On the following day, Jack's eager Lynxes--who had named themselves 'Jack's Jabberwockys' (he'd been reading them Lewis Carroll)--started on their much-anticipated overnight. As they gathered by the van, the wilderness counselor overseeing the backpack loading, Jack watched in surprise as Keith approached. Looking like an L.L.Bean outdoors ad, the lawyer lifted a hand. "Greetings, Jack. I'm your second staff."

"You?" Jack blinked. "You're going to Pocket Lake with us?"

"Don't worry," Keith laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "I was a counselor for six summers until I went to law school, so I think I can manage another overnight. And I wanted to go. Pocket Lake is one of my favorite hikes."

"How did you get the time off?" Jack queried, accepting food packets to stow in his borrowed frame backpack. It looked about as old as the camp.

"This is Port Angeles, not Los Angeles," Keith grinned. "We're pretty casual. I just didn't schedule any clients for a couple of days, and since I'm a partner, no one can complain. I do this a few times a summer to help Trav out--and because I want to," he admitted. Then he turned to Corbin, the wilderness counselor. "What do you want me to take?"

"Where's your pack?" Corbin questioned.

Keith went to his car to retrieve his top of the line backpack, rather out of place amidst the battered canvas camp ones, and stowed his share of food and supplies. Then they herded the Jabberwockys (the whiner predictably whining--Jack hardly noticed it anymore) onto the van, checked seatbelts, and Keith took the wheel. "I know the way," he said.

Corbin poked his head in. "Got your cellular and your first aid kit?" He queried. Keith produced his phone, and Jack assured Corbin he had the kit. "Ok. I'll drive the emergency car, and then bring the van back," Corbin told them, heading for the camp's venerable Pinto. Every hike had an emergency car parked at the trailhead, just in case.

The trailhead was not far from camp, though they did manage a few magnificent glimpses of the Olympics. The fickle sun had decided to shine, and the air felt almost balmy.

At fifty-one bottles of beer on the wall Keith jounced into the gravel parking lot, and hopped out to give the keys to Corbin. "I'll register us," he told Jack. "You collect the kidlings."

Jack lifted an angled brow. "Kidlings?"

"Guess that dates me," Keith laughed, running fingers through his wavy, greying hair.

By this time Jack had perfected his methods for ruthlessly organizing seven rowdy ten-year-olds, and within fifteen minutes they had packs on, belts fastened, then one pack back off so Tyler could run to the outhouse, then Jermyn followed, then Keith, but within thirty minutes they were actually ready to set off on their three mile, largely uphill hike. "We'll break out the power bars when we stop to rest," Jack called over the cacophony, and let Keith take the lead while he lingered behind to whip up the stragglers. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Even saddled with Nat, the champion whiner ("I got blisters! I got nettles! I'm tired! I hate this! Spencer's bugging me! Shut up, Tyler!"), Jack enjoyed the hike. The trail was only slightly muddy, and the boys enjoyed the occasional scramble over rocks or runnels of water. All around the noble trees towered, patient, cool, full of shadows and the tang of pine; a living cathedral. Chipmunks and squirrels chattered, and salmonberry bushes offered their bland, orange berries to the adventurous (after checking with Jack, of course).

Part of the trail ran by a river, high and swollen from last winter's heavy snows. It ruffled around fallen logs and boulders, and on some river rocks they paused for lunch. To entertain them, Keith recited Edward Lear's poem about the great race of 'The Nutcrackers and the Sugar Tongs.' The boys especially liked the verse in which "The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties/And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise." They had a contest to see who could do the most ladle-like scream, until Jack declared they'd scare the birds from the trees (and indeed, no birds were singing), and chivvied them back on the trail.

When they finally arrived, they found Pocket Lake a little gem. Deep and blue, mirroring clouds, it was surrounded by steep, tree-shaded hills, and limned with boulders just begging for scramblers. They were the only campers, it being midweek, and as Jack inhaled the clear mountain air he felt heady with life. "It's wonderful," he avowed, gazing around.

"I've always loved it," Keith nodded, then turned to the boys. "OK! Let's see who can get their tarps up the fastest!" The Jabberwockys sprang to the challenge, and with considerable confusion--though less with Keith to lend a hand--they finally managed to rig the simple tarp tents Secret Creek provided. With sleeping bags laid and chores assigned, they had the afternoon for fun.

Keith took them on a hike around the lake (it wasn't big), with ample time for rock scrambling and stone skipping. Jack wished Andie could be with them, a pensive moment in an otherwise carefree day. After the hike they played capture the flag and frisbee, and Keith taught them the Indian hand coo.

After a tinfoil dinner (all the food was wrapped in separate tinfoil packages which went on the fire) and a cleanup process that took far longer than it ought (Nat was on the cleanup crew), they sat by the fire and played 'I doubt it' with a pack of cards Jack had brought. When it grew too dark to see, they made messy s'mores while Keith told stories; creepy stories, just right for a dark night in the woods, like Service's 'Cremation of Sam McGee.' And then, at long last, the worn-out boys crawled into their sleeping bags and fell instantly asleep.

Jack joined Keith at the fire. The blaze had crackled down a bit, but still burned bright and warm, smelling of summer and freedom. Poking it up, Jack snapped up his fleece as the night cooled. "You're great with the kids," he told Keith.

"Thanks. I love kids. Dad wanted me to be a teacher, but the siren song of law school tempted me away."

"Pays a bit more than teaching," Jack observed.

"That it does. I still might retire early and go into teaching, though," Keith told him. "I've got quite a bit saved up, and with no kids of my own, there's a limit to the amount of money I need." He sipped cocoa from a collapsible plastic cup. "Do you want some cocoa?" He inquired. "I brought my own--wild raspberry. I love camp, but some things are better left to the experts!"

Jack had drunk his share of watery Secret Creek cocoa, and gratefully accepted a tin cup of Keith's stash. "I'll never be able to go back to the other now," he laughed, settling against a cut log. They sat companionably a moment, listening to the murmurs of the night and the crackling of the fire. Starlight caught in the high tree boughs, pricking away random shadows.

"So Jack--what brings you all the way from Massachusetts to our fair state?" In the flickering light, Keith's dark eyes showed friendly curiosity.

Holding his cup, Jack pondered. He could prevaricate, of course, but...campfires and mountain air and starlight seemed to engender confidences. Of at least a limited kind. "I just... wanted to get away," he answered. "Far away. It wasn't a good year, back home."

Keith nodded. "Camp's a great escape. Especially because it never pretends to be permanent. You always know you'll have to go back and face things, so you never really feel guilty about abandoning them. I've done that on many occasions." Sipping cocoa, he contemplated the fire. "Still do. I escape to Secret Creek whenever I can. There's... There's no place quite like it."

Jack looked at him, hearing the affection and...yearning? in his voice. "Keith... Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Jack. Anything." Keith smiled at him.

"Did you...did you want the camp? I know Travis feels guilty about it--or at least, that's what Stu says."

"Ah, Stu," Keith grimaced wryly. "The all-seeing, all-knowing Stu. I think he must have the Sight, or something. He'd've been burned a few hundred years ago."

"So...are you saying yes Travis feels guilty, or yes you wanted the camp?"

Keith toed a burning branch. A shower of sparks spangled the air. Finally the older man faced Jack. "Both, though don't be thinking it's anything dire. We made our choices, and they were the right choices. I like my life. I love the law, and I'll love teaching, if and when I choose to change careers. I love having my brother and his family so close, and being able to visit camp any time I want. I love Port Angeles, and Washington."

"But... Maybe I'm being too nosy," Jack began diffidently, "but I still don't understand why Travis could run the camp better than you. I mean, he's great, no question, but I've seen you with the kids, and you would've been great, too. Couldn't you run it together?"

"We thought about it--or rather, Travis did," Keith corrected himself, eyes on the fire. "He always had too much of a conscience. But camp director's a career for a family man. The job and the house were designed for children, and we knew I'd never likely have a family."

"Can...I ask why?"

"Because I wasn't likely ever to get married. In the traditional sense, anyway. I do live with someone." His eyes warmed. "We've been together nearly thirteen years now."

"So...why don't you get married? Do you have a philosophical objection?"

"Not at all. If it were legal, we would be married."

Jack's blood froze. He suddenly found he was holding the tin cup too tightly, and the rim bowed under the pressure. Loosening his grip, he at last lifted his face to meet Keith's knowing eyes. "Didn't you guess, Jack?"

And suddenly it all made sense. Why Keith couldn't take the camp, why Travis felt guilty... However broad minded parents might be, a gay camp director probably stood little chance. Especially if he chose to live true to his nature, as Keith obviously had. Staring into the fire, Jack thought about sacrifices, and felt his stomach clench.

"Does it bother you, Jack?" Keith prodded gently.

"What? Oh--no, of course not." Jack tried to return to the present. "I was just...surprised, that's all." He blinked at the fire another moment. Then he faced Keith. "It's not fair," he averred steadily. "About the camp, I mean."

Keith swirled his cocoa thoughtfully. "No, it isn't. But it's better than it could be. Than it would be in the past, or in another country. Progress is slow, and...you have to make choices. I knew what my choices meant. I knew what I was giving up."

"You...see it as a choice?" Jack frowned.

"Well, not the original impulse," Keith admitted. "But as for what you do with it..." He lifted his shoulders. "Lots of men--and I suppose women--just repress it. Get married, have children, and try to convince themselves they're happy. And on some level, some of them are. Don't knock the benefits of being accepted by society, Jack," Keith asserted honestly. "I did think about it, but...I knew I couldn't take that path. Couldn't deny who I really was, and forsake the chance for true love and true fulfillment. So yes, it was a choice. And I've never regretted it."

"But...you regret the camp," Jack added slowly, trying to understand.

Keith shook his head. "I wouldn't have been good for Secret Creek if I'd made the other choice. I would be half a person, unfulfilled, always looking around the corner for something that might make me happy. And I love Secret Creek so much that I wouldn't wish that kind of director on it. So no, I don't regret the camp. And I don't regret who I am, and whatever chance made me this way, because I love Luke, and I can't imagine a life without him." He threw back the last of his cocoa, then fixed Jack with a keen stare. "So, Jack...what choice will you make?"

"What? Uh...I...uh..." Startled, Jack's hand jerked and cocoa splashed his fleece. "Damn." He brushed it off, thinking furiously. "I...don't know what you mean."

"Come on, Jack." Keith waved a hand around the campsite. Starlight glittered silver on the lake. Spear-point trees rose silent and black around them, protective, safe. The wild serenity of the mountains encompassed them in dispassionate liberty. "There's no hiding out here. Even from yourself."

"I'm not hiding from myself," Jack protested, setting his cup down. Pulling his knees to his chest, he wrapped arms around them.

"From everyone else, then?"

Jack flashed him a look. "Did you tell Travis?"

"Is that what you think of me, Jack?" Keith chided. "I would never out someone without permission. I know what it means, after all."

"Wish I did," Jack mumbled, head on his knees.

Keith's eyes held compassion. "I understand, Jack. I know how it feels to want to be like everyone else. Not to think everyone is staring at you. To fit in, if only for a while. And if that's what you want, of course I won't say anything. I just...wanted to say I'll listen, if you want to talk. I've been through it. Maybe I can help."

Jack peered at him. A kindly man, honest and trustworthy. Jack swallowed, feeling his chest tighten.

And then, it all came out.

Low-voiced, so as not to wake the campers (though the tents were out of earshot anyway), Jack related the story of his miserable year: the confusion, the pain, the fear, his father, Joey, Andie...everything.

And Keith listened, and comforted, and understood. By the time Jack was ready for his sleeping bag, he felt cleansed, lightened, and free.

As they quenched the embers, Jack glanced at Keith. "Thanks," he said inadequately.

Keith punched his shoulder. "My pleasure. You'll make it, Jack. You really will. It won't be easy, and I guarantee you'll have lots more miserable times, but you'll make it. Just hang in there."

"I'll do my best."

Then they each sought their rumpled sleeping bags, leaving the lake silent with stars.



It was dark, and warm. The roller coaster had dropped him here, in this soft, black place, cushioned and soothing. But Jack wasn't sleepy. His heart beat fast, and he sensed... a presence. Close, hot, tense. Closer, now--he could feel breath, could feel the heat of bare skin, and a strong hand flattened on his chest. Jack gasped as it slid up his throat to glide into his hair, holding the base of his skull. A low voice--whose?--whispered, "Jack...", and Jack could hear the craving, the desire, and his whole body thrilled.

A dark shape neared, and Jack was sharing breath with the stranger. A lithe, aching body curled into him, and without thinking, Jack wrapped arms around it. Muscle quivered and breath grew ragged, chests impressed as the stranger dipped his head and brushed lips over Jack's. "Jack...oh God, Jack!" The lips returned, soft but insistent, the tongue prodding Jack's mouth open and sliding in. Jack moaned, holding the body tighter as their tongues mingled, sending shivers and sparks over his entire body. Indeed, he felt light as a shower of sparks, incendiary as an ember, and starved as a drowning man for air. He fed on the kiss hungrily, greedily, exploring the stranger's mouth with deep probings of his tongue, shuddering as the stranger did the same. Forever, it seemed, and the need grew no less, but only stronger, embers kindling, burning.

At last the stranger broke the kiss and gasped, "Please, Jack!" And Jack felt the body turning, shifting, pressing back into him, skin sleek with sweat. Automatically Jack's arms enfolded the stranger round, caressing the rise of the torso, brushing over taut nipples, savoring the receptive tension of muscle and bone. Bending to slide his tongue along the bare neck, Jack tasted salt, and breathed in the indescribable, indelible scent of the man, personal as a fingerprint.

"Please, Jack..." his companion begged, and with an abrupt twist, insinuated himself deeper into Jack's embrace. Feeling pressure on his groin, Jack understood, and once more felt trepidation laced with lust. Somehow he know that to possess this man--this unknown, intimate lover--was to forever entangle them, like the briar and the rose. Not just bodies, but souls would entwine, and any ripping out would tear both with bloody thorns, never to heal fully again. But Jack wanted this, more than he had ever wanted anything before. Enough to risk the thorns.

Without speaking, he nudged his knee between the stranger's thighs, knowing just where to press, and heard the stranger's shuddering exhalation. No turning back now.

Jack took possession.



Chill air swirled around Jack, and he blinked at a grey, mist-shrouded morning. The insistent sensations of the dream still clutched him, and he felt blood rise in his cheeks. Good God! If this kept up, he wouldn't need to find any partners! Faintly disturbed, Jack tried to wriggle himself into a more comfortable position (why hadn't he noticed the rocks last night?). What did it all mean? He understood the surface, of course, but...again he hedged away from deeper knowledge. He could be very clinical and claim the stranger was an anthropomorphosis (good SAT word) of his own sexuality, which he was learning to accept and embrace, and perhaps there was even truth in that, but...

"Jaaaaaacccckkkk! I'm freezing and I have to pee!!!!"

"Sorry, Buddy," Jack called to Nat as his campers stirred. "That's one thing I can't do for you."

"But Jaaaaacccckkkk..."

Groaning, dismissing dreams and specious psychoanalysis, Jack wrestled off his sleeping bag to start his day.