G-strings in the woods.

Ah, Yosemite.

Ah.

Ahhhhhhh.

More than being cradled by mountains on all sides, more than the rivers, the bear, the deer, the stars that took your loneliness from you, the cedars, more than the crickets, do you want to know what part of Yosemite my mom and I most enjoyed?

The ten thousand-year-old, wrinkled, chestnut-colored white man in a G-string. In only a G-string.

"Oh, Jess meant to type Speedo. Those are pretty funny."

No I didn't. I mean he was wearing a G-string.

"Maybe she means small shorts. That girl sure exaggerates a lot."

I do not mean small shorts. I mean a tiny, black, beautiful, satin G-string semi thong. I do not exaggerate.

My mom and I saw him on our second day in Yosemite as we were pumping away on the bike trail. I thought he was a mirage, there to lift me from my pine tree and mountain reality. Our legs pedalled slower and then not at all and we turned to watch him walk over a hill. I thought, I guess he likes the sunshine and his own groin area a lot. But then as I climbed Yosemite's mountains and explored waterfalls and fell into a tumbling love with every piece of dirt in that park I thought, you know, this guy knows what's going on. He makes sense-just being with nature, no clothes in the way, letting the sun love you; Mom, let's strip!

We didn't, but we totally almost did. Yosemite makes you want to roll around in it naked and never leave. In fact, I don't even want to be a professor anymore. I want to be a mountain.


Please feast on these delicious views.






















































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