The waterfall refuge

I had planned the route months in advance. Five days through the valleys and ridges of Navarre, from the humid forests of the north to the more open slopes of the western Pyrenees. Alone. Without companions, without phone signal for most of the time, just the weight of the backpack, the crunch of boots on the ground, and the constant sound of the wind through the beech trees. My name is Marcos, I'm thirty-two years old, and that solitude was exactly what I was looking for.

The third day dawned gray and cool. I had slept badly in the bag, with the uneven ground of the previous night's free shelter digging into my shoulders. I reluctantly had a handful of dried fruits and instant coffee that tasted like cardboard for breakfast. The route for that day was long: to go up a narrow path that snaked along a stream, cross a mountain pass, and go down to a secondary valley where, according to the map, there was a nearly abandoned mountain refuge. The barometer indicated a possibility of rain in the afternoon. I adjusted my shoulder straps, made sure the raincoat was at hand, and started walking.

The effort accumulated quickly. The terrain was steep, the mud from the previous days' rains stuck to the soles, and each step demanded more than my legs wanted to give. Sweat soaked my technical t-shirt under the jacket. The smell of damp earth, ferns, and my own body mixed into a harsh, masculine perfume. By mid-morning, the sun peeked through broken clouds, and the heat increased. The stream that accompanied me became narrower and noisier. I followed its course more by instinct than by the map.

It was then that I heard her. Not the main stream, but a finer, more constant sound, like water falling on stone. I deviated from the marked path. The trees suddenly opened up, and a small waterfall appeared before me. It wasn't imposing. A jump of barely four or five meters that plunged over a circular pool of clear, greenish water, surrounded by mossy rocks and ferns growing in the cracks. The place was hidden, almost secret. The noise of the water drowned out any other sound from the forest.

I stopped at the edge of the pool. The mud reached up to my knees, sweat ran down my back and chest, and the smell of effort had become dense. I looked around. No sign of a path, no recent footprints. Just me and the water. The decision was almost automatic. I left my backpack on a dry rock, took off my boots and muddy socks, and started undressing.

First, the jacket, then the t-shirt stuck to my skin. The cool air brushed my sweaty torso and provoked a pleasant shiver. The pants fell next, along with my underwear. I stood completely naked on the damp rock. The sun filtered through the leaves drew patches of light on my body: broad shoulders, chest with dark, curly hair, flat, hardened belly from days of walking, strong legs, and firm buttocks. My cock hung heavy between my legs, still flaccid, darkened by the pubic hair. The mountain a...