Date: Thu, 8 Jun 2000 23:46:14 EDT
From: Tony Malone <B.Ricchone@verizon.net>
Subject: The Upper Snowfields

This story tells about sex between men. If this offends you, or if you're
too young to be reading this kind of stuff, please hit "Back" right now.

The Upper Snowfields

Mark and I had both come East to graduate school from California. He
was in classics; I was in anthropology. It was a coincidence that we
both ended up at the same university: we had gone to boarding school
together but to different colleges and had been out of touch for
several years. Our time in boarding school was before the co-ed
era. As is well documented, when male adolescents are penned up
together for months on end the hormones erupt in episodes of "mostly
harmless" homosexuality. Mostly harmless means that those who
weren't gay got over it, and those who were did not.  Mark and I
were in the second category. In school we had done a bit of communal
wanking but we had had our crushes elsewhere. So when we met again,
even though we did not exactly fall in each other's arms, it
was a great relief for each of us to find someone else whose
perspective both on life and on the strange world of ivy-league
academe we could understand completely.

Another thing we shared was our love of the outdoors. We had both
hiked and climbed while at school, and we discovered that both of
us had spent a lot of time in college skiing and ski mountaineering.
Our university was very well located for skiing; during our first
winter we drove up the Interstate almost every weekend to try out
the ski areas in Vermont and New Hampshire. We would always share a
room to save money, but we slept in our own beds and left each other
alone at night. I have to say that when I would see Mark naked or
nearly naked coming out of the shower I would feel a definite sexual
twinge. The smooth, limber body I remembered from school, still
almost entirely hairless, had taken on hard packs of muscle. On his
head the hair  was black and curly; he now wore it short but it
still set off his very white skin. Celtic blood, no doubt. He had
always had a gorgeous ass and he still did. The beautiful stripling
had become a beautiful man. But I was an adult now and knew how
sexual infatuations pass while friendship lasts. Being Mark's friend
and companion was enough for me.

Ski mountaineering was not so easy to arrange, but we learned of a
route in the White Mountains, through the Presidential Range, that
would be practicable in the late Spring. We made careful plans. We
borrowed or bought air mattresses, sleeping bags, a 2-man tent,
packframes and cooking equipment. We carefully divvied up the load
into two equal parts. Since that winter had been an especially heavy
one, the snow cover in the higher Presidentials was expected to
last through May. We planned our trip for the Memorial Day weekend.

We only had time for an abbreviated version of the full traverse.
We would climb Mount Adams the first day, hike on skis over to Mount
Washington on the second, and ski down Mount Washington on the
third.

The first day was miserable. We left our university town at dawn
under a clear sky, but as we neared North Conway we could see a cloud
ahead of us on the horizon. That cloud was squatting on the
Presidentials. We hiked up in a light drizzle that soon changed to a
mist thickened by wet, clinging snow. Mark led the way. All I had to
do was watch him and mechanically follow his movements. The snow
blew in my face and I could barely keep my eyes open, but the
sight of his hips rocking and twisting as he stepped from rock to
rock kept pleasant thoughts coursing through my mind. By the time we
reached our campsite, up at the snowline, my fingers were freezing
and my eyebrows and moustache were encrusted with ice. Setting up
the tent was torture. Cooking would have been impossible. We huddled
inside and shared dry food from our packs, made one last excursion
to piss, and worked our way into our sleeping bags. We were facing
away from each other; in the cramped tent whenever one or the other
of us shifted his position our rear ends would softly collide
through the layers of clothing and down. That and the memory of his
hips walking ahead of me must have percolated down to my
subconscious. Or maybe it was something entirely different. All I
know is I woke up in the morning and realized I had had a wet dream.
Changing was out of the question. I wore it all day.

That day was better. We set off on skis. The snow had stopped and the
mist had lifted, becoming a heavy overcast; a chill breeze still
whipped down from the col.  Progress was tricky, especially on the
downhill reaches. The light was so dim and diffuse that bumps and
dips in the trail cast no shadows at all, and so were completely
invisible. Mark was skiing just ahead of me. At one point I saw him
thrown to the right by a bump; the weight of his pack took over and
he lost his balance completely, tumbled off the trail and slid down
the hillside through the heavy, loose snow. Luckily we were just at
the timberline; he stopped against a clump of stunted shrubs. He lay
motionless. I took off my pack and my skis and half ran, half
glissaded down to him. He was on his back with his arms underneath
him and his legs out of sight in the snow. His body was arched with
his groin at the apex. "Mark! Are you OK?" He nodded. The thought
flashed into my brain that he was powerless: I could unzip his fly
and do my worst. But I banished this nasty fantasy as quickly as it
had come, bent down and loosened his shoulder straps. Mark was quick,
though. "What were you thinking, you bastard?" he asked. Meanwhile
his shoulders were free of the pack. I knelt over him, put my arms
around his chest and heaved him up into a half-sitting position. His
wrists had been trapped in the ski pole safety straps. Now he could
slide them out and move his arms. I dug out his boots one by one and
released the bindings. He wiggled his feet, and smiled: "No
damage." Still, it took another fifteen minutes to get all his gear
out of the snow and back up on the trail; then we started off again.

We reached our campsite on Mount Washington in early evening, tired
but with enough energy left to start up the gas stove and make
supper. The campsite was hidden in a group of large boulders at the
foot of the upper snowfields, long, smooth, steep slopes that
stretched almost up to the summit. We would climb to the top in the
morning. We had one last cup of hot chocolate, crawled into the
tent, pulled on our sleeping bags, faced away from each other again
and went to sleep.

I woke up the next morning with sun in my eyes. Light was pouring
through the tent-cloth. I checked my watch: it was barely six
o'clock. I clambered out of the tent, trying not to wake Mark. The
sun, horizontally across from me, lit up the snowfields like a
theater set. Below all of New Hampshire and Maine were still dark.
These first rays were just for me. The air was cold but I stretched
and luxuriated in the warm sunlight. "Feeling good, eh?" Mark was
awake and came up to stand beside me. His feelings were what I was
interested in. I was tempted to look in his eyes and read what I
could but instead I said: "Let's have some breakfast. The snow
should be ready in about an hour."  In the Spring the snow freezes
solid overnight but loosens up into heavy grains when the sun hits
it. The very best conditions are half an inch to an inch of this
granular topping on a smooth firm base. That was what we were waiting
for. The snowfields face north-east so they warm up quickly in the
morning. Later in the day the thawed, loosened snow can get too deep
for safe skiing.

We melted snow, made coffee and flapjacks and ate in the sunlight
up on one of the boulders. Washing up, breaking camp and packing
everything for the ride down the mountain used up the rest of the
hour. Then we changed into ski boots, shouldered our skis and poles
and started uphill. The air was still cold. I was wearing zip-up
shell overpants and a nylon parka over my climbing clothes,
ski gloves, a light wool cap and sunglasses; our clothes had been
part of our planning, so Mark was dressed almost exactly as I was.

I led the way up the slope. Although the snow was still so hard that
I had to kick in steps one by one, I soon got into a comfortable
rythm. I had the poles in one hand and the skis in the other, over my
shoulders and crossed behind me, so the weight was spread evenly on
both sides and actually helped with my balance. Even so it took
almost an hour to reach the top of the snowfield. We left our skis
there and walked up the wind-packed snow to the summit house. The
Dartmouth student usually in residence to monitor the weather station
must have had the weekend off, because that morning no one answered
our knocks. We had the top of Mount Washington to ourselves.

We shared a chocolate bar as we walked back down to the top of the
snowfield, admiring the view. Then we stepped into our bindings,
took our poles and pushed off.

The surface was still hard, and the descent took a lot of effort.
"Boiler plate" is what we call that kind of frozen snow, because
that's what it feels like.  I had to ride my edges the whole time.
Also the air had started to warm up. So by the time I reached the
camp I was starting to sweat. I left the parka and the overpants tied
to my pack, and I saw Mark do the same with his.

Mark led the way up for our second run. More happy contemplation
of his hips. It was easier going because we could use the steps we
had kicked in before, but it was still a long, very steep climb.  At
the top we just waited to catch our breath and then started down.
The forty minutes or so since our last run had made a difference.
Although the surface was still lumpy, my skis had much better
purchase and my calves and shins could relax. But I was sweating
again when I got to the bottom. It was now about eight-thirty. The
air was very warm, and the sun's rays, both direct and reflected off
the snow, felt hot. The thought occurred to me: we could even ski
naked. There were other people on the mountain, about a hundred or
so camped on the floor of Tuckerman Ravine, but it was a long way up
and we had at least an hour more of privacy. I looked over at Mark
and said, "Hey, Mark. I'm hot. What about skiing..." "Naked?" He
finished the question for me. This guy was quick. And answered it:
"Yeah!"

In less than a minute we were standing in the sunlight wearing our
socks and boots, our sunglasses and  nada mas. We left the
zip-up shell pants on top of our packs because they could go on in a
couple of seconds. The only discussion was whether we should take
them along in case someone turned up. "Nah!" said Mark, "Are we
naked or not? Let's go for it!"

I wedged one glove under my skis and one under my poles to cushion
my shoulders, and started up. It was my turn to lead. The thought
that Mark had to stare at my ass the whole time kept me tingling,
but having to concentrate on staying in the steps, which were
starting to get sloppy, kept my cock under control. When we got to
the top I started right down. I was nervous being so far from my
clothes.

The snow was now perfect. Like icing on a cake. My skis rode
smoothly and I could make wide, relaxed, impeccable turns even though
the slope was very steep. I felt I was at the top of my form. I had
pushed down my knee-socks for maximum nakedness and I was enjoying
every square inch of the exposure. Each time I crossed the fall
line I would pick up a lot of speed; the air would whip deliciously
past my body. Every so often a chunk of snow kicked up by my poles
would strike me on the legs or the stomach. This was delicious, too.
I did not stop until I was back at the camp. It was an unbroken,
ecstatic sequence of linked turns from the top to the bottom. I
ended up with my skis across the slope, panting and looking uphill.

Mark had waited for me to finish, I guess so he could show me his
stuff. It was quite a show. Mark is a very daring skier. He came down
much faster than I had, almost lost his balance at one point but
recovered completely enough to give me a little demonstration of
"wedeln" just before the end. It was like a hootchie-kootchie
dance by a beautiful man naked on skis racing downhill, risking
everything. Too much! My cock stiffened immediately. He made one
last turn and roared to a stop facing me, his skis just below mine.

He glanced at my erection and said: "What are you looking at, mister
hard-to-get?" At that he reached down, scooped up a handful of loose
snow and stuffed it in my crotch. I felt myself falling uphill and
grabbed at his shoulder. I hit the snow. He fell on top of me.
Our legs and skis were twisted together, with his on top; my feet
were trapped. My naked butt and back pressed against the slope - I
gasped from the shock. With my chest and abdomen I felt Mark's body
squirming against mine. His cock, erect, slid along my thigh. I
pulled my hands out of my gloves and put my arms around him. "Mark,"
I said, "you're so fucking beautiful!"  "Nice try," he answered,
"but too late." He took another handful of snow and began to rub it into my
chest and stomach. Granular snow is actually sleet. Mark's gloved
hand was scouring my skin with little, sharp chunks of ice.  I was
writhing and trying to push him away, but at the same time my cock
was throbbing dangerously. Mark must have sensed it beacuse he slid
down to my crotch and said: "Wait till you feel this!" He took a
mouthful of snow and then slipped me in with it. "Hey!" I yelled.
The icy tongue darting over my glans and licking at my shaft was
more intense than anything my penis had ever felt before. Then he
hit my balls. He massaged snow around them and behind them, all the
time continuing his frozen teasing of my cock. I lasted less than a
minute and exploded right into his mouth. After a moment, I sat up
and caressed his head. My backside was completely numb from the
snow, but I did not care. My mind was still spinning from the rush
he had given me.

Mark spat out a mixture of ice and sperm and wiped his mouth on the
back of his glove. I pulled his face up to mine and kissed him. His
mouth was still cold. "Mark," I said, "You know I love you." "How
could I tell?" he said. "We're together all the time and you've
never said anything."  "Well you're an unobservant, insensitive
asshole, that's all. Let me up!" We both got back on our feet. I
released my bindings and stepped out of my skis, and saw Mark
bending over to release his. I scooped up a snowball and fired it at
the small of his back. Bingo! He looked up, but he had to unfasten
the other ski. I got him again, between the shoulder blades. Now his
feet were free; he tried to run. I caught him with a shot to the
groin as he turned, and followed right behind him, pelting his naked
body with snowballs.  He was Saint Sebastian and I was the Roman
soldiers. It was glorious.

Ski boots are not made for running. Within fifty feet Mark tripped
and fell flat on his chest, facing uphill. I jumped on top of him
and let myself slide down just over his ass. There it was,
beautiful as ever, solid with muscle but almost as soft and smooth as a
baby's.  His arms were scrabbling against the slope, trying
to get some leverage, but I had enough weight on his torso to keep him
pinned. I tunnelled my arm through the snow to check out his
cock. It was stiff and hot, and spasmed when I touched it. He
was ripe.  I said: "Okay, Mark, up on your hands and knees!" as I
slid my body down, freeing his butt and his thighs. He complied. I
filled my mouth with snow and licked a circle around his anus. He
yelped. "Start beating off!" I ordered. Mark got down on one elbow,
pulled the other glove off with his teeth and began pumping. I
initiated a series of slow ass-licks on him. I can touch my tongue
to the tip of my nose. My father can do it too; it's genetic. I
grasped Mark's hips and forced my mouth into his crotch, starting
each lick as far down towards his balls as I could reach. From there
my tongue sashayed up to his hole, gave it a dipsy-doodle and
slinked out into his ass-crack. I replenished the snow whenever I
felt it melting away. Only a few licks were necessary. "Jesus, man,
I'm starting to come." That was my cue. Ramming my face against his
crack I shot my frozen tongue deep up into him. Mark screamed, and
then gave a kind of long, piercing, pulsating yodel.  Tarzan
getting his. Thank goodness it was just the two of us on a mountain
top. I let him finish, then I pulled back and kissed his ass. I
really did love the guy.