Malevolence Ch. 02

Having the luxury of leisure, Lisa and Travis made a decision to spend the entire day exploring vast Knife Lake. This was their first time in Canada, albeit barely over the border, and they wanted to linger awhile.

After breakfast they broke camp, loaded their canoe, and prepared to head out. Travis perfunctorily stripped naked. Just as quickly, Lisa stripped off and stuffed her clothing in her backpack. But, as always, she kept her T-shirt handy to toss on, just in case they crossed paths with anyone.

Travis aimed his Minolta SLR at Lisa. Faking embarrassment, she flashed an exaggerated, bug-eyed, open-mouth expression and hid her bits with her hands. Travis was laughing so heartily he figured the photo had to be blurry so he snapped another. He mounted his SLR on a tripod. Using the camera's self-timer, he snapped a photo of the two of them together with the lake in the background. He brought lots of film: nine rolls of Kodacolor, 36 exposures each, and a roll of black & white infrared film loaded in his other camera. In college he had experimented with infrared film and liked the way it gave otherworldly appearance to ordinary scenes.

They pushed their loaded canoe off the pebbly beach and ventured onto open water, dipping their paddles forward and swinging them back. Dip, dip, and swing . . .

By now, four days into their journey, Lisa had come to appreciate the joy of trekking nude in the great outdoors. How glorious it felt, the sun and wind kissing her bare skin. How wonderfully free and alive she felt. A thought popped into her head: How foolish I've been not doing this on all those trips down Sycamore River.

From the put-in point at Beech Hollow, an easy all-day float on the Sycamore delivered trekkers to Shawnee Springs, the overnight stop. People with canoes and kayaks weren't the only ones who re-created at Shawnee Springs. The popular swimming area was accessible on foot from the trailhead on Forest Road 407. During the hot, hazy, humid days of summer, scores of people backpacked the 2 mile trail and spent the weekend, or longer, camping in the woods, relaxing on the sandbar and swimming in the river. And the vast majority didn't wear any sort of bodily covering. Those who thought the river wasn't cold enough could retreat to the shady limestone grotto whence flowed the springs. There, the shallow pool was bone-chilling cold even in the middle of summer. After dark, friends, and brand-new friends, socialized around campfires and imbibed adult beverages. Those who brought guitars strummed familiar standards while others, if moved, sang along. In the morning, back on the river, another easy all-day float to the take-out point: the covered bridge at Horseshoe Bend.

Lisa conjured images of those weekends she and Travis canoed the Sycamore and placed herself in the scene, naked in view of hundreds of people. And she wondered: Would I actually do that? She pondered only a moment before concluding: Prob'ly not.

Knife Lake was shaped roughly like a wishbone: The 'sternum' and one 'leg' defined the international border stretching 10 miles west-to-east. And the South Arm, extending 7 miles southeast into American territory, formed the other 'leg.' The shorelines everywhere were highly convoluted, featuring myriad nooks, crannies, coves and side bays. Moreover, looking at a topographic map of Knife Lake and the entire Boundary Waters Canoe Area, it was difficult to ascertain whether the landscape was pocked with hundreds of lakes of various sizes or the inverse: thousands of square miles of watery wilderness with bits of forested land scattered here and there.

Hugging the north shore, they paddled slowly, stopping occasionally to just sit and listen to the symphony of the wilderness: wind in the pines, waves lapping the shore, and the calls of songbirds, unseen in the forest.

Late morning they rounded a rocky point and a big cove came into view. Travis steered the canoe to the right and entered the cove, a quarter-mile wide and half-mile deep. The shoreline therein was scalloped, a random spacing of rocky points capped with evergreens, interspersed with pebbly beaches. The scene reminded Lisa of the Maine coastline where she had vacationed in her youth.

Floating in the center of the cove, a huge assembly of loons turned their heads and watched the humans stop paddling and drift closer and closer. As if on cue, the multitude took flight, hundreds of wings churning the air, a loud WHOOOOSH, as they leaped into the blue summer sky. "Awesome!" Lisa smiled broadly. Displays of raw nature always satisfied her deep down. From out of nowhere, she was seized with the feeling they were being watched. She looked around. No canoes or kayaks were beached anywhere in the cove. No people ashore. It's just my nerves, she told herself.

"Damn," Craig muttered under his breath. He had come to this cove to photograph loons and these two buffoons ruined his shoot. From the concealment of his camouflaged duck blind, he swiveled the long telephoto lens on the tripod and studied the interlopers through the viewfinder of his Nikon SLR. That the couple was naked didn't surprise him. In this watery wonderland, many people considered clothing to be superfluous . . . unless the weather turned stormy.

Craig Monroe, 37, freelance writer/photographer, was on assignment for Wilderness Life magazine. He had been paddling his kayak around the Boundary Waters much of the summer, taking notes and snapping photographs for a feature article slated for publication in October. He had photographed lakes, streams, waterfalls, rock formations, wildflowers, trees, and many species of animals including black bear, elk and moose. He also had photographed people and listened to their tales of adventure in the wilderness.

Nature photographers needs two things: patience and luck. To capture shots of a black bear he sat in one spot for three hours waiting for a bruin to find the chunk of spam he placed for bait. The time wasn't wasted; while he waited, two topless young women paddled their canoe past the rock on which he sat at water's edge. He snapped a photo of them. They weren't offended; they smiled and waved. He snapped another photo and waved back.

The loons Craig was intent on photographing had arrived in the cove only ten minutes before they were scared away. Bad luck? Nay. Ever the opportunist, he switched gears and began photographing human wildlife in its natural habitat. Snap . . . snap . . . snap . . . .

"How 'bout we stop here for lunch?" Travis suggested.

"Sure. You pick the spot."

Travis steered the canoe toward a beach just ahead. With a soft crunch, the bow kissed the pebbles just 60 yards from where, on a rocky prominence amid the pines, Craig sat in his duck blind. Lisa's seated posture prevented Craig from determining whether she was completely naked or wearing a skimpy bikini brief. When she climbed out of the canoe, her beautiful bare buttocks came into view, confirming the former. Snap . . . snap . . . snap . . . Craig wasn't concerned about using too much film. He had scores of rolls of Kodachrome.

Travis climbed out and pulled the canoe onto the beach where they spread their towels and sat down cross-legged. To keep midday nourishment simple they brought trail mix (different kinds) and energy bars, washed down with lemonade powder mixed in their water bottles. After munching awhile, they reclined on their backs. "Mmmm . . . this feels sooo good." Travis could only nod in agreement. While the summer sun baked their bodies, Lisa looked down the length of her torso. Her bikini shadow, many shades lighter than her overall caramel color, was catching up and becoming darker. And for a time, they lounged in ultimate leisure.

Craig's human subjects became static, so he swiveled his camera back toward the lake. A few loons had returned to the cove, not the numbers as before, but enough to satisfy his artistic eye. And every few minutes he glanced at the couple on the beach. One time when he glanced, he found that the woman had rolled onto her side facing the man and was fondling his penis. Switch gears. He swiveled the lens back toward the beach, zoomed the telephoto to optimally frame the pair, and began snapping.

It didn't take Lisa long to stroke up an erection. "Why don't you climb up here?" Lisa obliged Travis' suggestion. She climbed atop with her knees straddling his hips. "No," he said, "the other way." Lisa turned around, facing away, a position akin to doggy only different in relation to gravity. "Slide on back." Lisa smiled as she shuffled her knees backwards. She knew what he had in mind. Travis gripped her hips, pulled her down and plowed his bearded face into her fuzzy nether. "Ohhhhhh . . . " she moaned then, propped on both hands, bent low and took his erection into her mouth. "Oh yeah, that feels sooo good," Travis mumbled. Shame on him; his mama always told him: "Never talk with your mouth full." The vocal vibrations buzzed Lisa's clitoris, sending a spike of pleasure shooting up her spine.

Craig kept snapping photos. He had an optimal sidelong perspective of his subjects which enabled him to see the woman's lips sliding up and down the man's slobbery erection and his darting tongue lashing her clitoris. Snap . . . snap . . . snap . . .

Travis was exquisitely schooled in the art of cunnilingus. After he quit shaving, his beard became another weapon in his oral arsenal. Using his chin whiskers, he lightly brushed Lisa's engorged clitoris. She stopped sucking and raised up slightly. "Ohhhhhh yeah . . . just like that." She loved his beard, the coarse whiskers rasping her sensitive flesh. Over and over, Travis brushed, up down and sideways, and all the while Lisa's arousal was spiraling higher. "Ooooooooh . . . " Her abundant vaginal lubrication soaked his beard. Lustily, he lapped it. Tasty.

Craig reached the end of the roll of film. While rewinding, and loading another roll, the woman repositioned herself atop the man, now face-to-face with her knees straddling his hips.

Lisa sat back, inch by inch impaling herself until Travis' erection was fully buried. She was already so deeply aroused, the sensation of his thick erection stretching her vagina made her shudder and climax. Her face flushed purplish pink.

Travis grinned. "That was fast!"

"Uh huh."

Her hands planted on the towel, Lisa began slowly sliding her pelvis fore and aft, grinding her clitoris against his coarse pubic patch. More rasping. Straightaway, she shuddered and climaxed again. Beads of sweat erupted on her forehead. She resumed grinding and before long, shudder. She stopped grinding and, glassy-eyed, gazed lovingly into Travis' eyes. Profound connection. Not until Lisa became sexually active with Travis did she ever experience multiple orgasms, not even with the battery-operated sex toy she purchased on a whim during her freshman year. But now, ecstasy flowed easily, naturally, like a river seeking the deep blue sea.

Lisa began thrusting her hips slowly and with great amplitude, nearly disengaging on each upswing. Travis responded; he gripped her waist and assisted in lifting her up and lowering her down. He indulged another public sex fantasy: three naked young women were lying on their stomachs at his feet, all of them eagerly watching Lisa's vagina alternately swallowing and disgorging his erection.

Craig continued snapping photos. From his sidelong vantage point he couldn't see the couple's genitals but he could plainly see the man raise his head and suck the woman's nipples, one then the other, back and forth. He zoomed in on their faces, seen in profile. The woman's eyes were shut and mouth agape. The man was wearing an intense expression. When he grimaced and his face flushed purplish pink, he reckoned they were done. Well, not quite; the woman climbed off, repositioned herself and took his erection into her mouth.

For a moment, Lisa tenderly licked Travis' swollen glans. Once she had lapped and swallowed the last molecule of afterspurtle, she looked up and said, "I know how t' get you going."

"You just did."

"That's not what I mean."

Lisa leaped to her feet and tugged at Travis' hand. He understood: payback. But it was a good kind of payback. He rose to his feet, slowly, then, hand-in-hand, they waded into the lake. Craig continued snapping photos of their sweaty backsides until they stood waist-deep.

Wilderness Life magazine was renown for its comprehensive articles and artistic photography, both of which rivaled National Geographic. WL editors allowed nude photos with three provisos:

1) Absolutely no minors.

2) The photos had to be tasteful and relevant to the companion article.

3) If faces were recognizable, signed release forms had to be obtained.

In public, photography is legal. People, whether clothed or nude, have no expectation of privacy. Nevertheless, Wilderness Life held itself to a higher standard to uphold integrity of the publication and to protect against lawsuits. Craig could not walk onto the beach and request signed release forms from this couple. They would assume, correctly, they had been photographed having sex. But that didn't matter. The bare backside photos of the pair wading into the lake met the criteria for publication without a release form.

Standing waist-deep, Lisa and Travis spent a moment swabbing their messy crotches then waded ashore and reclined on their towels. After sunbathing for a short time, Lisa asked, "You ready to move on?"

"Yup. Let's go."

They gathered their stuff, loaded it in the canoe then pushed it off the beach. Once aboard, they paddled away onto open water. Lisa was still basking in the afterglow of multiple orgasms. The good vibrations were equal parts physical and emotional. And the best part: there were always more to come. Many, many more. Craig snapped a few photos of their departure: the canoe cutting a V shaped wake across the cove. The loons that had returned were spooked again: en masse they took flight, a loud WHOOOOSH, as they leaped into the blue summer sky. And Lisa smiled again. The departure photos would be suitable for publication without a release form. The hard-core photos were destined for his private collection. And quite a private collection it was becoming. This latest pair was the fourth couple he had photographed having sex in the open in broad daylight.

For an hour, Lisa and Travis paddled slowly, leisurely, skirting the Canadian shoreline toward the western end of Knife Lake, toward the Isles of Pines. On the biggest of those islands, a large number of canoes and kayaks were beached and a dozen people, both genders, were standing around. Travis, seated in the stern, steering, was maintaining a course just offshore so Lisa tossed on her T-shirt. Travis remained naked as they paddled past the pebbly beach but he wasn't showing much; his seated posture concealed his package. Nevertheless, a few heads turned and smiles spread across suntanned faces. A bit farther along, several rustic cabins were scattered along the shore. A middle-aged couple was sitting on lawn chairs on the back porch of the first cabin. "Howdy!" Travis called out. "Howdy," the pair called back. They seemed unmoved by the naked man. Still paddling, Lisa looked over her shoulder and commented, "I didn't think anybody lived out here."

"Prob'ly they don't. Maybe these are summer cabins. Or a fishing camp."

"Yeah. Prob'ly."

After they put the cabins far behind them, Lisa whipped off her T-shirt to once again enjoy the sun and wind on her bare skin. At the western end of Knife Lake, they followed the curving shoreline and began paddling eastward, now along the American side.

That region of Knife Lake was peppered with small islands. On an island of several acres, they put ashore on a pebbly beach. This designated campsite, the only one on the island, was a prime spot and they were surprised to find it vacant given the number of canoe trails that crisscrossed Knife Lake. After establishing camp, they set off barefoot to explore their private shangri-la. Lisa carried her T-shirt, just in case.

For many years, long before she met Travis, Lisa harbored a private fantasy: she is a young unmarried woman shipwrecked on a tropical island with a handsome sailor, a victim of the same maritime misfortune. The verdant island is teeming with fruit trees, wild game and freshwater streams; survival is assured. Weeks pass. When it becomes apparent that rescue isn't coming, they resign themselves to lives as castaways. Bound by a common fate, they do what comes naturally: Fall madly in love and copulate. Children are born, many, many children who grow up listening to their parents' tales of the world beyond the island. Time passes, year after year. The children grow tall and strong. One day, a three-masted schooner drops anchor in the lagoon. The ship's captain and his officers come ashore and offer passage to the castaways. The adult children, eager to experience the world, accept passage but their parents, having thrived on their island, decline. They watch the schooner hoist sail and depart, growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes over the horizon. Neither regret their decision to bid their children farewell and Godspeed. On their beautiful island they grow old, happily, and eventually pass from this life into the next.

This tiny pine-covered island on Knife Lake wasn't tropical, and it didn't have fruit trees, wild game or flowing streams, but in Lisa's mind it evoked the shipwrecked fantasy, the entire scenario. Walking beside his wife, Travis looked over and noticed the faraway look in her eyes. "What're you grinning about?" he asked. She turned and met his gaze. "Oh . . . nothing."

As they walked along amid the pines, the ground sloped upward until they could walk no farther; the island abruptly ended at a cliff only a few minutes from camp. Travis stepped carefully to the edge of the precipice and peered down at the water 25 feet below. "Be careful," Lisa cautioned. Her voice was tinged with apprehension. "I will," Travis assured. For a moment he surveyed the scene then turned around and started to retrace his steps.

Travis didn't remember Lisa shouting, "LOOK OUT!" And he didn't remember the loud rustling sound the tall pine tree made as it toppled over. And he didn't remember the tree striking him and knocking him off the cliff. And he didn't remember Lisa screaming as he plunged and belly flopped in the lake with a resounding SPLAT. And he didn't remember Lisa jumping off the cliff, a leap of faith not knowing how deep the water was. No, he didn't recall any of that. One moment he was atop the cliff and his next foggy memory was being underwater, unable to move, unable to breathe. Oddly, he felt no panic, no fear. Overarching serenity filled his soul as though dying was merely an evolution of his earthly journey. Death had no sting.

Just when he resigned himself to eternity, Travis felt something grab his arm and jerk his face above water. He blinked once, twice, and gradually his bleary eyes focused. Lisa's terrified eyes were looking back. She tugged him into the shallows at the base of the cliff then sat there clutching his head tightly against her bosom while wailing, "Oh God . . . oh God . . . oh God . . ." Coughing up water, he looked at her impassively. Befuddled, he wondered: Why are you crying? I'm okay. But Travis was not okay. Knife Lake was turning red. Every fear Lisa harbored of facing crisis the wilderness erupted in a waking nightmare. At the top of her lungs she screamed for help, but her panicked cry fell on no ears. All that came across the water was the echo of her scream.

Travis was badly injured. His left cheek was bruised and there was a deep laceration atop his left shoulder. And he was listless, limp like a rag doll. Lisa was struggling to keep herself together. She took a deep breath, then another. It helped, but only slightly. "We gotta get back to camp." Her voice warbled so badly she scarcely recognized the sound of it. Travis respond with incoherent mumbling. Still stunned, he couldn't move his limbs. He stared blankly. Blood kept flowing from the laceration. Her panic deepened.