only a handful might. Whatever that number turned out to be, my exhibitionist self was anticipating a gratifying week being naked in the company of eleven lovelies, twelve counting Sandra.

"Okay," Richard began, "this week's gonna be very informal. Out here we're on a first name basis. Anyone who calls me Mister Andersen gets an automatic F!" The students chuckled. He introduced the male TAs, Dave and Randy, with backgrounds in biology and chemistry respectively. He then introduced Sandra, with a B.A. in zoology. Her summer research job was conducting raptor studies in the upper elevations of Idaho's coniferous forests. She acknowledged the students with a smile and a nod. While scanning her lean body and short, shaggy black hair, I wondered if she was going to skinny-dip. I sure hoped so.

Richard gestured in my direction. "All of you know Ed, my research assistant for pine bark beetle surveys." Looking at me, Megan flashed a dazzling metallic smile then quickly clamped her lips together to hide her braces. Yes, she knew me better than all of her classmates combined; knew every nuance of my naked body.

The primer over, students, assistants, and professor donned daypacks filled with notebooks, water bottles and lunches. Then, like the Pied Piper, Richard led his charges out of the campground and into the pine forest. The remainder of the forenoon and into the afternoon was spent studying disparate forces of nature that interact synergistically to maintain a balanced ecosystem. Climate, soil types, elevation, insect and animal populations, disease, wildfire, human pressure . . . each plays a role in the overall health of the forest. I placed myself in the persona of student and considered the opportunity a learning experience.

By 3:30 P.M. the day's instruction was finished and everyone filed back into camp. Now I understood what Richard meant when he said they always made time for soaking; many daylight hours remained which could have been spent on academics, but all of the students were preparing to make the three-quarter mile hike to the hot springs. Those girls who hadn't already done so, stood in front of their tents fixing their hair in ponytails.

Inside their nylon mountain tents, Amanda, Bethany, Patricia, Shannon and Kelly changed into swimwear. Amanda, brunette, wore a black one-piece with a high neckline which did nothing to visually minimize her decidedly top-heavy figure. The other four wore colorful bikinis.

Helen, Nadia, Lisa and Rachel didn't change into swimwear, leading me to believe they, along with Megan and Tina, planned to skinny-dip. My excitement spiked. None of the guys changed into swimwear. I expected all of them planned to get naked in the company of their female classmates. Why wouldn't they? They're guys! Oink!

Daypacks on backs, the procession of students crossed the footbridge spanning the south fork of the Salmon River then along the meandering trail through the pine forest leading toward the hot springs. Bringing up the rear, how pleasant it was, watching round, toned, bikini-bottomed buttocks jostling beneath gossamer thin layers of polyester. The seat of Kelly's hot pink string bikini brief left most of her cute caboose exposed, which allowed viewing of the tiny butterfly tattoo on her left bun. Walking directly behind her, Eric ogled it.

"You say it's gotta lake?" Megan's voice interrupted my single-minded focus on the female promenade.

Walking beside her, I answered, "Yeah, and it's plenty big enough for this group."

The soaking accommodation at Vulcan was big; in a mountain meadow ringed by pines, a volunteer-built log dam impounded a hot lake, 30×70 feet. Most hot spring pools are crystal clear but the lake at Vulcan was somewhat turbid and became even more so with increased numbers of bathers. Nevertheless, the previous times I had visited, the lake was always eminently soakable. Megan continued talking with me and I held up my end of the conversation, but part of my attention remained focused on the girls' beautiful, barely covered backsides.

Once we arrived at the lake, the swimsuited girls wasted no time getting wet; they dropped their daypacks, kicked off their sandals, then stepped carefully onto the log dam, the easiest, cleanest entry point into the lake. Much easier than attempting to scramble straight down the steep muddy bank about six feet high. From seated positions on the barkless pine logs, they slid into the hot water.

The guys began stripping off their clothing. Sandals, T-shirts, shorts, and underwear they removed until all were naked. Everyone, that is, except Sandy-haired Dustin; his tidy whitie jockey briefs stayed on. What the hell was wrong with him? What red-blooded American male wouldn't leap at the opportunity to be legally naked in view of eleven hot college girls, his classmates no less? When I looked at his bulge, or rather, the lack of one, my question was answered.

None of the girls acted embarrassed by the dangling dicks in their presence. Being college students who fancied themselves worldly and sophisticated, they behaved nonchalantly. However, beneath their calm façades, they couldn't hide their wide-eyed delight. And the lion's share of delight was generated by Albert. Now I understood why his buddies called him 'Big Albert.' His hair and penis shared the same description: long, tawny and thick. As he swaggered toward the lake and onto the log dam, his six fat flaccid inches swayed like an elephant's trunk. I half-expected to hear it trumpet like the wild beasts on the Serengeti. From a seated position on a log he slid into the water and only then did multiple sets of female eyes shift their focus elsewhere.

I stripped naked then stood there waiting for Megan to do likewise. A few girls glanced in my direction but their eyes didn't linger very long; Big Albert's walk of fame had set the bar sky high. I was in good company; all the other guys were like me, average length and girth. But even so, every single penis, including mine, received smiling consideration, if only for a moment. The girls were just being polite. One by one, the guys walked onto the log dam, sat down, and slid into the water.

Megan kicked off her sandals and doffed her daypack then, like she had done at Worswick, casually stripped naked. And once again I was blessed to behold her unadorned loveliness. She draped her duds over a pine branch then turned and looked me in the eye, grinning, as if she were thinking, Well, here we are again! Indeed, the way God intended his children to enjoy the great outdoors.

Being late in the day, most of the lake was lying in long shadows cast by the pine forest. Megan didn't bother with sunscreen and she discarded her wide-brimmed straw hat atop her daypack on the ground. She ambled toward the dam. I followed, watching her fine freckled fanny, a soul-stirring vision I never tired of. Both of us stepped carefully across the barkless pine logs. From a seated position she slid into the water. I slid in right behind her.

As anticipated, Tina stripped off her green T-shirt and denim shorts. She wore no brassiere. Her tiny breasts with tiny nipples seemed a perfect fit on her petite frame, barely five feet. Without skipping a beat, she peeled off her pink cotton panties, revealing her pinched cleft and wispy patch. Her diminutive stature, narrow hips, and tiny bits gave her the appearance of a preteen girl in the midst of puberty. Short, shaggy blonde hair, a round elfin face, and doe-like brown eyes all supported that misconception. I had to remind myself she was a 19-year-old college sophomore-to-be, not a seventh grader. At a brisk walk, a trot really, Tina hustled her skinny butt onto the log dam. Instead of sitting down on the logs and sliding in, she jumped feet first into the lake which was about four feet deep at that point.

Helen, Nadia, Lisa and Rachel stood onshore, removing their clothing. Sandals, T-shirts, shorts; with each garment they stripped off my hope that all planned to skinny-dip gained steam. When Rachel, her back toward the lake, unfastened the rear clasp on her plain white brassier and pulled it away from her chest, I felt certain all would join the bares. Piece by piece, the remaining brassieres and panties were stripped off and soon, all four wore nothing but the lingering imprints of underwear on their seamlessly tanned skin.

My male sensibilities commanded me to admire their beautiful bare backsides as they draped their discarded duds over pine branches. One by one, they turned and made their way toward the water. All stood about the same height, within an inch of five-feet-six, and all sported natural bushes. Helen and Nadia both possessed average sized breasts and fair hair, but only Helen was a natural blonde. Nadia's yellow mane contrasted vividly with her brunette pubic patch. I've always considered it a huge disconnect when a female naturist dyes her hair blonde then fails to color her pubes. I suppose if she's an unashamed nudist and not sensitive about body issues, having her cuffs not match the collar isn't a huge deal. But I think it looks odd.

Lisa and Rachel, brunettes, occupied opposite ends of the spectrum when measured in terms of breast endowment. Lisa was in league with Tina, having tiny breasts with small nipples. Rachel was in league with busty Megan. But unlike Megan's tiny button nipples, Rachel had succulent nipples with areolas the size of silver dollars. It wasn't just me and the other guys who were checking out Rachel. Amanda was too, an unblinking stare.

Standing in the deep end, I watched the foursome slowly and carefully step upon the dam, lower themselves into seated positions on the barkless pine logs, and slide into the water.

The lake easily accommodated our group of 20 without crowding. Some floated on air mattresses while others sat on logs in the dam, both above and below the waterline. A few waded around or reclined in the shallows where the hot creek entered the lake from The Source, Vulcan's vents 200 yards upstream. Megan stood in the deep end by the dam with her tiny button nipples just above the surface. I waded over. Her sky blue eyes were smiling when she said, "This place is everything you talked about."

I stopped beside her and nodded. "Let's go over to The Source. It's awesome."

"Maybe later. Right now I'm enjoying this too much." She dunked herself neck-deep then cast a sidelong glance at Albert, seated on the dam above the waterline with his astounding asset on prominent display.

And I was enjoying this too, not Albert, but the overall experience. Forever and always I derived great pleasure when attending socially nude gatherings. Sharing this common interest with like-minded friends grows the bonds of fellowship.

Megan was correct; taking a walk to The Source, the power of Vulcan, could wait until later; the week had just begun. And it was off to a flying start: six girls out of eleven baring all on the first day. Not bad. And with time, I had hope that ratio would improve.

* * * *

Tuesday morning, up with the sun. The small Forest Service campground had a single privy, a single occupancy outhouse. Under ordinary circumstances, when only two or three small parties might be camped at the site, the facility could easily accommodate those numbers. But first thing in the morning when 24 adults awoke at the same time, a line formed, exclusively female. The men in the group simply stepped to the edge of camp, turned their backs, unzipped, and let it fly. None of the girls acted like open urination was offensive. In the wilderness, the rules are different. Tina was so desperate to pee, instead of waiting in line she trotted off into the pine forest, almost, but not quite, out of sight.

The students were responsible for their own meals. Everyone wearing lightweight jackets or sweatshirts to ward off the early morning chill, small groups sat cross-legged on a carpet of brown pine needles, preparing breakfast on compact propane camp stoves. Most consumed simple fare -oatmeal, granola bars, trail mix, dried fruit, coffee, tea, etc.- but Mark went the extra mile and brought bacon which filled camp with savory aroma. Bacon: another word for bear bait. That a bruin didn't come sniffing around camp in the middle of the night and break into his car was a miracle.

After breakfast, Richard gathered his students to outline the day's agenda: a trek onto the forest to expand on the lessons of Monday. That done, we proceeded as a group through different forest zones: lowland valley, mountainsides both sunny (south facing) and shaded, (north facing) an area recovering from wildfire and a recently logged clear-cut where tens of thousands of lodgepole pine seedlings were growing.

In each zone, Rich brought the group to a halt. After making preliminary comments, he handed over teaching duties to his assistants. We weren't limited to expounding on topics related our respective fields, rather, whatever insights we offered sparked freewheeling discussions with the students. This was precisely the sort of informal learning experience Richard sought for his backcountry classroom.

In a valley beset with dead pines, Rich brought the group to a halt. Looking at me, he said, "Ed, you take this one." I gave an overview on pine bark beetles, how they play a vital role in forest ecology but under certain conditions they do more harm than good. Then I demonstrated how inspections are conducted. At the end of my 15 minute presentation, Rich smiled approvingly.

Once the group was underway to the next location, Rich fell back and walked alongside. "You ever thought about going to grad school?" he asked, then added, "and maybe teaching?"

"I dunno, I haven't given much thought to what I wanna do with my life."

"That's something you oughtta consider. You're good."

Rich slapped me on the back then picked up his pace to catch up with Sandra. Never had I sought my brother-in-law's approval on anything. But having received it, it felt good. The notion of teaching at the college level took root. I projected forward in fantasy: geology professor Ed takes his students on a week-long field trip into the high country. On a sunny mountainside, all the guys and girls voluntarily strip naked to work on their summer tans while, with hammers and picks, they collect rock specimens. Hey! It could happen! Or not.

By 4:30 P.M. we were back at camp. In groups of twos and threes and fours, students began migrating toward the hot springs. I would have joined them but Richard convened a meeting of his assistants to outline to following day's agenda. By the time the meeting was over 30 minutes later, all of the students had already left for the lake. Sandra emerged from her nylon mountain tent wearing a figure-flattering one-piece swimsuit: cobalt blue with abstract black patterns on the front.

"You going swimming?" she asked. Implied, was that she wanted a walking companion.

"Sure am! Lemme grab my stuff." My stuff amounted to my small daypack holding a water bottle, towel and a rolled-up air mattress.

The footbridge spanning the south fork of the Salmon River we crossed then headed up the trail meandering through the pine forest. On the 20 minute hike we engaged in small talk, the kind of lightweight banter new acquaintances exchange; the field trip, the weather, the scenery. And the female scenery walking beside me was very easy on the eyes. Too bad the good parts were destined to remain under wraps. Once we arrived at lakeside, the subject shifted to having fun. Sandra must have expected me to strip naked because when I did, she didn't bat an eye. Standing at arm's length, she indulged a lingering look at my groin then turned away and stepped onto the log dam. From a seated position, she slid into the water and joined the students.