A Recollection
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An Idyllic Recollection free porn video
AN IDYLLIC RECOLLECTION
Everyone would like to believe that the Sexual Revolution of the Sixties had somehow made everything happen easily for horny counterculture types. Sorry to disillusion you all, but we had to work to get laid at least as much as any other generation. . . and I suspect a lot more fucking around took place in earlier years than some people think.
In the early 1970s, I was prime draft bait, attending San Jose State in the Bay Area. I was a journalism major, and we were all thinking we were destined to break a story like the Pentagon Papers, to be the next Bernstein and Woodward. . . or if we did enough d**gs, perhaps, the next Hunter S. Thompson. It was a heady time in that place and moment in history, and I felt myself to be as much an activist as a budding writer. I had many literary illusions about my own wordsmithing, as well as dreams of breaking the big story in some prime media outlet. The notion that I might have to pay my dues doing city council stories and covering social events for a small town paper was foreign to me, but the journalism department at State was a pretty good one. The reality of the business of journalism was made clear soon enough, and while I may have dropped out later chasing my dream of writing the Great American Hippie Novel, I was still attached to the idea that the news was important.
During my first two years, while taking some basic newswriting courses, I handled my general ed requirements in an honors program in “Letters and Sciences,” which is clearly ambiguous enough to cover a whole multitude of sins. A good GPA and College Board scores ensured my entry there, where I met Allison, who snidely commented once that the program was basically meant to baby sit us for two years because we were too damn smart to be taught by making us chase after the usual elective pre-requisites.
Allison was a six foot tall Amazon of a woman with long, curly hair of the type Robert Crumb caricatured as “Jewish hippie” in some underground comic. She was moderately lean and athletic, but with strong, long legs and a pear shaped rump that was so at home in a tight pair of Sea Farers. She had strong features and green eyes, an expressively mobile face that occasionally broke out in the heartiest of laughs. But she was also possessed of a deep, sexy contralto voice that I was to come to know all too well. She and another lively woman, from an East Bay town along the Sacramento River delta, lived in the same dorm complex I did. They frequently came down to our lair to party and giggle with the eccentric bunch I hung out with, a mixture of arts and journalism types, and joined in at least one expedition to San Francisco to march against the Late Unpleasantness in Southeast Asia.
In those first two years, desperate as I still was to get laid, I thought she was so far out of my reach. . . little did I know what might come to pass!
Robert Crumb, Jewish Hippie Woman
Some time after my sophomore year, well beyond my virginity and having broken up earlier in the Spring with another feisty woman from the honors program, I found myself at loose ends as the Summer break began. I went over to visit Allison’s apartment. . . I hesitate to say this, but I was actually going to see her roommate Nan, her former dorm partner and long time party friend. What I didn’t realize was that Nan had a boyfriend, a wryly humorous and cagey dope dealer named Stan who soon made me feel like hale fellow well met, and got me quite stoned on some killer weed. If that’s a bit of a cliché, well, so be it. It was the tenor of the times. There was much giggling and hijinks in the ensuing evening, and we all got quite relaxed.
I don’t remember exactly how I found myself getting closer and closer to the incredibly exotic and sensual Allison. I found myself reacting favorably to her having shorn her long, curly hair into a fashionable shag cut. She lolled about on one of the sofas, her long legs, clad in faded Sea Farers, stretched out beside me. It wasn’t just the dope, but just a general sense of relaxation that she exuded. . . and her lynx-like green eyes were turned to me with a message that could not be misunderstood. With the James Gang wailing away on Don Kirchner’s Rock Concert on the TV, I found myself behind a closed door in her bedroom. In the near dark under a glimmering candle, I melted into her long, tall athletic lushness, and woke the next day feeling very close to her indeed.
Within a month she had moved into a small duplex cottage with a sunny bedroom that caught the morning light, and a cozy kitchen perfect for indulging pizza, tequila shots, and pot. Alternating between that refuge and the expansive bedroom with the nine foot windows that I rented in a restored Victorian on North Third Street along with nine other eccentric freaks, the Summer was turning into something resembling an erstwhile hippie’s ideal sexual fantasy.
That was the Summer of 1973, when the nation spent a good deal of the time glued to the Senate Watergate hearings. And while that held a certain fascination for me as an activist turned would-be newshound, the attractions of young love were also quite distracting. Allison and I found ourselves trying out some interesting variations on a theme from the bedroom, to the divan in her small living room, to sprawled across the kitchen table. I still have a picture I took of her bent over a daypack in a wooded glen in Stevens Creek Park where we had managed to find a secluded place to fuck in the dappled shadows beneath the eucalyptus and live oak trees. She had ridden me like a champion bronco buster. The image of her above me, her nicely sized tits just filling my hands, was still with me as we gathered our clothes together from where they had been thrown. Her clothes were back on, and she was focused on getting some odds and ends back in her pack, but there was a secret smile on her face, still a gleam in her green eyes, looking down demurely as I took the picture. . . That coy expression belied the passion that had seethed across that forest floor just twenty minutes before.
So it came to pass that she and I took a jaunt up into the Sierra foothills, to the South Fork of the Yuba River outside of Nevada City, California. In my first freshman semester, a group of us from the honors program had worked to make a film about communes. As part of that project I had hitchhiked with a guy named Spencer up to the Grass Valley area, where rumors of some intentional community or another had circulated. We didn’t find the commune, but did crash on the floor of the volunteer crisis switchboard in Nevada City under the watchful eye of a long haired operator named Bob, on duty overnight with his mellow German shepherd Shadow. He told us of the scene along the Yuba River each summer, where the “River Rats” would camp out and party more or less from dawn ‘til dusk.
Two years later, Allison and I decided that might be an interesting way to spend a weekend, and crammed our meager camping gear into my fading red Fiat 124 coupe. We rolled up the Sacramento Valley beyond the capital city, to where the rolling hills began to rise from the flats of the river drainage. Going North then on Highway 49 led us to Grass Valley, which at that time was still a modest country town largely serving the agriculture of the area. But as 49 rolled North out of Grass Valley, the hills rose higher around us, with the woods growing thicker along their slopes. Nevada City was nestled at the end of the Valley as the Sierra foothills reared up, snug in its old gold town glory from the days of ’49. After stopping for gas and a pee, we still followed 49, winding our way up into the hills, until the road dropped down into a steep canyon. Below us the highway crossed a quick flowing river, with a sharp hairpin turns on either side of the bridge. It was the South Fork of the Yuba River. We saw where various vehicles were pulled off on an unpaved pad on the South end, and found a spot to tuck the little Fiat under the Ponderosa pines.
South Fork, Yuba River
Having not done any kind of scouting of the place beyond the recommendation of Bob from the crisis switchboard, we had no idea what to expect. We were only planning to stay overnight on Saturday, so our gear and provisions were minimal. By no particular rationale, we decided that the North shore was the place to be, although there were trails down to the riverbed on either side. We crossed the historic highway bridge and began picking our way down a crude but serviceable trail leading to the bank of the Yuba. It became clear that the bridge served as a sort of frontier: downstream, the valley opened up a bit. The encampments there were populated by either family groups on the glorious Summer day, and contingents of would-be Forty-Niners, engaged in a variation of placer gold mining that used gasoline powered pumps to run their sluice operation. It sounded as if the entire neighborhood had taken that moment to mow their non-existent lawns. Upstream was another story. . .
Moving upstream, the sound of the rushing river supplanted the mutter of the sluice pumps. It surged through rocky narrows, and opened up into amazing swimming holes flanked by sandy shoals and flat rocky shelfs where people lay naked in the sun. We began to meet folks along the way attired in early seventies variations of counterculture drag. The term “hippie” was no longer used much. . . appellations such as freak, longhair, head, or just folk were more common. The blush had fallen from the apple of any sort of cultural revolution that was supposed to have happened in the sixties, especially after the disaster of the Altamont music festival.
But the ubiquity of folks like us at school, in jobs, and otherwise involved in society at large while we sought to live some way other than the way we were raised made it all seem more and more normal. We were midway through a generational shift, and even the looming presence of the war in Southeast Asia was lessening. A treaty was to be signed, and our ground forces were to be withdrawn, and while the final sad denouement of that fracas was a couple of years away, it was affecting fewer and fewer of us. . . especially on a hot Summer day in the Sierra foothills. So the parade passed us as we made our way upstream. . . big, buxom Earth Mothers wrapped in India print bedsheet skirts with their shaggy haired youngsters in tow; wiry young lads in ball caps, jeans, and pocket t-shirts carrying twelve-packs of beer with their girlfriends wearing tie-dye tank tops and ragged cutoff jeans; sage looking old greybeard beatniks, leathery and tanned, with walking sticks, shorts, and haversacks strung across their shoulders. Up and down the narrow trail as it crossed beneath Ponderosa pine around rocky ridges, or traversing sandy patches of beach along the shallows of the river, we greeted our fellow visitors in Paradise.
We found a likely place to lay out our sleeping bags along one of the wider shoaled beaches, stashing our packs in the cleft of the rocky cliff along the north wall of the canyon. The space was broad enough that the comings and goings of folks along the river wouldn’t disturb our very rudimentary campsite. Someone had left a rock fire ring up against a boulder, which would suit our very limited menu for the evening. We stuck a six-pack of Lucky Bock in the cool water of the Yuba, stopped to smoke a joint, and looked around. . . it was time to get naked.
The Yuba as it tumbled through this canyon worked its way around various bends and winding channels, here tumbling through a tight rocky channel, there gathering in a pool that spread wide like a cattle pond in back of a ridge of glossy boulders. You could see the folks lying nude on flat rocks taking the mid-afternoon sun, or drifting along on inner tubes with a beer in hand. Allison and I carried our boots and hiking socks, and I took a military canteen belt slung over my shoulder, and we wandered down to the river. Leaving our gear on shore, we plunged in to the icy river, pure Sierra snowmelt. But it was Midsummer, and on a hot day, the initial shock of the cold water turned to refreshing relief. We chased each other around various pools playing a tit-grabbing version of Marco Polo, or just floating on our backs. At one point we saw Bob, the dude from the switchboard, squatting on one rocky overhang with his dog Shadow. He nodded his greetings to us as we floated past. At another point two young short-haired rowdies showed up wearing nothing but their jeans, which they quickly peeled off, revealing their carpenter or farmhand tans to us all. . . nut brown from the waist up, lily white below. They promptly cannonballed into the tumbling waters, laughing and shouting happy obscenities as they reacted to the cold. It was about as Eden-like a hideaway as you could hope to find in 1970s California, with everyone friendly and mellow.
We eventually grabbed our boots on shore and began to make our way further upstream. The image of us naked except for our waffle stompers might have been amusing if we were wandering down the street somewhere, but here it was natural as we picked our way across wider flats of tumbled boulders, where the river clearly flowed at spring flood stage. The sandy trail picked up here and there against the cliff face, which was covered in stands of manzanita scrub and various creepers and mosses. Occasionally we came across a dripping flow from a natural spring, like a sparkling drinking fountain, and took our fill of clear water.
Coming around one bend, we noticed that it was formed around the mouth of a creek making its way from the cliff to the main channel of the Yuba. Seeming to originate about fifty yards away at the base of the rock wall, we followed it and found a waterfall merrily pouring off a ledge about forty feet up the side of the canyon. Allison was feeling more than a little adventurous, and I found myself behind her as she confidently sought footholds with her hard soled boots on the rock face. I could glance up as she climbed, catching glimpses of her glorious bush between the cheeks of her ass. But I turned my attention to what I was grasping with my hands and where my feet found purchase as we ascended away from the river. In the damp spume of the waterfall, deep green mosses clung to the clefts of the rocky niche through which we climbed, with the water splashing steadily beside us to the right. One last glance up, and I saw Allison’s ass disappearing over the ledge.
Gaining the lip of the stony precipice, I found Allison crouched on one side of a miniature grotto, maybe eight feet wide across the face of the cliff, and but six feet deep. The cliff rose above us another fifty feet or so, looming overhead with ferns and mosses around the opening of the grotto. The origin of our waterfall was higher up that cliff face, but we weren’t going any further up that slope, not without technical gear and skill. But where we were was just fine. Where the tumbling waters had been hitting the shelf on which we rested, a deep hole had been worn into the stone. The oval shaped pool was maybe five feet wide against the back wall, and four feet from there out to the lip of the cliff. In high Spring runoff season, the quaintly babbling fall we played in was probably a rushing torrent, and it had driven a hole about three to four feet deep beneath the surface of the ledge. But the water tumbling down upon us in mid Summer, cooling us from the exertions of our climb, discreetly fell like a curtain toward the back of the little opening. You could hide behind it if you chose, but we found ourselves eyeing each other and the mysterious little pool.
Boots off, we climbed into the frigid waters. Allison wrapped her arms around my neck and drew me into a tight embrace. Her tongue probed for mine as she kissed me deeply. Somewhere a hawk screeched, and beyond the splash of the fall we could hear insects buzzing. I felt her magnificent breasts pressing against me as she held me close. My hands moved down her back to her ass, and I held tight there. It was counter-intuitive to think I was going to get it up in that icy water, but Allison had other ideas. She perched me up on the edge of the shelf, where the water tumbled down below us on its journey to the Yuba, and was down on her knees in the pool, licking and playing with my wizened cock nestled in damp tendrils curly hair, very much needing to be coaxed out of retreat from the cold, cold water. But within a very few minutes, she had me hard and ready. Allison moved off to the side of the pool, perching up on the edge, and leaned back on the shelf and spreading her long legs.
I left my precarious perch, wondering that I hadn’t been overcome by my sexual heat to tumble ass over teakettle down the cliff, and joined her at the poolside. Still half submerged in the rippling water, I stroked her clit a bit. She reached down and grasped my stiff shaft and guided me into the hot and slippery confines of her cunt. Time ceased for a while, we focused on sensation and thrust and balance and love, kissing passionately as we fucked in the watery boudoir we had found. It may have seemed like a quarter hour, suspended like that above the river canyon, but it was more likely about five minutes max. . . and I felt the pulse of her vagina around me as she climaxed, and shortly after that I shot my own load deep within her. Our legs were still in the pool as we sort of slid sideways across the ledge. . . arms wrapped around each other, sighing and cooing as our ardor wound down into a warm intimate closeness. Once again birdsong and the hum of insects rose out of the sighing of the Summer breeze, and the steady, playful splashing of the waterfall.
That was when we discovered the worms. . .
I don’t know what they were. . . some larval water critter, alien sex worms from Mars, miniature leeches? Maybe a quarter inch long, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch across, their appearance was like a small slug without antennae. They weren’t biting or sucking, just adhered to our legs and butts in the water. To our great credit, neither one of us panicked, but we did make suitable “e-e-e-w” noises as we splashed water on each other and rinsed them from our bodies as we squatted upon the shelf of the grotto. Then we sat and leaned against one another, making small talk as our bodies dripped dry. It was still only late in the afternoon, but we figured we better get down and back across the rocky shoals and beaches before the shadows started to cast themselves across the canyon. When our toes were sufficiently clear of moisture, we once again donned our heavy socks and hiking boots and began the process of picking our way back down the cliff alongside the waterfall. The rest of the weekend is kind of a blur. I know we made love that night, but nothing was quite as exciting as that private moment in our watery aerie above the canyon of the Yuba River.
The rest of the Summer was kind of a blur too. I had a job, I changed houses and room mates, came to the conclusion I was going to drop out of college for a while, with illusions of creative writing and cartooning bouncing around in my head. We continued experiencing various counterculture adventures, such as a Hot Tuna concert at Winterland in San Francisco with Nan and Stan, doing tequila shots in the kitchen, even going to see the pioneering feature porn movie Deep Throat, which was actually very fashionable that summer. Allison kept vigil over me one night when I dropped acid for the first time. Weird as it sounds, a dose of the Marx Brothers and The Creature from the Black Lagoon on Jay Brown’s All Night Movie-Go-Round seemed deeply profound and colorful while I tripped, but she managed to keep me somewhat grounded.
Allison was also contemplating a change in her life at that stage, as well. She had been an English Lit major, but she ended up going in to a chemical engineering program, partly subsidized by a local company of some renown that was going to be a key maker of memory chips in the coming PC revolution. It is possible that my boyish and impulsive decision to leave school was a problem for her, or that I was just entirely too innocent in so many ways. She freaked out when I purchased a Mauser cavalry carbine late in the Summer because some of us were entertaining the idea of some sort of Bigfoot type of creature in the Santa Cruz Mountains. What I thought I would do with such a weapon is questionable, but there were also stirrings of radical politics in the air. While I did not particularly want to join the revolution, the question of balancing the powers in some fashion or another was still bouncing around in my newly psychedelicized head. Somehow, picking up what I later realized was probably the most powerful antique bolt action service rifle I could find seemed to make sense.
The Author with his Mauser Cavalry Carbine, Summit Road, Santa Cruz Mountains, 1974
Whatever the reason, she broke up with me in the Fall, which broke my heart. I didn’t handle it well, engaged in behavior that could only be described as stalking to some extent, but I felt like a lost puppy rather than an obsessive, controlling man. I settled down by the following Spring. . . to be blunt, with the help of other lovers. And I remained friends with Stan and Nan, which did lead to some interesting moments when Allison and I encountered one another at parties in their home a few years later. I realized I was over her, and I didn’t hold any kind of a grudge. What would be the point? I still thought she was a damn attractive woman, though!
A few more years after that, she came down from Oregon where she had gone to work with the famous chip maker, and we met again at Stan and Nan’s. Peace was made, and we had a bit of a fling again, at a time that was particularly good for my morale, because I was on the rebound from another break up. But she was in Oregon, and I still made my way in the Bay Area. We knew we were friends for life, but never destined to live together. I can look back at the few months we passed together as lovers. There were other moments of profound eroticism at different times during the balance of that heady Summer of 1973. . . but nothing was ever quite as intense as that brief idyll in the sparkling and icy waterfall overlooking the rushing South fork of the Yuba River.
Yuba Maiden
Everyone would like to believe that the Sexual Revolution of the Sixties had somehow made everything happen easily for horny counterculture types. Sorry to disillusion you all, but we had to work to get laid at least as much as any other generation. . . and I suspect a lot more fucking around took place in earlier years than some people think.
In the early 1970s, I was prime draft bait, attending San Jose State in the Bay Area. I was a journalism major, and we were all thinking we were destined to break a story like the Pentagon Papers, to be the next Bernstein and Woodward. . . or if we did enough d**gs, perhaps, the next Hunter S. Thompson. It was a heady time in that place and moment in history, and I felt myself to be as much an activist as a budding writer. I had many literary illusions about my own wordsmithing, as well as dreams of breaking the big story in some prime media outlet. The notion that I might have to pay my dues doing city council stories and covering social events for a small town paper was foreign to me, but the journalism department at State was a pretty good one. The reality of the business of journalism was made clear soon enough, and while I may have dropped out later chasing my dream of writing the Great American Hippie Novel, I was still attached to the idea that the news was important.
During my first two years, while taking some basic newswriting courses, I handled my general ed requirements in an honors program in “Letters and Sciences,” which is clearly ambiguous enough to cover a whole multitude of sins. A good GPA and College Board scores ensured my entry there, where I met Allison, who snidely commented once that the program was basically meant to baby sit us for two years because we were too damn smart to be taught by making us chase after the usual elective pre-requisites.
Allison was a six foot tall Amazon of a woman with long, curly hair of the type Robert Crumb caricatured as “Jewish hippie” in some underground comic. She was moderately lean and athletic, but with strong, long legs and a pear shaped rump that was so at home in a tight pair of Sea Farers. She had strong features and green eyes, an expressively mobile face that occasionally broke out in the heartiest of laughs. But she was also possessed of a deep, sexy contralto voice that I was to come to know all too well. She and another lively woman, from an East Bay town along the Sacramento River delta, lived in the same dorm complex I did. They frequently came down to our lair to party and giggle with the eccentric bunch I hung out with, a mixture of arts and journalism types, and joined in at least one expedition to San Francisco to march against the Late Unpleasantness in Southeast Asia.
In those first two years, desperate as I still was to get laid, I thought she was so far out of my reach. . . little did I know what might come to pass!
Robert Crumb, Jewish Hippie Woman
Some time after my sophomore year, well beyond my virginity and having broken up earlier in the Spring with another feisty woman from the honors program, I found myself at loose ends as the Summer break began. I went over to visit Allison’s apartment. . . I hesitate to say this, but I was actually going to see her roommate Nan, her former dorm partner and long time party friend. What I didn’t realize was that Nan had a boyfriend, a wryly humorous and cagey dope dealer named Stan who soon made me feel like hale fellow well met, and got me quite stoned on some killer weed. If that’s a bit of a cliché, well, so be it. It was the tenor of the times. There was much giggling and hijinks in the ensuing evening, and we all got quite relaxed.
I don’t remember exactly how I found myself getting closer and closer to the incredibly exotic and sensual Allison. I found myself reacting favorably to her having shorn her long, curly hair into a fashionable shag cut. She lolled about on one of the sofas, her long legs, clad in faded Sea Farers, stretched out beside me. It wasn’t just the dope, but just a general sense of relaxation that she exuded. . . and her lynx-like green eyes were turned to me with a message that could not be misunderstood. With the James Gang wailing away on Don Kirchner’s Rock Concert on the TV, I found myself behind a closed door in her bedroom. In the near dark under a glimmering candle, I melted into her long, tall athletic lushness, and woke the next day feeling very close to her indeed.
Within a month she had moved into a small duplex cottage with a sunny bedroom that caught the morning light, and a cozy kitchen perfect for indulging pizza, tequila shots, and pot. Alternating between that refuge and the expansive bedroom with the nine foot windows that I rented in a restored Victorian on North Third Street along with nine other eccentric freaks, the Summer was turning into something resembling an erstwhile hippie’s ideal sexual fantasy.
That was the Summer of 1973, when the nation spent a good deal of the time glued to the Senate Watergate hearings. And while that held a certain fascination for me as an activist turned would-be newshound, the attractions of young love were also quite distracting. Allison and I found ourselves trying out some interesting variations on a theme from the bedroom, to the divan in her small living room, to sprawled across the kitchen table. I still have a picture I took of her bent over a daypack in a wooded glen in Stevens Creek Park where we had managed to find a secluded place to fuck in the dappled shadows beneath the eucalyptus and live oak trees. She had ridden me like a champion bronco buster. The image of her above me, her nicely sized tits just filling my hands, was still with me as we gathered our clothes together from where they had been thrown. Her clothes were back on, and she was focused on getting some odds and ends back in her pack, but there was a secret smile on her face, still a gleam in her green eyes, looking down demurely as I took the picture. . . That coy expression belied the passion that had seethed across that forest floor just twenty minutes before.
So it came to pass that she and I took a jaunt up into the Sierra foothills, to the South Fork of the Yuba River outside of Nevada City, California. In my first freshman semester, a group of us from the honors program had worked to make a film about communes. As part of that project I had hitchhiked with a guy named Spencer up to the Grass Valley area, where rumors of some intentional community or another had circulated. We didn’t find the commune, but did crash on the floor of the volunteer crisis switchboard in Nevada City under the watchful eye of a long haired operator named Bob, on duty overnight with his mellow German shepherd Shadow. He told us of the scene along the Yuba River each summer, where the “River Rats” would camp out and party more or less from dawn ‘til dusk.
Two years later, Allison and I decided that might be an interesting way to spend a weekend, and crammed our meager camping gear into my fading red Fiat 124 coupe. We rolled up the Sacramento Valley beyond the capital city, to where the rolling hills began to rise from the flats of the river drainage. Going North then on Highway 49 led us to Grass Valley, which at that time was still a modest country town largely serving the agriculture of the area. But as 49 rolled North out of Grass Valley, the hills rose higher around us, with the woods growing thicker along their slopes. Nevada City was nestled at the end of the Valley as the Sierra foothills reared up, snug in its old gold town glory from the days of ’49. After stopping for gas and a pee, we still followed 49, winding our way up into the hills, until the road dropped down into a steep canyon. Below us the highway crossed a quick flowing river, with a sharp hairpin turns on either side of the bridge. It was the South Fork of the Yuba River. We saw where various vehicles were pulled off on an unpaved pad on the South end, and found a spot to tuck the little Fiat under the Ponderosa pines.
South Fork, Yuba River
Having not done any kind of scouting of the place beyond the recommendation of Bob from the crisis switchboard, we had no idea what to expect. We were only planning to stay overnight on Saturday, so our gear and provisions were minimal. By no particular rationale, we decided that the North shore was the place to be, although there were trails down to the riverbed on either side. We crossed the historic highway bridge and began picking our way down a crude but serviceable trail leading to the bank of the Yuba. It became clear that the bridge served as a sort of frontier: downstream, the valley opened up a bit. The encampments there were populated by either family groups on the glorious Summer day, and contingents of would-be Forty-Niners, engaged in a variation of placer gold mining that used gasoline powered pumps to run their sluice operation. It sounded as if the entire neighborhood had taken that moment to mow their non-existent lawns. Upstream was another story. . .
Moving upstream, the sound of the rushing river supplanted the mutter of the sluice pumps. It surged through rocky narrows, and opened up into amazing swimming holes flanked by sandy shoals and flat rocky shelfs where people lay naked in the sun. We began to meet folks along the way attired in early seventies variations of counterculture drag. The term “hippie” was no longer used much. . . appellations such as freak, longhair, head, or just folk were more common. The blush had fallen from the apple of any sort of cultural revolution that was supposed to have happened in the sixties, especially after the disaster of the Altamont music festival.
But the ubiquity of folks like us at school, in jobs, and otherwise involved in society at large while we sought to live some way other than the way we were raised made it all seem more and more normal. We were midway through a generational shift, and even the looming presence of the war in Southeast Asia was lessening. A treaty was to be signed, and our ground forces were to be withdrawn, and while the final sad denouement of that fracas was a couple of years away, it was affecting fewer and fewer of us. . . especially on a hot Summer day in the Sierra foothills. So the parade passed us as we made our way upstream. . . big, buxom Earth Mothers wrapped in India print bedsheet skirts with their shaggy haired youngsters in tow; wiry young lads in ball caps, jeans, and pocket t-shirts carrying twelve-packs of beer with their girlfriends wearing tie-dye tank tops and ragged cutoff jeans; sage looking old greybeard beatniks, leathery and tanned, with walking sticks, shorts, and haversacks strung across their shoulders. Up and down the narrow trail as it crossed beneath Ponderosa pine around rocky ridges, or traversing sandy patches of beach along the shallows of the river, we greeted our fellow visitors in Paradise.
We found a likely place to lay out our sleeping bags along one of the wider shoaled beaches, stashing our packs in the cleft of the rocky cliff along the north wall of the canyon. The space was broad enough that the comings and goings of folks along the river wouldn’t disturb our very rudimentary campsite. Someone had left a rock fire ring up against a boulder, which would suit our very limited menu for the evening. We stuck a six-pack of Lucky Bock in the cool water of the Yuba, stopped to smoke a joint, and looked around. . . it was time to get naked.
The Yuba as it tumbled through this canyon worked its way around various bends and winding channels, here tumbling through a tight rocky channel, there gathering in a pool that spread wide like a cattle pond in back of a ridge of glossy boulders. You could see the folks lying nude on flat rocks taking the mid-afternoon sun, or drifting along on inner tubes with a beer in hand. Allison and I carried our boots and hiking socks, and I took a military canteen belt slung over my shoulder, and we wandered down to the river. Leaving our gear on shore, we plunged in to the icy river, pure Sierra snowmelt. But it was Midsummer, and on a hot day, the initial shock of the cold water turned to refreshing relief. We chased each other around various pools playing a tit-grabbing version of Marco Polo, or just floating on our backs. At one point we saw Bob, the dude from the switchboard, squatting on one rocky overhang with his dog Shadow. He nodded his greetings to us as we floated past. At another point two young short-haired rowdies showed up wearing nothing but their jeans, which they quickly peeled off, revealing their carpenter or farmhand tans to us all. . . nut brown from the waist up, lily white below. They promptly cannonballed into the tumbling waters, laughing and shouting happy obscenities as they reacted to the cold. It was about as Eden-like a hideaway as you could hope to find in 1970s California, with everyone friendly and mellow.
We eventually grabbed our boots on shore and began to make our way further upstream. The image of us naked except for our waffle stompers might have been amusing if we were wandering down the street somewhere, but here it was natural as we picked our way across wider flats of tumbled boulders, where the river clearly flowed at spring flood stage. The sandy trail picked up here and there against the cliff face, which was covered in stands of manzanita scrub and various creepers and mosses. Occasionally we came across a dripping flow from a natural spring, like a sparkling drinking fountain, and took our fill of clear water.
Coming around one bend, we noticed that it was formed around the mouth of a creek making its way from the cliff to the main channel of the Yuba. Seeming to originate about fifty yards away at the base of the rock wall, we followed it and found a waterfall merrily pouring off a ledge about forty feet up the side of the canyon. Allison was feeling more than a little adventurous, and I found myself behind her as she confidently sought footholds with her hard soled boots on the rock face. I could glance up as she climbed, catching glimpses of her glorious bush between the cheeks of her ass. But I turned my attention to what I was grasping with my hands and where my feet found purchase as we ascended away from the river. In the damp spume of the waterfall, deep green mosses clung to the clefts of the rocky niche through which we climbed, with the water splashing steadily beside us to the right. One last glance up, and I saw Allison’s ass disappearing over the ledge.
Gaining the lip of the stony precipice, I found Allison crouched on one side of a miniature grotto, maybe eight feet wide across the face of the cliff, and but six feet deep. The cliff rose above us another fifty feet or so, looming overhead with ferns and mosses around the opening of the grotto. The origin of our waterfall was higher up that cliff face, but we weren’t going any further up that slope, not without technical gear and skill. But where we were was just fine. Where the tumbling waters had been hitting the shelf on which we rested, a deep hole had been worn into the stone. The oval shaped pool was maybe five feet wide against the back wall, and four feet from there out to the lip of the cliff. In high Spring runoff season, the quaintly babbling fall we played in was probably a rushing torrent, and it had driven a hole about three to four feet deep beneath the surface of the ledge. But the water tumbling down upon us in mid Summer, cooling us from the exertions of our climb, discreetly fell like a curtain toward the back of the little opening. You could hide behind it if you chose, but we found ourselves eyeing each other and the mysterious little pool.
Boots off, we climbed into the frigid waters. Allison wrapped her arms around my neck and drew me into a tight embrace. Her tongue probed for mine as she kissed me deeply. Somewhere a hawk screeched, and beyond the splash of the fall we could hear insects buzzing. I felt her magnificent breasts pressing against me as she held me close. My hands moved down her back to her ass, and I held tight there. It was counter-intuitive to think I was going to get it up in that icy water, but Allison had other ideas. She perched me up on the edge of the shelf, where the water tumbled down below us on its journey to the Yuba, and was down on her knees in the pool, licking and playing with my wizened cock nestled in damp tendrils curly hair, very much needing to be coaxed out of retreat from the cold, cold water. But within a very few minutes, she had me hard and ready. Allison moved off to the side of the pool, perching up on the edge, and leaned back on the shelf and spreading her long legs.
I left my precarious perch, wondering that I hadn’t been overcome by my sexual heat to tumble ass over teakettle down the cliff, and joined her at the poolside. Still half submerged in the rippling water, I stroked her clit a bit. She reached down and grasped my stiff shaft and guided me into the hot and slippery confines of her cunt. Time ceased for a while, we focused on sensation and thrust and balance and love, kissing passionately as we fucked in the watery boudoir we had found. It may have seemed like a quarter hour, suspended like that above the river canyon, but it was more likely about five minutes max. . . and I felt the pulse of her vagina around me as she climaxed, and shortly after that I shot my own load deep within her. Our legs were still in the pool as we sort of slid sideways across the ledge. . . arms wrapped around each other, sighing and cooing as our ardor wound down into a warm intimate closeness. Once again birdsong and the hum of insects rose out of the sighing of the Summer breeze, and the steady, playful splashing of the waterfall.
That was when we discovered the worms. . .
I don’t know what they were. . . some larval water critter, alien sex worms from Mars, miniature leeches? Maybe a quarter inch long, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch across, their appearance was like a small slug without antennae. They weren’t biting or sucking, just adhered to our legs and butts in the water. To our great credit, neither one of us panicked, but we did make suitable “e-e-e-w” noises as we splashed water on each other and rinsed them from our bodies as we squatted upon the shelf of the grotto. Then we sat and leaned against one another, making small talk as our bodies dripped dry. It was still only late in the afternoon, but we figured we better get down and back across the rocky shoals and beaches before the shadows started to cast themselves across the canyon. When our toes were sufficiently clear of moisture, we once again donned our heavy socks and hiking boots and began the process of picking our way back down the cliff alongside the waterfall. The rest of the weekend is kind of a blur. I know we made love that night, but nothing was quite as exciting as that private moment in our watery aerie above the canyon of the Yuba River.
The rest of the Summer was kind of a blur too. I had a job, I changed houses and room mates, came to the conclusion I was going to drop out of college for a while, with illusions of creative writing and cartooning bouncing around in my head. We continued experiencing various counterculture adventures, such as a Hot Tuna concert at Winterland in San Francisco with Nan and Stan, doing tequila shots in the kitchen, even going to see the pioneering feature porn movie Deep Throat, which was actually very fashionable that summer. Allison kept vigil over me one night when I dropped acid for the first time. Weird as it sounds, a dose of the Marx Brothers and The Creature from the Black Lagoon on Jay Brown’s All Night Movie-Go-Round seemed deeply profound and colorful while I tripped, but she managed to keep me somewhat grounded.
Allison was also contemplating a change in her life at that stage, as well. She had been an English Lit major, but she ended up going in to a chemical engineering program, partly subsidized by a local company of some renown that was going to be a key maker of memory chips in the coming PC revolution. It is possible that my boyish and impulsive decision to leave school was a problem for her, or that I was just entirely too innocent in so many ways. She freaked out when I purchased a Mauser cavalry carbine late in the Summer because some of us were entertaining the idea of some sort of Bigfoot type of creature in the Santa Cruz Mountains. What I thought I would do with such a weapon is questionable, but there were also stirrings of radical politics in the air. While I did not particularly want to join the revolution, the question of balancing the powers in some fashion or another was still bouncing around in my newly psychedelicized head. Somehow, picking up what I later realized was probably the most powerful antique bolt action service rifle I could find seemed to make sense.
The Author with his Mauser Cavalry Carbine, Summit Road, Santa Cruz Mountains, 1974
Whatever the reason, she broke up with me in the Fall, which broke my heart. I didn’t handle it well, engaged in behavior that could only be described as stalking to some extent, but I felt like a lost puppy rather than an obsessive, controlling man. I settled down by the following Spring. . . to be blunt, with the help of other lovers. And I remained friends with Stan and Nan, which did lead to some interesting moments when Allison and I encountered one another at parties in their home a few years later. I realized I was over her, and I didn’t hold any kind of a grudge. What would be the point? I still thought she was a damn attractive woman, though!
A few more years after that, she came down from Oregon where she had gone to work with the famous chip maker, and we met again at Stan and Nan’s. Peace was made, and we had a bit of a fling again, at a time that was particularly good for my morale, because I was on the rebound from another break up. But she was in Oregon, and I still made my way in the Bay Area. We knew we were friends for life, but never destined to live together. I can look back at the few months we passed together as lovers. There were other moments of profound eroticism at different times during the balance of that heady Summer of 1973. . . but nothing was ever quite as intense as that brief idyll in the sparkling and icy waterfall overlooking the rushing South fork of the Yuba River.
Yuba Maiden
Jo
- 25.09.2022
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