Date: Wed, 21 Feb 2007 10:13:27 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: INDOMITABLE SPIRIT - 2

INDOMITABLE SPIRIT - 2

Copyright 2007 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Indomitable Spirit" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to
the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 2

(Revisiting Chapter 1)

It didn't take the men long to arrange for Wilderness and campfire permits.
On the road down from Kaiser Pass, they had decided to take the ferry from
the general store to the end of the lake, as well as the return trip.
(Having the requisite hour and a half, they could have hiked it, but they
had already been underway for nearly two hours, and they thirsted to get on
the main trail.)  Once they had purchased their tickets, they only had to
wait about twenty minutes.  Before they knew it, they were on the boat,
heading for the far end where the South Fork of the San Joaquin poured into
Florence Lake.  The Crest of the Sierra Nevada lay ahead of them - and an
adventure that they would never forget.

(Continuing Our Story - Top of the World)

Straightening up, the boys gave a hitch to their backpacks and grinned at
their dads.  They were off!

Mr.  Allison set a good, beginning pace through the area known as "Blaney
Meadows," a noted camping spot for those who were returning from the High
Country.  The air was still fresh; the scent of pine, heavy in their
nostrils.  In five miles or so, they would pick up the John Muir Trail, the
granddaddy of the Sierra trails.  The early trails in these mountains, of
course, were established by Indians and used and improved by early mining
prospectors.  It was the sheep and cattle men, however, who were most
responsible for the trail system of the Sierra Nevada, especially on the
western slope.  Other than for the John Muir Trail and a few others, most
of the Sierra trails just happened in moving livestock to and from summer
ranges in high mountain meadows.  As early as 1892, however, the Sierra
Club conceived the idea of a north-south trail along the backbone of the
High Sierra, keeping as near to the crest as possible.  The work of
exploration went on in the late 1890s.  Just before World War I, the final
route, named in honor of the late President of the Sierra Club was
selected, stretching from Yosemite in the north to Mount Whitney in the
south.  The Sierra Club, the State of California, and the U.S. Forest
Service all cooperated to create an enduring legacy for those who love the
out-of-doors.

The boys felt great!  It didn't seem anytime at all before they approached
the Piute Pass Trail at 7,900' where they turned east...and up!  (It was
here that Piute Creek flowed into the south fork of the San Joaquin near
the juncture of the trails.)  The steepest part of the approach to the
crest lay immediately ahead.  The trail ascended a narrow steep gorge,
first rising away from the creek and then descending towards it.
Gradually, the timber became less noticeable and was replaced by great
boulders!  The going was hot, dry, and steep.  However well packed their
backpacks, all four in the little party began to feel the weight of nearly
a week's supplies.  While no one would make a point of it, they were all
ready to take a break when Mr. Allison called for lunch part way up the
gorge.

No one laughed when Mr. Curtis took his boots off and stuck his feet in the
icy water as it hurtled down the ravine.  (In fact, it wasn't long before
everyone had joined him as they munched on trail food!)  It was Mike
Curtis, the son, however, who caught that first glimpse of the brilliant
color that darted through the water not far from his foot.  Quietly, he
stood and retrieved the fishing gear packed on the outside of his backpack.
Cagily, he dangled a grasshopper in the small, turbulent stream.  With an
almost perceptible crunch, a molten nugget of gold took the fly and with
violent tugs gave notice that he damned well intended to keep it!  Mike
could hardly believe the little, 11" trout that he finally guided into the
net after a sharp battle.

"Unhook him, son and let him go; he's a treasure," his dad murmured,
looking down at his boy with visible pride.  "You've just met Salmo
Roosevelti, the Golden Trout, named after Teddy Roosevelt," Mr.  Curtis
continued.  "They don't grow very large because they don't get that much to
eat way up here - and 'here', rarely much below 10,000 feet, is where they
live."  "Man, oh man," breathed Larry.  "Look at that olive color on the
back, the golden body, the bright horizontal red band right down the
middle, and the darker yellow bottom.  I don't think I've ever seen
anything so beautiful!"  "Nope," Mr.  Curtis responded, "neither do most
Californians.  They may be why they named it the State fish.  It's too bad
Mike caught it this early in the day, 'cause we've got more hiking to do.
It's probably the best eating fish you've ever tasted!  Let's hope you have
some luck tonight up at Hutchinson Meadows.  The campsite is also on Piute
Creek."

Soon they were off again.  Six miles from where they had turned onto the
Piute Pass Trail, the four weary hikers found themselves at the Meadows
(9,500').  Knowing what the first day would take out of the hikers, however
young, strong, and reasonably acclimated, the two dads did not push things.
Rather they found a pleasant campsite and set up for the night.  Quickly
recovering - or so they said - the boys were off exploring.  Perhaps 45
minutes later, they roared back into camp, carrying two 14-15" Brown trout!
(Author's Note: Believe it or not, this incident is true!)  Questioned as
to where they had caught such beautiful fish - even if they weren't Goldens
- the boys grinned and said that no one would believe them.  Pressed, they
admitted they had spotted them in a little stream that finally emptied into
the creek.  At that point, the two fish were the only occupants of a
relatively small pool.  The story went that Mike knelt on one side of the
pool and Larry on the other.  They then chased the fish back and forth
across the pool until they were able to catch them by hand!  One might
guess that they were royally razzed by their dads - until, of course, the
two angling purists took their first bite at supper!

Over the next few years, the two boys would often look back upon the
evening at Hutchinson Meadows as one of the high points of their lives,
especially their relationship with their fathers.  After everyone pitched
in to help clean up from supper and had taken a quick, cleansing dip under
a waterfall not too far from camp (Believe that it was "quick"!), they
built a small campfire.  To wild catcalls, their dads brought out a ukulele
and a harmonica and launched into some old camping songs.  Afterwards, each
person had to tell a story, the gorier the better.  The piece de resistance
came when Mr.  Allison brought out a (rather battered) bag of marshmallows!
It was a real question as to who enjoyed the evening more, but it was
enjoyed...and remembered.

In time the evening wound down.  The boys' fathers spread their sleeping
bags out fairly close to the fire.  Mike and Larry, on the other hand, had
found a spot protected by a granite ledge, a spot that was a bit higher and
further removed from the creek.  There was just enough room to spread their
sleeping bags side by side on a comfortable bed of dried grass.  Before
turning in, they sat back against the granite wall, quietly shooting the
breeze.  Somewhat nervously, Larry finally cleared his throat.  "Hey,
Mikey," he began.  ("God," Mike thought. "He hadn't called me that for
years.)  "You know, Mike," he continued.  "We really cooled things from the
way they were when we were 11 and even 12.  That's fine.  I thought things
had gotten a little out of hand, and I wanted to cool it, too.  Until last
night, I guess we hadn't done anything for a couple of years...just about.
Are you mad with me?"

"Mad?" Mike responded.  "Why would I be mad with you, Larry?  You're my
best friend.  We decided together to cool things down a bit and there were
no problems...no problems at school, no problems at home, no problems
between us.  We made the team and the club.  We both enjoyed the big dance
last spring.  Last night just happened.  Besides, it was colder than a
bear's ass...and you attacked me!  Anyway, we didn't go very far!"
Laughing, the big blond added, "Why would I be mad with you?"

"Dunno, Mike, maybe it's just me," Larry responded, not backing off.  "The
trip is fantastic...just unbelievable.  It's just that I'm so nervous, I'm
ready to jump right out of my skin!  I need to drain it before I do
something stupid or have an accident because I didn't watch what I was
doing.  When that has happened before, you've always helped me to throw it
off.  Would you think less of me, or think that I was an old woman, if I
told you that I could really use your help right now?  (Pause.)  Would you
think that I didn't really want to cool it...maybe that I was queer?"

"QUEER?  You've got to be kidding, Allison!  There's not a queer bone in
your whole empty head!  Think straight!  There's a difference between bein'
queer and helping out your best friend!  Hell, Lare, I'll ALWAYS be here
for you!  Besides, it goes both ways.  I'm just as 'jumpy' as you are.
It's just that you had the guts to say it first!  Let's just relax and be
ourselves."

"Yeah," Larry murmured.  That's best.  Damn, Mike, you're the best, the
very best!"

Mike quietly got down on his knees, unzipped the two sleeping bags, and
then zipped them up...together.  His hands trembling a bit, he started to
remove his clothes, motioning for Larry to do the same.  With a soft grunt
the two naked boys slipped into the combined sleeping bag.  "Come on over
here, animal," Mike growled.  Reaching out he gathered Larry into his arms
and pressed the full length of his body into his friend's.  As his thick
neck slipped backwards and his mouth gasped for air, Larry felt Mike
rubbing insistently against his body and kneading his muscular buttocks.
"Oh, yeah, pal, oh yeah!" he moaned.  Swiveling his hips, he was able to
slam his heavy, rigid cock into Mike's...once, twice...three times. It was
his friend's turn to gasp and moan!  Larry's hand suddenly went to the
zipper.  Despite the frigid mountain air, he zipped it down and pulled back
one corner of the sleeping bag.  The bright moonlight illuminated Mike's
rigid, pulsing sex.  Silently, Larry partially raised his body and took the
beautiful piece of meat deep into his mouth and thence into his throat.
Within seconds, Mike had to choke back a mammoth cry as he exploded into
his buddy's gullet.

Mike's hand against his muscled chest pushed Larry back down onto the
ground.  "Now it's my turn," he growled.  Using his tongue and lips, he
"munched" on just about every square inch of Larry's flesh.  Leaving
several of his favorite inches to last, he slowly - ever so slowly - licked
up the thick pole until he reached the very top.  Gently, his lips pushed
the rest of Larry's long foreskin back off his glans from which erupted
wave after wave of precum.  First toying with the boy's piss slit with the
tip of his tongue, he moved to the underside of his penis and to his
frenulum at the ultrasensitive juncture of head, rim, and foreskin.
Slowly, painstakingly, he tortured the spot with the tip of his tongue
until his supposed friend turned into a sweating, writhing, moaning
caricature of a human being.  Then and only then did he take Larry's glans
into his mouth and finish him off with a couple of vigorous sucks and
licks.

Well pleased with his efforts, Mike was just lifting up from Larry's body
when he felt it go stone rigid.  Looking down, he saw that his buddy's eyes
were wide and terrified.  "What is it, Lare?" he whispered.  "L-l-l-look
above y-y-you," Larry managed to stammer.  Turning his head, he was able to
see partway up the stone ledge.  Staring back at him was a pair of blazing
eyes that looked as large as dinner plates.  "YOW!" he screamed, jumping
about two feet into the air.  "What in hell is going on up there?" a sleepy
voice called from down below.  "Sorry, dad," Mike responded.  "I think a
really big owl startled me."  "Ok, guys," the voice responded, "but if I
have to come up there, it's likely to be a vulture!"  "Yes, sir," two
slightly penitent voices answered.  "Night, sir."  A pair of giggling boys
got themselves cleaned up and, arms around one another, dropped off to
sleep.

(Destination - Humphreys Basin)

Rather than continue up the canyon, the party turned east after a quick
breakfast.  Following Piute Creek, they soon entered one of the most
awe-inspiring areas of the High Sierra, the completely desolate Humphreys
Basin.  Its floor strewn with numerous lakes, the Basin forms the
headwaters of Piute Creek.  Other than around one lake at the very
beginning of the Basin, very few trees were to be seen, and they were
stunted and twisted.  To their right they viewed the forbidding cliffs of
Mt. Humphreys (13,986'); to their right, the rugged peaks of Glacier Divide
that separate the Basin from the South Fork of the San Joaquin and the John
Muir trail far below.  Ahead, at the far side of the Basin, lay Piute Pass
(11,400'), but that wasn't for this trip.  Finally, we made camp near a
small lake with the bleak, windswept Mt. Humphreys in the background.

As was the case the day before, Mike and Larry recovered relatively quickly
from the morning's hike.  With their father's injunctions to be careful
ringing in their ears, they decided to climb one of the peaks of Glacier
Divide.  There was no trail.  Indeed, it was a vicious climb over great
boulders, ever upward in the thin air.  Beginning to think that they might
not make it, the boys suddenly came out on the rocky summit.  Raising their
arms in victory, they gasped as they looked up and down the very spine, the
crest, of the Sierra Nevada, mountain after mountain marching north and
south.  Both youngsters gulped, unable to speak.  Larry was the first to
spot the cairn.  Removing the top layer of stones, they found a large tin
can tightly covered.  Inside there was a simple notebook and a pencil.
Almost reverently, they inscribed their names, the date, and their
hometown.  Looking up, they grinned proudly into each other's eyes.  By the
time they could tear themselves away from the scenery, of course, the light
was fading.  It was still a magnificent, if somewhat dangerous trip, back
to the campsite.  Mt.  Humphreys always stood ahead, reflecting the
glorious colors of late afternoon and early evening like an enormous
lighthouse.

That night it wasn't long after dinner that two tired kids hit the sack.
They were vaguely aware of some kind of disturbance during the night, but
they would have slept through anything short of a major earthquake!  In the
morning, they awoke to find that their fathers were not in camp.
Initially, of course, they felt little alarm.  Although the boys wished
they had left a note, they were probably fishing or, maybe, they had
decided to climb their own mountain.  As the morning wore on, however, they
became increasingly uncomfortable.


To Be Continued