No, this story is not about groupie plaster casters at a glam rock concert getting the cock and balls in plaster of a rock star they fucked. Nor is it about going backstage at a theatrical performance of a highly sexual play, although elements of such drama are in this story.
It was a simple sign in the woods, "Backstage Pass". I had cycled to the end of a woodland trail, an old rail bed, and found a gate blocking the trail, presumably erected there by a property owner jealous of his privacy. The gate was flanked by barbed wire fencing that stretched away into the mixed hardwood bush on both sides as far as the eye could see.
However, off to the right of the gate, nailed to a sapling, was the sign: "Backstage Pass". Intriguing. Mysterious. Beside the sapling was a trail: narrow, overgrown, and covered with autumn leaves, but a discernable trail. Was this another way into the private property of the gate owner, a privileged opening into a special world buried deep in the rolling hardwood vales? Was the "pass" like a mountain pass, a gap in the ridges of land covered with forest that ran away from the bike trail on both sides, a pass that led to something magical?
It was too much for my curious nature. I mounted my bike and set off on the trail through the woods. For a way, it ran parallel to the barbed wire fence along the valley. But the land began to rise, and I was forced off the bike and into a steep walk up the winding path, slipping on the wet leaves, around trees and through gaps and over rocks covered with moss.
A tortuous descent to the valley floor led me back to the fence again, and there on the other side was a clutch of little buildings. Two cabins of rough planks, one larger than the other, faced each other at angles across a flat open space. Behind the buildings were two outhouses, also of rough planks. Set in the hill opposite the buildings were broad wooden planks that served as seats. It was a little theatre in the woods.
Intrigued, I leaned my bike against a tree and took photos of the buildings beyond the fence with my cell phone. Then I heard the voices.
I froze, listening. Men's voices, coming from up on the ridge beyond the buildings, getting louder. If I retreated up the ridge behind me, they would surely spot me. I grabbed the bike and wheeled it into a cedar thicket near the fence, laying it flat in the silent needles on the ground. Crouching behind an old oak at the edge of the cedar copse, I could see the little buildings clearly.
Into the clearing came two men carrying between them a canvas litter like the ones used for wilderness rescue when someone has broken a leg and needs to be carried out to safety. Strapped to the litter was a girl of about eighteen with long brown wavy hair and dressed in a navy blue track suit. She was asleep, or unconscious, hard to say which. She certainly was not moving, eyes closed, but I heard the occasional moan so I knew she was alive.
"Let's get her inside and stripped," one said. "I want to do her at least twice before the sun goes down and we have to take her back and dump her."
"Yeah, good plan," agreed the other one. "We won't even wait for Bill to get back." He guffawed and started to unlace the straps that held the girl to the litter.
I had just started to process the fact that there was another man out there, Bill, when a twig snapped behind me. I whirled around to find the muzzle of an automatic pistol pointed at my face. Behind the gun was the grizzled face of a man about my age, sixtyish, tall, well built and well dressed in outdoor clothing, but serious in demeanour.
