A short story from the early days of Le Mouching, in March 2009. We were young and crazy stories came to our teenagers minds!
Ralf loved taking Linda for long weekends in the Sierra, just a few hours from the city. The road first crossed a vast plain where Mexican laborers worked, bent double picking vegetables. Then it narrowed and wound upward toward Yosemite. They would stop in a little town with the gentle name of Fish Camp, and treat themselves to a hell of a dinner at the Tenaya Lodge — usually a sirloin steak as thick as a log. The cool mountain air was pleasant, and from the bedroom window you could hear the sounds drifting up from the small lake, a welcome change from the din of San Francisco.
The next day, after a good hour of driving (in the park you rarely exceeded 30 km/h), Ralf would leave the main road and turn onto a dirt track that seemed known only to him and a few lumberjacks. He would park the car under the trees, and while Linda stretched her legs and asked whether there might be bears in the area, Ralf would laugh and pull the fishing gear out of the trunk. He handed Linda a pair of waders:
“These should fit you — don’t worry about the bears, you make such a racket talking and waving your arms around that they’ve probably already cleared out!”
Silently and put out, Linda took off her boots — a pair of Fryes she’d bought in Fresno on a previous trip. She pulled on the waders, which gave her a rather sexy look in that forest undergrowth where the sequoia trunks shot skyward like eager teenagers. In the distance you could hear the stream where Ralf liked to fish, and Linda made a beeline for it in no time. Ralf was still busy getting his gear ready. He glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t help staring at Linda’s backside, her jeans hugging her curves and set off by the waders; he thought she really did have one of the finest asses he’d ever seen.
Linda made her way down the small bank to the water’s edge. Without overthinking it, she opened her fly box and chose a large deer-hair sedge. Once ready, she began stripping out some line and started working the water, not even waiting to see whether there was any rising fish. Joy and excitement won out over patience. Two, three false casts, and her sedge landed cleanly between two large rocks, right in front of a small current. She barely had time to register what was happening — in a fraction of a second, a big rainbow had shot up onto her fly like a rocket! Linda had the right instinct and immediately raised her arms, the trout made two leaps and the line snapped clean. Ralf, who hadn’t yet changed, had missed none of it. He bounded down into the stream, strode toward Linda in great steps — scattering every fish in the vicinity in the process — stopped in front of her, snatched the rod from her hands, seized her by the arm, laid her across his knee, and there, in the middle of the stream, drenched by the splashing, gave her an uninhibited spanking, shouting: “You do NOT fish without THIN-KING!!!” In tears, Linda begged his forgiveness, promising she would never do it again; he was already heading back toward the car without seeming to hear her, and she followed, pleading with him to forgive her, swearing she would be a good student, that she would do as he said.
They made love right there on the ground, on a bed of pine needles. Linda had kept her waders on. It was the same scene every time — they could only make love under these conditions. They eventually left San Francisco and bought the Tenaya Lodge, and went fishing on the stream together for the rest of their lives.