He pulled the car to the side and parked by the trail head where the bridge crosses the river. They took out their backpacks from the trunk, to get ready to go. She was carrying only her clothes and her sleeping bag. He had a heavier load, carrying the tent and their food, and his fly rod that he always brought when hiking in the mountains.
It was the last year in high school and all exams were passed. He had three weeks of vacation before starting his military service. He wanted to spend a few days hiking in the mountains with his girl. It was a warm day, sunny no wind, one of these days when you can hike in the mountains in shorts and T-shirt. It was summer in Winterland.
They walked quickly up the steepest slope through the crooked-birch forest, following the river. Nothing of interest, no view, only bush. He kept his eyes on her tan naked thighs as he walked behind her on the trail. They took off from the river and followed a small stream into the valley. Above the timberline, the terrain flattened out. The vegetation was low and sparse, and they walked side by side, hand in hand into the mountains.
They stopped and dropped their backpacks at the place where the stream widens into a small pond. A flock of reindeers where cooling on a snow patch near by. Their fur was made for colder and windier days than this. He picked up his fly rod, size 6 with a weight-forward sinker line and tied his favorite wet fly to it. She wasn’t interested in the fishing, and as usual she brought a book to read while he was trout-fishing in the stream. He had been fishing in these mountains since he was five years old. He knew how to read the stream, where to throw the fly line: Behind a rock where the trout could rest on the way up the stream, in a pool under a waterfall, in the inlet of the pond where the fish was waiting for food passing by.
After a while he returned to their camp, with a handful of brown trout. He gutted the fish, and put it in a small tank. Then he sprinkled some salt on it and stirred slowly, his hand sliding gently between the fish, smooth by mucus and water.
She closed her book and came over to him by the bank of the pond. The water was clean and crystal clear, running over a shallow sand dune. Their bodies were warm in the sun. Without talking, they stepped out of the clothes, and stood naked by the pond. No one could see them in this remote place. They dived into the water. It was ice cold, from melt water running off snow patches and glaciers at higher elevations. They stepped out of the water and soaped up their naked bodies, and dived into the water again, to rinse it off.
They sat down to dry their bodies in the sun. He looked at her breasts and felt his rod was coming to life. She lay down on her towel and spread her thighs to give him a good view of the best she had. Then she closed her eyes, let her hand slide slowly over her fur and started to rub her little berry. He put his hand on hers to help her, and she moaned as she let him take over, his hand gently stroking between her thighs. He felt like putting his hand in a tank of dead fish. Most exciting is to stimulate all the senses; see, smell and taste. He went down to taste her moist oyster, circling his tongue around the pearl, while she was twisting and moaning. She rolled over and lifted her rear slightly. He was more than ready to enter her den from behind.
They made a campfire to cook and eat, happy and satisfied. When the sun set an hour before midnight, they assembled the tent, and zipped together their mirrored-twin sleeping bags, to make it a larger bag for two; the most enjoyable way stay warm through the cool mountain night.
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