I know these hills like the back of my hand. I grew up not too far away, and every summer my Dad and I would go up there, into the national forest, by ourselves. I was eleven when we first went up there. He had given me my first hunting bow the Christmas before, and taken me hunting in those woods every summer since then. We'd spend weeks together hunting, without ever seeing another soul. We'd lay out trails and blaze them, far from the tracks that most of the other hunters and hikers used. In a little valley so far off the beaten track that we doubted that any white man had ever been there, we built a small cabin, with two big beds and a small kitchen, although in fair weather we did most of our cooking on an open fire outside. There was a natural spring there, so we only needed to pack in the food and clothing we needed. During the evenings, we'd build up the fire and talk about the day's hunting, and about my schooling, and about his own job as a state trooper. We were as close as a father and son ever were.
I still remember the day he died. Two days after my eighteenth birthday, I was called into the principal's office. When I got there, she regarded me gravely, dialed a number, spoke a few words, and handed me the phone. The trooper at the other end told me that my dad had gone after another car in a high-speed pursuit, and lost control of his prowler on a rain-slicked road. It didn't matter to me that the driver of the other car had gone off the road and died, too. He deserved it. My dad didn't.
It turned out that Dad had taken out a lot of insurance on us, so that my sister and I could go to college. Considering the line of work he was in, the premiums must have been steep. As for Mom, my Dad's pension, plus the income from her own job with the county, kept her comfortable.
After Dad's death, I went into the woods by myself. Nobody could replace my father, so I never even bothered to ask anybody else to join me. I hunted alone, camped alone, for weeks at a time. I rolled up his sleeping bag and stored it in the closet, but I could never bring myself to pack it out; I wanted something of him in the cabin still.
I started doing something else, too, something that he would probably never have done with me. I started going practically nude when I was in the woods. As soon as I arrived at my secret campsite, I'd take off my clothes, retaining only my hiking sandals, and I'd put on a breechclout. I was confident that nobody would ever see me. I reveled in the sensation of the warm sun on my skin. Only when the sun went down and the air turned cold would I put on a thick robe.
The years went by. I graduated from high school, went to study at a local college, where I took law enforcement classes. I, too, would be a policeman. I always felt that my father had left his job unfinished, and I as his son would take up the baton and keep running with it, carrying on his spirit.
And every summer I'd go up into the hills and bow-hunt, taking only enough food to sustain me. My family became used to my habits, and thought nothing of it. Of course, they didn't know that I would be hunting in the nude, with only the breechclout to contain my cock and balls. I hunted mostly small game that was in season all year round, like rabbits and foxes and birds. I'd skin the mammals and save their pelts, which brought a good price. If the bird was large enough, I'd save the wings. I also hunted coyotes, since there was a bounty on them. But even if there weren't, I'd hunt them anyway because they preyed on the deer that the other hunters were sure to want when deer season opened in the fall.
I'd also gotten into another habit that my father would not have approved of. I was horny just about all the time, and at least twice during the day I'd pull the breechclout aside and let my cock and balls hang free. I'd give myself a fast and furious rubbing, and let my cum spit out of my cock, arcing high into the brush. Sometimes, if I was near the lake, I'd strip off my breechclout and go swimming, masturbating right into the water. Standing in the water up to my waist, I'd watch in awe as my cum shot out of my cock and just hovered in the clear water, like a little pearly cloud, before the currents washed it away. Then I'd crawl out and let the hot sun dry me. The feeling of the sun on my skin would often arouse me to the point where I had another hard-on, and I'd jack off into the lake water. And then I'd resume the hunt.
I went on like that for two summers. That fall, I was in my junior year and was thinking about changing majors from law enforcement to forestry, because I loved my private woods so much.
I found somebody else who loved them, too. The discovery came on the day that the local community center hosted an exhibition for local photographers. One photographer had filled a wall with pictures she'd taken of woodland scenes. She was an amazingly talented wildlife photographer who caught a variety of seldom-seen animals in their natural settings. Even I, who spent as much time in the woods as anybody, hadn't seen nearly as many as this woman had. As I examined the photographs, I realized with a shock that they were taken in the parts of the woods that I knew best, the parts where I thought that nobody had gone into but me. The capper was a photograph of the cabin that Dad and I built, a cabin nobody but me was supposed to know about. I stared at it for a long time, wondering if she'd ever seen me there.
The photographer herself was standing in a corner, drinking wine and talking with six or seven other people. She was a short woman, a little on the chubby side, with long, straight black hair. I smiled and nodded at her, as if to say "Good work!" and she smiled back and nodded in thanks, but we never exchanged words. I remembered her name: Gretchen Kurtz.
I continued my habits of hunting nude the next summer, but now I was more careful than ever not to be seen. I usually dispensed with the breechclout now, letting my cock hang free and usually semi-erect. That's how I was when I saw Gretchen again, in the forest.
I'd been tracking a fox. The trail led to a little valley that I seldom visited, and I was actually able to get a glimpse of him now and then, a flash of red in the shadows. I quietly moved down the slope toward a clearing that I knew would be ringed with small boulders behind which I could find cover. As I moved toward the clearing, I saw her.
She was laying face down on a blanket, looking into her camera, which was fitted with a telephoto lens and a small tripod. I could just barely see what she was aiming at: a fawn, still with its spots, in a shadowy glen about a tenth of a mile away. She was as naked as I was. Her nude back had a deep, even tan without the slightest trace of tan lines.
I watched her, my cock hardening, as she snapped picture after picture. At some point, she must have become aware of me, but it didn't break her concentration. At last she had the shots she needed, and when the fawn strayed off, she rolled over and looked at me. She had plump, soft breasts with areolas the size of half dollars, standing out in cones and capped with grape-sized nipples. I was wrong about her being chubby. Her hips were wide, but she had a well-defined waist. Her crotch was covered with dark curly hair, so profuse that I couldn't make out her slit. As she raised her arm to shade her face from the sun, I noticed that her armpits were also unshaven. She must have seen my erect cock, but gave it the merest of glances. She wore no jewelry, no make-up, no fingernail polish. Utterly self-confident in her nudity, she looked like a total creature of nature, a creature of the woods, just like me.
"I'm glad you didn't ruin the shot," she said. "I waited all day for that."
"You're the photographer ... Gretchen."
"And you're Bigfoot."
She laughed. "That's what I've been calling you. I didn't recognize you at first, but kept spotting you briefly all last summer. This summer, too. I call you Bigfoot because you're so elusive, and hard to shoot."
"What? You know me? You've taken pictures of me?"
"I sure have. Come and see." She pulled a small laptop computer from her camera bag, and we moved into the shade.
She clicked on a folder labeled "Bigfoot." "These are pictures I took of you over the last year," she said as the slides flashed by on the screen. As I saw picture after picture of me, my face started to burn. There I was moving through the woods, bow drawn. And again, basking in the sun by the lake, my cock hard. And then another one, showing me in profile, standing on the lakeshore, jerking off into the water, the arc of my cum glistening in the light.
"I like that last one best," she said. "It's so hot, I put it on my screen when I'm wanking."
She nodded. "Oh, yeah. If you weren't here, I'd be wanking right now. Is that wrong? Do you mind?"
"Actually, I'm flattered. How did you find me?"
"I first saw you last summer. Just a glimpse. So I started tracking you, and that's when I found your cabin. And I also tracked you to the lake, and saw you jerking off. I watched you do that for days, and figured out the best place to be when you did it, so I could get that wonderful shot. In a way, tracking you was pretty much like tracking any other big, shy animal. Now do you see why I call you Bigfoot?"
You can still call me that, but my name's Gavin."
"I knew that. We went to high school together, but not in the same class. You played football, right? I'm pleased to meet you, Gavin. You've been a real inspiration to me."
"I have? How?"
.... There is more of this story ...