To The Wild Country Ch. 01

Exercising caution, I crossed the bridge without incident. On the other side, I stopped at the first dead pine and went to work. Throughout most of China Basin, trees were widely scattered, allowing unobstructed sightlines for great distances. While I worked, the first mountain bikers of the morning appeared, darting between scattered trees 200 yards away. The four individuals of indeterminate gender disappeared, only to reappear moments later on a trail 50 yards away. But even at that close range, I couldn't discern male from female. Damn those unisex cycling clothes! As they passed, a turned head suggested one of them might have noticed the naked man standing beside a dead pine, scribbling in a notebook.

There were so many dead and dying pines in China Basin, it became apparent not all would get inspected during the allotted four days. A representative sampling would have to suffice. Throughout the morning I trekked from one end of the basin to the other, inspecting every fourth of fifth dead tree. As the day progressed, other cyclists came and went at a distance. Solo and in groups of twos, threes, fours, and more, most of the riders I couldn't discern their gender but a few I could; in lieu of unisex jerseys, some wore unmistakably feminine crop tops. All day I made no effort to avoid being seen but no one came close enough to notice the naked man working in the forest. It was like I was hiding in plain sight.

Late in the afternoon, I called it a day. Just as I reached the rustic bridge, three cyclists, twentysomethings, approached on the far side. The bearded guy leading the pack abruptly applied his brakes, forcing a fast stop by his blonde companions, each wearing a crop top. The guy waved me forward and called out, "C'mon across." Even though China Basin was a mountain biking playground, hikers were welcome and trail etiquette dictated that bikers yield to pedestrians. With deliberate leisure, I carefully stepped across the bridge, keeping an eye on my audience. Both girls wore wrap-around sunglasses so I couldn't tell where their eyes were aimed but how could they not notice a naked man walking toward them? When I reached the other side, both girls tried to suppress grins but failed miserably. I thanked the threesome for their courtesy then headed on down the trail toward camp, musing, Gotta get me a mountain bike! And riding it nude would enhance the fun. Over my shoulder I glanced; the three cyclists had already crossed the bridge and vanished into the forest.

Wednesday morning I slept in again, but not because of laziness; by midmorning the temperature was finally conducive to free-range nudity. My task for the day was to inspect an area on the mountainside to the south. A 15 minute stroll brought me to a steep slope beset with dead pines in such vast numbers it left little doubt that pine bark beetles were the culprits responsible for the trees' demise. Or did human activity also play a role? On the steep slope, dozens of bike trails running straight uphill scarred the terrain. Most of the trails were deeply eroded, exposing tree roots everywhere, especially tender feeder roots.

Singletrack mountain biking isn't for the faint-hearted. It's dangerous and I must assume, exhilarating. Singletracking: walk your bike up a steep slope as far as you dare then climb aboard and zoom straight down at breakneck speed and hope you don't crash. Wipe out or collide with a tree and you might perish. Some of the trails were so steep and rutted I wouldn't attempt a slow descent on foot much less a speedy one on a bicycle.

At the bottom of the slope, I began working. For a while it was just me and the mountain but by late morning, five cyclists arrived to brave the singletracks. Fifty feet distant, they braked to a halt. The two guys wearing jerseys and three girls wearing crop tops, all 25ish, looked me over wearing blank expressions. I added to their curiosity when I cheerfully called out, "Howdy y'all!" then continued working, peeling off slabs of pine bark to count the number of live beetles. All five returned my greeting then exchanged glances among themselves as if taking stock of the situation and collectively conceding: Okay, a naked guy. Big whoop.

All three girls wore black spandex cycling shorts that conformed to the contours of their muscular buttocks. One of the guys began pushing his bike up a trail so steep I couldn't conceive riding it down. His friends stood watching. Standing on the pedals and hanging onto the handlebars for dear life, the guy managed to keep the rubber on the dirt and negotiated the descent safely, whooping and hollering and slaloming between dead trees all the way down. The other guy matched his friend's bravado and did the same. The girls rode the singletrack too although they didn't climb nearly as far uphill. Shrieking and hollering, they made it down safely and with far more finesse than the guys.

I divided my attention between working and watching the bikers climb up and zoom down. They didn't ride any of the severely eroded trails; those had been abandoned in favor of newer trails. Eventually the new trails would suffer the same fate: erosion followed by abandonment. On and on, a vicious cycle; more trails, more erosion, more dead trees.

Every so often, pink crop top girl looked away from her friends and for long moments, focused her attention in my direction. While I was measuring the circumference of a large pine, she walked over and stopped at a sociable distance. Her mirrored wraparound sunglasses prevented acquisition of where her eyes were focused.

"Are they gonna be logging in here?" she asked.

I stopped working and faced her. "Um. I dunno. Why do you ask?"

"Well, aren't you, like, marking trees?"

"No, what I'm doing is-" I explained my job, inspecting public forests where abnormally high incidence of tree mortality was occurring to determine if pine bark beetles and/or other factors were the cause. I couldn't rule out logging at some point in the future because standing dead pines remain viable timber for ten years. Beetles destroy only the phloem tissue, not the heartwood. While I was talking with the girl, one of the guys came over and asked, "You say they might be logging in here?"

"Maybe. Someday."

"Man! That'll suck!"

It would have served no purpose to explain that their own behavior was contributing to the possibility that China Basin might eventually be clear-cut. So often this happens: a place humans love, they love to death.

The two of them turned away and resumed singletracking with their friends. Throughout our conversation the girl acted no differently than if we had met on the street in town, leading me to speculate that she, and likely her friends as well, were veteran skinny-dippers at hot springs in the area. Both were more concerned about the possibility their playground might be logged than they were about my nakedness.

On Thursday, I could have busted my ass and spent the entire day inspecting more dead and dying pines. But there were so many of them, only a minor fraction might have been completed. Instead, after sleeping in and enjoying a leisurely breakfast in bed, I broke camp and began hiking toward the Blazer. By now, I had been naked for 72 continuous hours and planned to remain that way on the short drive to Atlanta Hot Springs. On the trail toward the parking area, two cyclists approached, headed in the opposite direction. Both were 30ish and unmistakably female, wearing gray spandex sports bras. Even though I had the right-of-way, I stepped aside to let them pass. "Porky!" the leader shouted as they zoomed past. Huh? Porky? Was she commenting on my dangling chub? Or was that her way of calling me a pig? Or perhaps "Porky" was mountain biking slang for, Awesome! Excellent! Gnarly! Yeah, that's what it was.

The short distance to Atlanta Hot Springs I drove in 20 minutes. At the parking area immediately adjacent, I stepped out of the Blazer. At that hour of the morning, 10:30, only four bathers were there, half of them nude. This was scene which had repeated time and again; a congenial assembly of gentle souls, some clothed, some not. All summer, casual nudity at hot springs had become such an ingrained behavior I didn't even feel naked. Honestly. Not that skinny-dipping in mixed company wasn't pleasant. It was. And I planned to do much, much more of it during what remained of my season in the wilderness.

* * * *

First thing Friday morning in the forestry lab, I told Megan that Richard had invited me on the field trip set to commence in two weeks. Her eyes widened. "No way!"

"Yup. I'm gonna be his assistant. So I'll sorta be your teacher."

"Cool!"

"And we're gonna be camping right by Vulcan Hot Springs."

Her blue eyes opened even wider. "Are you serious?"

"Like a heart attack."

"That's totally awesome!"

"Sure is. Bring lotsa sunscreen!" I winked.

"I will! A brand new bottle! Maybe two! "

Without question, Megan was anticipating the field trip as much as I was. I wasn't certain which she found more exciting: that I would be going or the prospect of soaking in a clothing optional hot spring she had never visited.

But in the meantime we had work to accomplish. Tap, tap, tappety tap, Megan's fingers flew across the keyboard. Even my fingers were flying faster than normal, albeit with an increased error rate, because all I could think about was lots of naked college girls frolicking in the salubrious waters of Vulcan. The field trip couldn't begin soon enough.

Next: The field trip.