Surprise on the Appalachian Trail

She raised her right knee and slipped her hand down. I couldn't see or even feel anything, but my mind's eye had a clear vision of her movements between her thighs.

I knew she was re-playing the vision of that three-way we'd witnessed in this hut so long ago. I wondered if she was imagining that she was a participant rather than a secret observer.

My wife and I have an open masturbation policy. We encourage each other to jack off, or "jill off" in Debbie's case, any time we like and as often as we like. I do it a lot more than she does and she jokes that I'm a chronic masturbator. But tonight it was her turn.

Our day-to-day sex lives were frankly quite boring except for one saving grace. For as long as we've been together we've had a tendency to do something crazy and out of character every few months. It's usually a spontaneous escapade, and often after a few drinks. We're pretty straight-laced, we're both business professionals, socially conservative, and our friends see us as the ultimate straight-arrow couple. They'd be shocked if they learned how many exciting and very sexy experiences we'd collected over the years.

Deb's open acceptance of sexual adventures came with her absolute trust that neither of us would do anything to harm our marriage. And that was just one of the reasons that after more than two decades I still loved her beyond anything else.

She tried to suppress her movements. She scooped the juices that flowed from her vulva and rubbed her clit quickly, quietly, moving only her fingers, keeping it as quiet and low key as possible.

Mac and Megan slept just inches away. Scott and Sarah were barely six feet away. The sleeping bag suppressed the wet, squelching sounds.

I could feel the tension in her shoulder and back muscles, felt the quick movements as she massaged her clit, sensed her breath coming faster as her climax approached. Pre-cum welled at the tip of my cock, escaped, and ran across her back.

Deb can be a screamer, but as her orgasm approached she bit her lower lip and held her breath, then suddenly froze. She shoved her butt hard against me, held her hand still, and I felt her body vibrate as the waves of her climax washed over her.

Then as if an electric circuit had been cut, she went limp. Her knee came down, her hand now trapped comfortably in place over her vagina, the muscles relaxed, and she let out a huge sigh.

I pushed my cock harder into her butt crack and kissed the back of her neck lightly.

"Oh, God, Deborah, that sounded nice!" It was Sarah's voice, from the other side of the hut. "Good night," she sighed, and there was a rustle as she turned over.

Deb turned to me and suppressed a giggle. I gave her a good night cuddle and kissed the back of her neck again. After five minutes I heard the deep breathing or the light snores of five tired, mildly inebriated hikers, and the woody timbre of a pair of great horned owls calling to each other from opposite sides of the camp.

* * * * *

There was a sharp nip to the early May morning. I was the first up and rebuilt the campfire and had coffee ready in time to watch the others groan and stretch and start climbing reluctantly out of their sleeping bags.

I was interested to see that both Mac and Megan were naked as they emerged from their sleeping bags. Mac's hairy, nude body was less than three feet from where Debbie sat, still in her sleeping bag, and I smiled as her eyes grew. Megan was trim, I guessed that her full breasts would rate at least a C-cup, and her pubis was shaved. Or perhaps she'd had the same laser treatment as Debbie. They reached for hiking clothes and fleece jackets and hid their nudity in less than a minute.

Coffee. A quick breakfast around the campfire. Very little conversation. Ten minutes to roll up the sleeping bags and pads and hoist our backpacks. A quick inspection to see that nothing had been left behind. Sand and water to douse the campfire. It was still chilly when we set off and it seemed that no one was fully awake yet. Perhaps I should have made the coffee stronger.

The western sky was a deep cobalt and careless dabs of a cosmic paintbrush had traced an arc of silver-white streaks of high-altitude cirrus. It warmed up quickly and a thick humidity was setting in, and there was almost no sound. Tufted titmice fluttered in the canopy above us, and half a dozen turkey buzzards circled silently over unseen carrion far to the north. A red-bellied woodpecker tapped its tattoo on a trunk ahead of us, and took off in a flurry as we approached.

I took the lead, followed by Debbie. We carried the lightest packs, and I tried to keep a moderate two-and-a-half mile per hour pace. Military-man Mac was behind Deb, then chatty Meg, now silent. The twenty-somethings, Scott and Sarah were on sweep.

The Appalachian Trail weaves across the border between Virginia and West Virginia. We passed a sign telling us that we were now in West Virginia, and Meg shattered the silence by breaking into song. The John Denver ballad "Country Roads" was written about this exact area.

She sang it badly but loudly and enthusiastically, and soon we all broke our morning silence and joined in the chorus. Looking around me I reflected that Denver was right. This place is almost heaven. The Shenandoah River, the Blue Ridge Mountains...the spiritual heart of West Virginia.

The trail was mostly downhill as we descended toward the Potomac River. But it wasn't easy. We crossed WV-Route-9 at Keyes Gap, and after half a mile the trail became very rocky and I was thankful that I'd insisted that Deb bring a pair of hiking poles. It's easy to twist an ankle here.

Megan's chatter continued as we picked our way across the rocks. She was a registered nurse who worked night shift in their local ER and had us laughing at the strange cases she'd seen. Women with hickeys that had become infected right next to the jugular vein. Men whose butt plugs had broken off and had to be surgically extracted. The woman giving her husband oral sex on the New Jersey Turnpike, when he lost concentration and ran headlong into a toll booth.

I was sure there must be countless other strange cases that didn't involve sex, but Megan didn't bother to describe them.

It was unseasonably hot for May and the sweat was running uncomfortable down my back.

We crossed the Shenandoah River on the US-340 bridge and climbed the ridge above the old town of Harpers Ferry at the confluence of the Shenandoah and the Potomac. It felt odd, but we followed blue blazes on telephone poles through the town center, to the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters. We must have taken a dozen pictures outside the old stone building, but those photos at the ATC-HQ are a rite of passage to serious hikers.

Lunch at one of the town's diners was a pleasure, though it felt odd being in a crowded diner so soon after the isolation of the trail. After burgers and frozen custard and refilling our water bottles and Camelbak bladders we crossed the old rail bridge and picked up the tow path on the Maryland side of the Potomac.

The stretch along the towpath is scenic but boring, and we were thankful to cross Keep Tryst after three and a half miles, scramble under the US-340 bridge, and hit the switchbacks that would take us up a thousand feet to the overlook at the top of Weverton Cliffs.

Mac and Scott took point, followed by the ladies, and I was on sweep. The trail up that section is very steep and uneven, and although the view to the south is appealing, your attention needs to be focused on the path immediately ahead. That loose rock, the tree limbs felled in the storm last week, the sudden incline at each sharp turn—all conspire to hurt the unwary hiker.

We came to a particularly tricky switchback where the trail took a hairpin bend to the right. An uneven pile of rocks covered the first ten feet after the turn. Sarah had just rounded the bend and was already picking her way forward when I heard a loud squeal, and she went down with a thump.

"Oww, shit, shit!"She recovered herself, hobbled to a fallen log and cradled her foot.

The group crowded around her but Megan, the registered nurse, quickly took charge. I pulled an Ace bandage roll from my pack and worked with Megan to pull off Sarah's boot and sock, douse the foot in cold water, dry it, and apply the compression wrap. Debbie was kneeling beside me and held Sarah's leg up. Sarah's husband Scott kneeled behind her offering comfort and support. She leaned her head back against his chest and closed her eyes and gritted her teeth while Megan and I applied the wrap.

I moved Sarah's knee outward to give Megan room to work. I was supposed to be helping Megan apply the Ace wrap, but couldn't help admiring the shapely leg, the slim ankle in my hands, trim thigh that disappeared under loose-fitting hiking shorts and—I did a double-take.

Sara was hiking commando. No panties.

Her shorts hung a full eight or nine inches below the crotch, but now they flopped open and it was impossible to miss the slit of her vagina. Her inner labia peeked out invitingly, half hidden by short-trimmed peach colored fuzz.

It probably took less than a second for me to see, absorb the details, curb my reaction, and continue wrapping Sarah's ankle.

Had Debbie or Megan seen it as well? Not that I knew too much about the subject but I was surprised that any woman would hike without underwear. But her shorts were very loose and there probably wasn't much friction. I glanced up again, and that beautiful young pussy was still in full view.

I've always been a sucker for protruding inner lips, and I couldn't help thinking they would make a great mouthful. I wish she'd been shaved, though.

Megan clipped the end of the bandage, and as I trimmed the overlaps so there were no high spots, the image was seared in my mind. I knew my thoughts were inappropriate. My wife was right next to me. I was helping a nurse, apply first aid to an injury. The patient was in pain. But that crocodilian section of my brain stirred the blood and I tried unsuccessfully to suppress the hard-on that was swelling against my own hiking pants.

We helped Sarah stand, and before tying her bootlaces, we supported her while she took a few experimental steps.

"You guys are good!" She exclaimed. "It feels fine. I'll be okay as long as I take it easy."

We tied her laces carefully. Tight enough to provide lateral support, loose enough to avoid constriction against the sock and the bandage.

The pace was much slower now. Mac was on point again, then Sarah. Her husband Scott was immediately behind her, ready to offer support if she stumbled.

"Go ahead, guys, I'll catch up." It was Debbie. "I just need to fix my laces." I hung back with her as the others went ahead.

Megan slowed and looked at Debbie and me. "Did you see that?" She asked. "I couldn't keep my eyes off her!" She threw her head back and laughed, and strode out to catch up with Scott.

As Deb finished re-tying her laces, she asked "I suppose you also enjoyed the view?"

"Wonderful vista," I joked. "I could see all the way into the valley. Pity that the shrubbery blocked the deepest parts of the glen."

"God, you men are so damned primitive!" She cuffed me playfully as we stepped out to catch the others.

The view from the Weverton outlook is one of the best on the Mid-Atlantic section of the trail.

The Potomac River snakes in from one side, the Shenandoah from the other. The picturesque village of Harpers Ferry looks like a toy town, with the road approaching from the east, and the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. A train came into view along the Washington/Chicago line and the muted rumble was hypnotically peaceful to the six of us perched high on that eyrie.

Scott was massaging Sarah's ankle. It was useful having physical therapists in the group.

Debbie and I shared a Gatorade and an oats-and-honey bar. I put my arms around her shoulders and we sat there soaking it in. No words were needed.

After half an hour Megan asked, "How's the ankle, Sarah?"

"It's hurting a bit more now, but I think I'll be okay."

"That's because we haven't been moving. I think it will loosen up as we walk. And the next camp isn't far."

"Two miles," I confirmed. "It's a bit rocky, so you might want to use your hiking poles for support."

"I'll massage it again when we get into camp," said Scott.

Her ankle held up well, but as I watched her cautious progress I couldn't clear my mind of the image of her soft ginger fuzz and that inviting young vagina.

We reached the Ed Garvey shelter about two hours before dusk. I set up Deb's and my self-inflating sleeping mats and laid out our double sleeping bag. The sun slanted into the open side of the shelter, and everyone collapsed for a nap.

By the time the sun went down I'd woken, started a fire and had coffee ready. Sarah's ankle had stiffened and she limped slightly, but I was sure she'd be okay in a day or two. A sprain like that hurts like hell at first but usually heals quickly.

Dinner at the trestle table was again a quick affair, but there were cheers all round when I pulled out a second bottle of Kahlua. Megan was back to her stories about risqué behavior landing people in the ER. It turned out that Mac and I are both frequent business travelers, and we traded the typical road warrior stories of being stuck in airports overnight, interminable delays on the tarmac, and rental car breakdowns.

The Kahlua had done its work and inhibitions fell away. In a déjà vu from last night, Deb nudged me and once again cast her eyes toward Scott and Sarah. Like last night, the couple was taking advantage of the dark, and under the table their hands were on or near one another's genitals. After another round of Kahlua, Scott and Sarah excused themselves. Sarah said she needed the privy and Scott would escort her in case she hurt her ankle again.

Chatty Megan carried most of the conversation while the rest of us polished off the liqueur.

Scott and Sarah came back to the table after twenty minutes.

"Oh no!" exclaimed Megan. You silly kids!

"What?" asked Scott.

"They just sneaked away for a quickie!"

"What?" Mac's head snapped around. Sarah blushed.

"For God's sake, you didn't need to do that!", Meg exclaimed. "We're all friends here, and we're all adults! If you want to have sex—just have sex! You don't need to hide it from us!"

"We weren't-" Sarah stammered.

"Honey," interrupted Megan. "You have grass in your hair and your T-shirt is inside out!"

"Busted!" laughed Scott.

"Oh shit," said Sarah with a broad smile. She stood, whipped her T-shirt off, turned it the right way around, and pulled it on again.

No bra. B-cup, I guessed.

"See?" asked Megan. "There's no need to be shy! I wish people could just be more open. Sex is as natural as eating or breathing. Why do we have to hide it?"

"Well, you've got my attention now!" Laughed Scott.

Megan laughed again. "I'm not suggesting anything by that. I guess it's just that until now, there's been no nookie on this trail!"

"Not true," said Sarah. "Last night, Neil and Deb were-"

"Not Neil," I corrected.

"Debbie!" yelled Megan. "Good for you, girl, I'm proud of you!"

The conversation wound down quickly. The alcohol, the long hike, the heat of the day and the warm night were making my eyelids heavy and I was ready to turn in.

The sleeping arrangement was the same as last night. Deb and I at one end, Scott and Sarah at the other, Mac and Meg in the middle. Tonight there was no shyness. Mac and Megan calmly stripped off in front of us all, climbed into their sleeping bags nude and turned off their flashlight.

The darkness was absolute.

As we settled in, I heard a lot of rustling from the middle. Mac whispered something to Megan, and she giggled in reply.

"Hey you two," said Sarah, and she did her best to mimic Megan: "For God's sake, we're all friends here, and we're all adults. If you want to have sex—just have sex! You don't need to hide it from us!"

Megan's easy laughter would be one of the enduring memories of this hike. "Mac's a bit tired and needs his beauty sleep. Maybe tomorrow." She laughed again. "Good night, everyone.

Hiking the Appalachian Trail has always been about getting back to basics. Just me, the trees, the soft sounds of the forest, and taking care of the most basic food and shelter needs. But on this trip the unexpected camaraderie had been half the pleasure, and the sexual tension was as thick as the humidity.

* * * * *

When we woke, Sarah's ankle was hurting, but I knew it would ease up as she started walking. Megan unwrapped the bandage and re-applied it. Scott massaged the ankle for a while, then Meg and I re-applied the compression wrap.

Courtesy of her seating position, there was no view down the valley this morning.

The original plan had been to hike sixteen miles to the Pine Knob shelter, but Debbie and I would peeling off around mile twelve, where I'd parked my car at the Washington Monument State Park.

Sarah's ankle caused a change in plans. Instead, we would hike nine miles to the Rocky Run shelter where they would spend the afternoon and night, and Deb and I would continue alone, completing the final three miles to my car.

The trail is fairly flat and open here and we moved at an easy stroll. It felt more like July than May. The heat and the thick humidity had us sweating openly.

"I hope we make it to the car!" Said Deb, pointing to the sky in the west as we crossed the Gathland State Park, with its strange monument for civil war correspondents. It was clear that the weather was about to change.

The trail took us up a gentle rise, then down the thousand-foot, one and a half miles from the peak at Lamb's Knoll. Sarah struggled on this section, but her reward was arriving at the Rocky Run shelter soon after our descent.

There are two shelters here. The original was built in the 1940s and sleeps six, with a raised concrete floor in a three-sided log cabin. The new one isn't luxurious but it's beautifully built and features a raised wood floor, a loft, and a covered deck.

The cloud cover looked increasingly threatening, so Debbie and I wolfed down a quick lunch, then hoisted our packs and bade farewell to our companions.

It was a long, heartfelt goodbye. We'd become good friends in our two short days together. We'd miss Mac's friendly disposition, Megan's chit-chat and her easy laugh, and Scott and Sarah's good looks and youthful enthusiasm.

We were anxious to beat the weather, and I persuaded Debbie to take the lead and to set the quickest pace that would be comfortable for her. Three miles. We could do it in an hour if we maintained a brisk pace. But I doubted the weather would hold that long.

We were fifteen minutes from Rocky Run when there was a flash of lightning just ahead of Deb, followed immediately by a deafening peal of thunder. The sudden rainfall was so intense it felt like someone was emptying a giant bucket over us.

The path turned into a river within minutes, and we had to walk along the raised edge just to keep our feet relatively dry. I kicked myself mentally. When we were packing for the trip, I decided to keep our backpacks as light as possible and left our rain gear at home. A stupid, amateurish mistake that I would not make again.

After less than ten minutes I caught Deb's arm. We huddled together and I said "Let's go back. In this muck, it's going to take over an hour to get to the car. The shelter is just twenty minutes that way," I pointed south.

She nodded, and without another word, we went back. The wind whipped up now, and along with the torrential rainfall, it sounded like a freight train was rushing unseen through the forest. We slopped through puddles, we bent our heads against the rain, and our hiking poles sank into the mud as we tried to maintain balance on the uneven path.