Surprise on the Appalachian Trail

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

This is part of my Neil and Debbie series. Deb and I write our stories together. Her memory is better than mine, and I put the words 'on paper'. This narrative has elements of our real life experiences, occasionally spiced with fantasy. You might be able to guess which is which.

The hottest action is near the end of the story.

All characters are (well) over the age of eighteen.

* * * * *

It's amazing how a forty-five minute drive can transport you back two hundred years.

As I piloted Debbie's XC90 up the endless turns and switchbacks of "Appalachian Trail Drive", I clicked the four buttons that would open all of the Volvo's windows, and reached up to open the sunroof.

We inhaled the musty odor of damp soil and humus, the occasional sweet fragrance of a wild rose, and the coffee-bean hint of a far distant skunk. The trees closed over us and we drove through a sun-dappled tunnel of maple, birch, and ash. As the road's elevation increased chestnuts and red oaks towered above us through the open roof, while last year's fall foliage decomposed into rich earthy mulch at their base.

"Makes me wonder why we live and work where we do, doesn't it?" asked Deb. "Wouldn't a cabin deep in these woods be just perfect?"

I reached for her hand and squeezed. "It's still one of our retirement options," I reminded her. "Remember the list we made?"

"Yes, but retirement is, what...a hundred years away?"

"Less than twenty," I corrected her. "And less than fifteen years if we're lucky."

We'd left home less than an hour ago, and we were both awestruck by the stark contrast between the pastoral forests of the Shenandoah region, and the urban sprawl that is northern Virginia.

Our not-quite-McMansion was in one of the nation's busiest business hubs. The picture-perfect planned neighborhood we called home was shoehorned into an area surrounded by countless government contractors and the hub of the military industrial complex. Two dozen Fortune-500 companies were headquartered within a few miles from us, and nine of the twenty highest-mean-income American cities are in suburban Washington.

The cost of living in our area is insane and the pace of life is frenetic—which had driven my wife and me to a long weekend of hiking along through the forests that line the Appalachian Trail.

"Seriously, though," she asked. "Could you live out here? It's so isolated!"

The big tires cracked fallen twigs, and indianagrass brushed the side mirrors as the road narrowed. "In a heartbeat," I answered.

We could hear woodpeckers hammering at dried bark, and as we rounded a sharp left-hand turn a deer flicked its white tail at us and scampered soundlessly into the bushes.

"Is isolation such a bad thing? Think about it...we could find a place that's completely private, which would suit our nudist lifestyle. As long there's some place with shops and restaurants within a fifteen-minute drive...what else would we need?"

"I don't know, Neil," she said as the roofline of the Blackburn Center came into view. "There's a lot to consider-"

"Let's discuss it after the hike."

We parked, hauled out our well-used backpacks and hiking poles and did a last-minute check. Cell phones off to preserve the batteries. Hiking boot laces tied tight and tucked out of the way. We made our way to the trailhead, passed the Blackburn shelter, and headed north along the Appalachian Trail.

The logistics of getting my car to the Washington Monument State Park in Maryland this morning had been complex and had cost us half day. It was getting late now, but that wouldn't be a problem. We planned to spend the night at the David Lesser shelter just short three miles north, and we would set off on a tough fifteen miles tomorrow. The sun sets well after 8:00 pm in late May, so we had plenty of time.

The state line for West Virginia was probably a few hundred yards to our left, and the winding Shenandoah River was less than two miles west. We'd planned this hike for a long time, and although we were less than an hour from home and work, we couldn't be further away.

Yes, I could live here.

When the path is narrow, I usually let Debbie hike ahead of me. She can set the pace, and of course, I get to enjoy the view of her heart-shaped butt and her athletic legs. But the trail was wide here and we walked side by side.

"You recognize this part of the trail?" I asked as we settled into an easy pace. "We've been here before."

"No way'" she gasped. "Is this...are we going to the same shelter?"

"Yep. Hard to think that it was more than two decades ago, but yes, this THE shelter."

"I don't suppose we'll have the same surprise as last time," she laughed.

* * * * *

It must have been twenty-four years ago. Debbie and I had been engaged for a few months, and our wedding was set for early the next year. At the time I had lofty plans of section-hiking the entire Appalachian Trail, and I'd brought my sexy young bride-to-be on a part of the trail that was new to me.

We'd slogged northward through fourteen very hot, tough miles. Debbie wasn't yet an experienced hiker. Her feet were killing her and all she wanted to do was pull her boots off and lie down. At last we approached the David Lesser Memorial shelter where we would camp for the night. I would give my fiancé a foot massage and apply new moleskin protection to her heels in the morning, before setting off for Harpers Ferry.

As we turned off the main trail it was obvious that we wouldn't be alone. A fire was smoldering in a pit and there were faint, unintelligible noises.

I gasped and grabbed Deb's arm. "Shhh!" I urged in a harsh whisper. "Stop!"

"What's wrong?" Her eyes darted around, looking for the bears or rattlers I'd advised her about before we left.

"Quiet. Come this way." We stepped off the trail and pushed our way through the thicket until the open front of the three-sided wooden cabin came into view.

"Get down," I urged her, and knelt quietly. I slipped my binoculars from my shoulder, dodged to get a clear view, spun the focus ring, and whispered "Bingo!"

"Dammit, Neil, what the hell-"

"Grab your binoculars. You'll see," I chuckled.

"Oh-my-God!"

"Shhh!"

I'd been right about the noises I'd heard. We'd almost stumbled into a hard-core love-in.

A young twenty-something guy was naked except for his hiking boots, and was balls-deep into a woman who was lying on what looked like an unrolled sleeping bag. A third, older guy leaned over her with his cock apparently half way down her throat.

We couldn't see the woman's face from this angle. She looked to be well padded, probably at least twenty years older than the stud who was now pumping into her with increased intensity, grunting loudly. Was the older guy her husband or boyfriend? She had one hand on her pussy, probably diddling her clit. The other hand stroked the cock that pushed its head against the inside of her cheek with a visible bulge.

"We can't do this, Neil. This is spying. It's wrong!"

"Shhh."

"Babe, we need to leave." Her binoculars were still glued to her eyes.

"And go where? We have no idea how long they'll be-"

"Okay."

I smiled. Deb's late mother had raised her in what amounted to a home-spun finishing school. The family had been wealthy and Deb's Mom would do anything to assimilate them into the upper levels of Washington, DC's society. She'd crafted her twin daughters' upbringing to give the impression that the family was from old-money. Emily Post manners, old-school values, the attitude of the untouchables.

"You're a peeping Tom," I teased.

"Shhh!"

The older guy yelled something unintelligible. He wrapped his fingers around the woman's hand and pumped vigorously. We heard a loud "Ugh!", and he jerked spasmodically. The woman slurped, took most of his cum in her mouth. He pulled his cock free and gave it three or four hard pumps, and a rope of semen crossed her breasts.

"Jeeezuz!" whispered Deb.

The woman played with the cum on her breasts, and in less than a minute, the younger guy's grunts stopped and he froze, then pulled back, and emitting a feral yell he thrust almost violently into her pussy.

He stood there for a few moments, then stroked deliberately in and out a few times, and slowly withdrew. His flaccid penis was soaked in cum and we could see the sperm leaking from her, down to her ass crack.

The woman pulled her feet almost up to her butt cheeks, spread her knees still further, and rubbed furiously at her clit. The older guy leaned over and sucked her right nipple and the younger guy had reached for a towel and was wiping his genitals down.

We could see the action clearly from our vantage point. As the cum leaked from her she dabbed it up with her fingers and used it as a lube over her clit. Two fingers of her left hand held her hood open, and the fingers of her right hand were a blur as she masturbated herself to orgasm.

I looked over at Deb. Her breaths were quick and shallow, and the sweat on her brow wasn't just from the hike. Her tired arms shook as she held the binoculars to her eyes.

"Having fun?" I whispered.

"Shhh!"

There was an unrestrained squeal, and I raised the glasses in time to see the woman pressing both hands to her vagina. Her back arched and her butt cheeks lifted several inches from the makeshift mattress.

She emitted another short yelp then collapsed, holding both hands protectively over her genitals. Her full breasts rose and fell as she panted.

"Time to get out of Dodge," I said. Deb and I backed quietly out of the undergrowth and headed back toward the white blazes of the main trail.

Some time ago, a tree had fallen across the path a few hundred yards to the south. The maintenance volunteers from PATC had sawed away a gap to allow unrestricted passage to hikers, but right now, the trunk to the west side provided a welcome bench. Deb and I sat, and as I handed her a water bottle, she gave me a strange look.

"What?" I asked.

"You called me a peeping Tom!" She accused.

"I don't think wild horses could have ripped those binoculars away from you."

"God...I know better than that." She shook her head slowly. "But damn, that was something to see!"

"So you enjoyed being a peeping Tom?"

She just looked at me, then she threw hear head back and laughed. The musical peals of her laughter broke the tension, and we relaxed and waited.

It must have been ten minutes later when the young guy stepped into view. Dressed in hiking shorts a T-shirt and shouldering a full pack of gear he came up the side path, turned north, and strode out of sight away from us.

After another three or four minutes the older couple came up the side path and headed south, toward us. We sat there quietly, just a pair of fellow hikers relaxing over a water. As they passed us, I nodded and gave a cursory "How ya doin'" greeting. They returned the greeting with a smile, strode past, rounded a curve and were gone.

"Well that's interesting," exclaimed Deb. "The guy goes up that way, and the couple comes down this way?"

The scene at the hut never left us.

In twenty-plus years of marriage, we often speculated, joked, and fantasized about it.

Was it a chance encounter of three random, horny hikers who had sex and then parted ways? My theory was that the older couple had been fucking, the younger guy walked in on them and they invited him to join the fun.

Or did they know each other? And—was the older couple married?

Deb thought they'd camped together at the shelter for a few days, and got to know each other in the biblical sense. Or maybe they'd planned to meet for a tryst and then went their own ways?

And the question that always intrigued Debbie and fueled her private fantasies when she masturbated: What would have happened if I hadn't heard the noises, and we'd barged in on the three-way?

In reality, we would have probably apologized and backed out as quickly as we could. But oh, the possibilities!

The David Lesser Memorial Shelter had occupied a mythical place in our intimate lives for over two decades.

* * * * *

Now, in a late May many years later, we'd be seeing the place for the first time since that strange experience.

Debbie and I had completed several dozen hikes in our married life. She preferred day hikes, and preferably not too strenuous. She was fit and strong and was a regular in the gym, but she didn't have the hardened trail experience I'd gained from regular strenuous sorties and from climbing mountains.

Our friends accused us of being health and fitness freaks.

This weekend's three-day excursion would be the toughest Deb had taken on in a few years, so I planned to go slowly and let her set the pace. But even at our casual gait, we were less than two miles in before we caught up with a group of four heavily laden hikers.

From the size of their packs they were obviously on a multi-day backpacking excursion, and I assumed they'd be heading for the same shelter we were. They looked like two couples, one in their twenties, and one perhaps in their late thirties.

"You guys also heading for the Lesser shelter?" I asked as we closed in on them.

"Yep. And I think we're almost there. You too?" The older woman asked. She was a trim five-foot-nothing brunette with over-sized breasts and an easy smile.

"We are," I answered. "We're just on a three-day walk. Lesser, then Garvey, then to our car at the monument. You look pretty loaded up. You through-hiking?"

"They are." She pointed her hiking pole at the younger couple. "My husband and I are section hiking, but we're doing it two weeks at a time."

There was the usual trail small-talk. How far along were they with their section hike? Did they have trail-names? How did they fare on the notoriously difficult "roller coaster" section of the trail, just south of Blackburn?

We arrived at the shelter fifteen minutes later. It was still essentially the same format that Deb and I had seen so long ago. A rustic three-sided cabin with a concrete floor and a wide deck overlooking the tent pads. But it had been rebuilt and had windows in the gables, and there was a separate shelter over a trestle table with benches.

Deb looked around, obviously remembering the strange three-way we'd seen here. Her gaze went out into the woods and I knew she was trying to identify the spot where we'd hidden and watched. I squeezed her hand, and whispered "what are you thinking about?"

She just smiled.

We formalized introductions. The older pair was Mac and Megan. She was olive skinned and elfin, and looked top-heavy with breasts that might have been surgically enhanced. She did most of the talking. He was a fireplug. Short, close-cropped blonde hair and ice-blue eyes, with the physique of a body builder.

"You former military, Mac?" I asked as we shook hands.

"Artillery. Were you also in?"

"Signals - but I was in the RAF."

"I thought I detected an accent." It's rare for people to pick that up. I'd left Scotland and arrived in the USA in my early twenties and worked hard at losing any traces of the British lilt from my speech. "I spent two years as a foreign liaison at the 3rd in Albermarle, in Northumberland, England," he explained.

The younger couple were physical therapists, who'd married soon after graduating a few years ago. Scott looked like the quintessential jock, tall with rangy legs and broad shoulders, and a square jaw with a cleft chin. I smiled as Debbie dragged out the introduction with small talk about his college (UNC) and where they lived (Raleigh, North Carolina). I estimated their age at mid- to late-twenties.

His wife Sarah was a tall, elegant redhead who'd enjoyed minor success as a basketball player before turning to physical therapy. She and Scott worked together, and had started their adventure at Springer Mountain in March. They'd met the older couple three days ago and planned to hike together to PenMar, the Pennsylvania / Maryland border on the Mason-Dixon line. Mac and Megan would end their hike there and head back home to New Jersey.

The overcast sky threatened rain, so we agreed that we'd all sleep in the shelter. Scott and I got a fire going. Someone had left an aluminum pot behind so Mac followed the signs and made the steep hike to the fresh water spring just a quarter of a mile away, scrubbed the pot clean, filled it, and brought it back to the shelter where he pumped the water through my filter and set it on a grid to boil.

The coffee he served would probably result in a health inspection if it had been served in a restaurant, but on the trail it tasted like heaven.

Dinner for Deb and me was a few protein bars, a few strips of beef jerky, and an apple each. As the sun went down, we joined the others at the trestle table and shared stories of the trail. Debbie produced a bag of cookies, which were appreciated, but it was the bottle of Kahlua coffee liqueur that made her the most popular hiker in camp.

The Kahlua was finished in less than an hour, and I didn't tell them I'd packed a second bottle. It's a heavy addition to any hiker's pack, but long experience had shown me that a decent liqueur is always appreciated, it always loosens conversation, and it's always worth the extra burden.

The conversation was lively and loud. The topics grew more bawdy. Megan was the life of the party with a quick wit and an easy laugh. She also seemed to be the most affected by the alcohol and any inhibitions were soon swept away as she told us that she and Mac were nudists, and kept us amused with stories of the reactions when she tells people about their lifestyle. Scott contributed tales of frat life. Streaking the sororities, strip poker games, and nude camping trips. Deb and I are nudists too, but we keep that to ourselves.

Deb nudged me and cast her eyes toward Scott and Sarah. It was impossible to be sure, but it seemed obvious to me that under cover of darkness, Scott's hand was wandering up Sarah's thigh under the table. I watched them from the corner of my eye as Megan entertained us with a story of her and Mac and half a dozen other Appalachian Trail hikers being caught by a park ranger while bathing nude in a river in South Carolina. Sarah gave a brief gasp, and Deb nudged me again. Megan paused at the end of her latest story.

"So tomorrow," Mac said, abruptly changing the subject. "I'd suggest we take off around seven o'clock." Sarah stood quickly, straightened her hiking shorts, and started clearing the remnants of her and Scott's dinner. The fire had died to a gentle glow but I was sure her face was flushed.

"Neil and Deborah, I hope you'll be hiking with us?"

"Yes, we were hoping you'd be cool with that," I answered.

The plans for the next day were quickly settled. Early start, lunch at Harpers Ferry after nine miles, a long rest after the stiff climb up to the Weverton Cliffs outlook, then the last few miles to the Ed Garvey shelter.

After cleaning up I laid out Deb's and my self-inflating sleeping pads side by side and we all retired around 10:00 pm. Six people sleeping side-by-side made things pretty cozy. Sarah shone her flashlight on Debbie and I as we squeezed into our double sleeping bag. "Dammit, Scotty," she exclaimed. "I want a sleeping bag like that!"

Megan sat up and shone another flashlight on us. "Me too! Mac, as soon as we get home, we're ordering one of those!"

"Why?" He asked. "We just bought these!"

Sarah answered for her. "One word, Mac. Nookie!"

There was a roar of laughter, a brief round of "good nights", and I heard snoring within minutes. Through the trees a new moon hovered close to the horizon and without flashlights, the darkness was almost complete.

There was a gentle rustle as Debbie and I quietly removed the PJ pants we'd brought. We always sleep nude. She turned her back to me and I spooned in behind her. My hard-on was nestled into her butt crack and up her back, and. I snaked my arm over her and cupped a breast, and gently massaged her nipple.