I stepped to the trail from Dunraven Pass, winding the sides of Mount Washburn through dirt and dirty snow. I dipped in and out of forest, mixed shuttered vistas with views only granted to giants or those scaling their playgrounds. The sight stretched across peaks and valleys in a way that suggested that this was all of the earth. Snowcapped tips took on a blue hue. Faded to sky like a piece of matte painting. All a part of one. Forested hills beneath these towers showed the dividing line where life lost luster. Turned tough.
I thought of the warnings of bears, how the Yellowstone brochure said don’t hike this mountain without a can of spray. I thought of the time I was deep in high forest above the Columbia Gorge, pounding up a berry-lined path whose vines tightened the trail ’til it was a sliver. Fruit streaked and stained both arms.
I stopped at a spot known as Devil’s Rest. Minutes after recharge I came across a black bear munching on a bush. He thundered up the mountain the second he saw me. But the bears here were different. I’d already glassed a grizzly and two cubs. Still, thoughts of the beasts of Yellowstone imbued no bother.
I passed groups trudging the slush of snow, these muddy tracts a mark of transition from spring to summer. I had my hiking legs about me and so barreled up with ease, every so often wiping my face or ass with a cold scoop of snow. It left a wet trail whose trace of sensation I savored.
I exited the forest of fir and pine then came to a boulder-lined path. A clear shot to the top. This spot a ripple more than 10,000 feet above sea. I didn’t know what’d be up there but now all of a sudden I needed to blow a load. It was the same as if my body signaled to piss or shit.
This stripped stretch was my last chance at privacy. So I stepped off the trail and gave into the need. Blasted my batch to a slab of rock half the size of a small house. I stood on its backside but still there was no cover.
I thought of the time I ascended a mountain in Alaska. How its top touched the clouds. How I stood in that fog and shot a wad. How I didn’t know if the need to release was a conscious peak of this pleasure. A synthesis of all that one’s body and nature has to offer. Or if it was just a base function whose call I ceded like a thoughtless beast.
Post-load I stood in the cold Yellowstone air. Squeezed my cock then wiped hot cum across the boulder. A mark of remembrance upon this strip of earth. A way to cement a memory. I slow walked my way to the stony top. Wind bit but I stood still. It’d be a long way down and so I lingered.