My first semester of college, we had to sign up for a freshman orientation adventure. Some picked community service projects, some picked bike rides, and some picked touring wine country. I signed up for the one with 'hot springs' in the description.
It was a 5-day backpack at the top of the Colorado Rockies. We spent the first days scaling apline ridges, dropping into glacial basins with sky-blue lakes, and climbing back to 1300' saddles. The lakes were too cold to swim in. A few of the girls got brave, took off their pants, and waded knee-deep. They splashed themselves to bathe, and then dashed back to shore, shivering, lips blue.
By the end of four days, we'd swung back almost full-circle to our start point, dropping back to the forested valleys. Along one of the creeks was our promised hot springs. We were so sore, tired, and stinky when we finally reached them, we all stripped naked and ran in. All modesty dissolved like the grim of our wool socks. We soaked and relaxed.
At the time, being in that place, with students who had been strangers, but had become familiar from the days of hiking, eating, living together in the small tents, none of us looked at each other romantically or erotically. We were trail-mates, and that was its own type of relationship. Bodies were natural and normal, and the water felt perfect. Looking back now, I wonder how I didn't see how lucky I was.
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