Dill didn’t know why he’d been given that name. No other kid had it. Every time he asked his dad, he was told his mother had insisted on it, but his mom was dead and he couldn’t ask her why. He’d spent time wondering if she’d had a fondness for dill pickles. He’d read that pregnant women often craved dill pickles; there could have been something to that. Or, perhaps she’d been fascinated by the character in To Kill a Mockingbird that Harper Lee had named Dil, supposedly based on her childhood friend Truman Capote. Maybe that was it and his mother couldn’t spell. He’d never get a chance to know if that were true or not; his father thought the question weird and just laughed.
Maybe she just liked the sound of it. He satisfied himself thinking that must have been the reason. It was a decent-sounding name, and he did like it. It was just different, that was all.
He spent a lot of time thinking about things like that because he spent a lot of time alone. Somehow or other, he could never understand how kids gravitated to each other all the time and made friends at the drop of a hat, but it never seemed to happen to him. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. He wasn’t ugly; he wasn’t too fat or too thin. His hair wasn’t too long or too short. He didn’t have problems with his speech or hearing. A lot of thirteen-year-olds still stuttered or blurred their R’s. Some were poor and wore old, out-of-fashion clothes, some didn’t bathe regularly, but none of those applied to him. He was just a normal kid, and he didn’t have any friends. Well, normal except for being attracted to other boys, but what was wrong with that? Besides, no one but him knew about that.
His dad told him to keep trying on the having friends thing, and so he did. It just hadn’t worked yet.
He spent a lot of time by himself, playing with imaginary friends when he was younger, and learning about things he could do by himself now that he was older.
He spent a lot of time at the downtown Terrytown Library. Luckily, he was smart and liked reading books. He liked the idea of camping, which he’d done once with his dad. So he read books about that, but other books, too.
He spent enough time at the library that he got to recognize some of the people who were frequently there, the regulars.
Like the younger man: not a boy, maybe in his late teens, maybe older, who always seemed to be scowling. He obviously didn’t have a job because he was there every time Dill was. He read magazines and often seemed to fall asleep with one still in his hands. Like the old guy with shabby clothes, who, whether it was winter or summer, always had a jacket on and frequently didn’t even read anything—just sat in one of the chairs. He had a cane but appeared to sometimes forget to use it when walking. There was a kid, a little younger than he was, and the couple of times Dill had nodded to him, not speaking, but the kid had always looked scared and dropped his eyes. There was a woman—he couldn’t judge her age, but she had to be over 30—who dressed in the sort of business suits women wore and always looked like she was wearing too much makeup; she read law books and jotted notes on long yellow pads, so she was probably a lawyer or a paralegal. Dill knew that because he’d looked once at the books on her table while she was in the stacks: law books. Like the guy in his mid-forties who did more wandering around, looking out the windows and muttering, than he did reading anything. The only thing he ever read was the newspaper. There were a couple other semi-regulars, too: a crippled teenage girl in a wheelchair and a plump, unpleasant-looking woman. Dill never spoke to any of them.
Some days, Dill would stay till the library closed at 5 PM, which it did four days a week. Then he and the other regulars would be shooed out. He’d walk home or ride his bike if he’d brought it, still all alone. But, he noticed, so were the other regulars, going off alone—on a moped, taking the bus, just shambling off. The only surprising thing was, the old guy with the cane drove off in a car, a fairly nice one, too.
Things were going to change for him, though. Not the alone part, but the spending all his time during the summer in the library part. He was excited. He had talked his dad into letting him go camping. By himself because his dad couldn’t get off work. Why didn’t dads get two- or three-month summer vacations like kids did? They didn’t, and so his dad wasn’t available to go with him. Dill was tired of the library, and he loved camping. He’d loved it when he’d camped with his dad. When Dill was younger, his dad had taken him hiking a lot, too. Dill had liked that but liked the camping better. They’d been alone in the dark with a campfire their only light, just the two of them, and the whole world had seemed confined to what the flickering campfire was illuminating. He had memories of those times and the warm feelings he’d had.
Dill was confident he knew how to make a camp for himself, and there still was some of the old equipment tucked away in the loft over the garage. His dad wasn’t very excited with his going alone, but Dill was persistent—to tell the truth, Dill was a pain in the ass about it—and his dad finally agreed. He could go out for a day, spend the night camping and come back home sometime the next day.
He wished he had a friend to go with him, but he didn’t. Of course, maybe that was good, too.
Dill set about figuring where he wanted to go. It couldn’t be too far away because he had all his stuff to carry on his bike. It couldn’t be too close because then it wouldn’t be as thrilling, wouldn’t seem to be anything special.
When his dad had had time to spend with him, before he’d been promoted and started having to work more hours, they’d done all sorts of things together. Now they didn’t. But back then when they’d hiked more often, they’d seen much of the countryside around the town, so Dill had an idea what camping areas were available—what the possibilities were—and when he was going through in his mind thinking about all the places he might enjoy, he hit on one that brought a smile to his face. He realized it was perfect.
He was going to camp out in the woods near the old mill.
««« »»»
He biked in at five in the afternoon. The place was deserted, of course. That was one of the reasons he’d picked it.
His plan was to find a good spot, build a campfire, cook the hotdogs he’d brought, then lay out his sleeping bag and probably turn in early, as soon as it got dark. Maybe he’d have time to look around the mill, but it was dark and a little scary, and when he’d been there with his dad, the doors had been all locked. So he might just ignore that.
He had another plan, too, but didn’t know if he’d have the nerve to do it. He thought he would. It was that thought that kept him on edge all day, excited and nervous and full of anticipation all at the same time.
The mill was close to the Tuskahona River. A channel had been dug from the river to where the mill stood, and an adjustable diversion dam then constructed. When the mill was running, the dam was operated and some river water diverted to the channel that led to the mill pond. The mill’s waterwheel was powered by the water flowing through the channel. Another channel on the other side of the pond had also been dug so the overflow from the pond could return to the river.
With the mill shut down long ago, the diversionary dam was no longer in use, and the channel supplying water to the waterwheel was dry. The mill itself was surrounded by old-growth woods. The land where the mill itself stood had been cleared, there’d been a gravel road for the employees and a small parking lot, but little was left of either, and trees were reclaiming the cleared area.
There were great places to camp out near the mill back in the woods among the older trees.
Dill rode his bike with his camping supplies in a rucksack on his back and tied onto his rear-mounted rack. He arrived at the mill ready to scout out a good sleeping area while there was still plenty of daylight left. He’d taken the shortest route there— down the old path from the highway that led to the gently sloping grassy area—rather than the old gravel road that he’d have had to access from the other end of the town. The path he’d taken ended at the grassy slope, but he wasn’t planning to camp there. He wanted something more secluded, something in the woods where he could really feel like he was experiencing nature at its wildest; where he’d be entirely alone. He got off his bike and walked it to where there was a rickety bridge crossing over the channel, giving access to the mill itself and the woods behind it.
He entered the woods behind the mill. He went far enough into the trees to where he could no longer see it. A short ways farther, he came to a small clearing, and he saw it was perfect for his needs. It was surrounded by trees and was private, and the ground was covered with soft, green grass—good padding material for his sleeping bag yet not a fire hazard..
He parked his bike against a larger tree, then laid out his gear. His first task was to dig a fire pit well away from anything that could burn. Then he gathered small and larger dead hardwood sticks and branches and laid his fire. He would only need a small one.
After that, he scouted around to familiarize himself with the area. No one was around, as he’d been sure would be the case, and his excitement began to climb, his heart to race. Could he do it?
He could. He’d always wanted to see what it was like to be naked with nature. He couldn’t do anything in town, but out here, alone?
He went back to where he’d left his sleeping bag and quickly began undressing. When he was in the buff with only his shoes on, he again began to explore. He couldn’t believe how good it felt—or how sexy. He wandered in the woods, then dared to go to the mill itself, stepping out of the tree line to where, if anyone were in the vicinity, he’d be able to be seen. He felt very exposed and very excited.
He stood silently, unmoving for a moment or two and then skirted the mill. He came to the door and tried it, finding it locked as he’d been sure it would be. The windows, mostly broken out and boarded up, were too high to see in even if they had still been intact.
He finally headed back toward his camp and the closer he got, the more aroused he became, knowing what he’d do next. When he came to the clearing, he spread out his sleeping bag, lay down on it, and attended to his arousal. The atmosphere made his climax quicker and much more powerful than usual.
Cooking dinner, then clearing up afterward, was all done au naturel. It wasn’t as exciting now as it had been at first, but still felt good, felt right to him. He wished he could be like this at home.
After cooking, he put out the fire, then buried the ashes with dirt.
He was tired and decided to go to sleep early. It was dark in the woods, and he’d already explored. He thought of swimming but didn’t want to do that alone and in the dark, and besides, he hadn’t brought a towel.
He awoke in the early hours when the sky was still black and night was heavy on the woods. Something had stirred him awake, but he didn’t know what it was. He sat up and listened but could hear nothing that didn’t sound like normal sounds in the woods. He could hear the river in the distance. He could hear the occasional rustle of a small nocturnal animal, or perhaps it was the breeze moving leaves in the trees.
But something had awakened him. Dill wasn’t a timid boy and decided to investigate. He had enough self-awareness to realize part of the reason for doing so would be that it meant he could walk around naked again, a thought that very much appealed to him. He got up, reached for his flashlight but didn’t turn it on. The moon was a sliver but where it penetrated the trees, it gave enough light for his night-adjusted eyes.
For some reason, he had the idea that whatever had awakened him was a noise that had come from either the mill or the river. First, he hiked through the woods toward the diversion dam, feeling the night air on his skin and again feeling the arousal that came from being naked outside. When he reached the dam area and walked out along the river, again feeling conspicuous and enjoying the sensation, he saw and heard nothing unusual. He spent a few minutes there, then walked back to his clearing, walked through it and headed for the mill.
Where he was sleeping meant the approach to the mill would take him to the back side, the side away from the mill pond. He was nearing where the trees thinned when he stopped. He saw what had awakened him. He was still in the trees, and there he stayed. After a moment’s thought, he returned to his clearing and got back into his sleeping bag.
In the morning, he was awakened by the sun streaking through the leaves above him and by hearing voices. Rather than make breakfast, he got dressed and very cautiously crept through the woods toward the bridge that spanned the channel. He stopped there and glanced toward where he heard the voices and peeked through the trees.
What he saw took his breath away. Two naked boys were on a blanket on the grassy slope, and what they were doing was what he wished with his entire soul he could do. It was amazing watching them, and he felt no guilt at all doing so.
They finished and lay back on the blanket for a time, and then one jumped up and ran to the pond. The other followed in high spirits, Dill could see, because he spread his arms and spun about when halfway there, shrieking with laughter.
Dill knew he had to leave, and this was when he could do it. He swiftly returned to his camp, packed up, and with the boys still enjoying the pond, joyfully splashing and swimming, he walked his bike across the bridge, which was out of view of the pond, then through the woods above the grassy slope and back to the path, joining it midway to the highway, staying out of sight of the boys all the way.
He’d never forget what he’d seen, everything he’d seen, but he would focus on the boys and what they’d been doing, and every time he thought about the mill, the woods, all that he’d done there, he would recall the excitement they had inspired when he’d first seen them.