“It’s just a little farther,” I say over my shoulder, as we continue our hike. “Just over the next rise.”
“I hope so,” you say in reply.
We are walking through typical California scrub – waist-high scrub, light brown rock, light brown dirt – and have been for some twenty minutes, ever since we left the car at the side of the road. The sun is beating down. It’s hot, and there is little breeze. We’re both in hiking shorts and boots; I’m in a T-shirt, you’re in a tank-top. We both have Camelbaks on, and I take the tube in my mouth, suck down a couple of swallows of water. I stop and turn around to see you doing the same, as you walk towards me. Despite your bra, the curve of your breasts is quite visible, as are your exquisite nipples – I have a fleeting image of sucking on them, instead of this water tube, but . . . you push right past me and keep going up the hill.
I turn and catch up with you at the top. We look down, and you see what I have been promising: down this next slope, there is a flowing stream, shade trees, and watering hole deep enough to swim in.