As we had agreed, at 10 a.m. the day after next, I rang Emma's bell. Dressed in jeans, solid boots and a flannel shirt, she was ready for our adventure. I drove the Unimog out of the garage and helped Emma load an ice chest and empty boxes on its tray. Then we drove leisurely off.
I knew the way because Helmut had taken me up to his hunt and forest two years ago. It was also in the Unimog which was, Helmut explained, his favourite, work-related, all-purpose vehicle.
The hunt was some forty kilometres from our town, with the last four kilometres a steep and stony logging track up the side valley of a side valley. The hut, just past the tree line, used to be a shepherd's summer hut. Helmut had rebuilt it to provide a reasonably comfortable shelter for himself and up to four hunting companions.
During the drive, Emma told me that Helmut had only once taken her up to show her his hut. After his death, it was partly disinterest and partly that she had no truck licence that stopped her from driving up in the Unimog. So, she had not familiarised herself with what was now her possession or saw where Helmut had his hunting accident.
It was just another thing that they never shared, she said. He would have not allowed her to get a licence to drive his Unimog or join him on his hunt or involve herself as a partner in his construction enterprise. But he was happy enough that people saw her driving around in his Mercedes 300.
Emma shrugged her shoulders:
"So, you see, Tom, why I am getting rid of everything that was his. I must, if I want to be free. Would you like this truck, Tom?"
Getting suddenly jolted in her seat, Emma burst into laughter. I had just turned the truck onto the final track. I put her in low gear. Then, being gentle on the accelerator and light on the steering -- as I had been taught -- I let the Unimog find the best way over the path's rocks and ruts.
When we pulled up at the hut, we at once slipped into our all-weather coats. It was cold and the grey; the overcast sky promised no improvement. Everything about and around the hut was in good order and when Emma unlocked the door, the same was true for the hut's inside.
Emma nodded and told me that Helmut employed a local pensioner to keep an eye on his hunt and look after the hut. After Helmut's death, she continued to send him a monthly cheque.
She looked around, grinned, and cuddled up to me:
"There isn't much to do for us here. We could go straight home again. Should we, Tom?"
I had to point out to her that we had to inspect her forest and that after doing this, she would be hungry and tired. So, I would need to feed her and tuck her into bed.
Emma was easily convinced. After taking the ice chest and other provisions into the hut, we sat down at the table with a cup of coffee from the thermos and brought sandwiches for lunch. Looking around, I was impressed. During my practicums in forestry, I spent many nights in isolated huts. None of them had offered the comforts of Helmut's rebuilt retreat.
The back section was partly partitioned off and had two bunk beds. The much larger front part of the hut had a corner bench - with the longer part wide enough to serve as a bed - and a sizeable table and two chairs. On the opposite side was a wooden chest, half a metre high with its lid secured with a padlock. Next to it was a rustic-looking sideboard, with various cooking and serving utensils on top and on its shelves, and an attached basin with a bucket underneath. In the corner was a large, modern wood heater that doubled as a stove. And next to it was a neat stack of wood.
I reprimanded Emma for lying that we had to rough it up here; the bunk beds especially, I said, with me sleeping on top, looked very comfortable. In response, Emma kicked me in the shin under the table.
I, somewhat stubbornly, insisted on having an 'expert's' look at the forest, knowing well that I would hardly discover anything different from what was said in the property's papers. Emma, equally stubborn -- she claimed it would rain -- refused to join me.
When I returned, just as the rain set in, I could report that I had found a significant number of mature larch trees that could be harvested without affecting the forest as primarily a hunting domain. Their valuable timber would fetch a high price.
Emma listened politely and said she would inform the solicitor.
While I was gone, she had also been busy. She grinned mischievously when I noticed what she had done.
Emma had shifted the bunk beds' mattresses to the floor, covered them with blankets, and spread out the beds' eight pillows. She had created, with obviously wicked intent, what looked to me not only like a children's playpen. Remembering Emma's ideas of play, at once awakened my cock.
Emma had also found the key to Helmut's 'treasure' chest on the truck's keyring.
Its lid was open, and I took a cursory look. In the two-thirds larger of the two compartments were a dozen or so bottles. Some of them were wine but most of them were of Enzian Schnapps, the 60% proof local hunters preferred in their traditional celebrations.
In the smaller well were two boxes of cartridges, a carton of cigarettes, a camera, a binocular, four books, two leather folders, and a shoe-box-size wooden cassette.
Emma had taken out and was reading what looked to me like a diary or logbook. She looked up at me and said, "Helmut led a life up here I knew nothing about."
Outside the rain had set in and the light was fading. I got the fire going in the stove and lit the kerosene lamp over the table and the one over the side port. Their soft light and the radiating warmth and crackling of the heater quickly set up an ambience of safety and comfort.
In the ice chest were luckily the bacon and eggs and the rye bread loaf that I needed to prepare my planned wood-cutters evening meal. On the wall over the sideboard hung a large, properly seasoned pan and soon the hut was filled with the homely smell of frying bacon.
Emma set the table, and in the mood of the occasion, left the champagne in the ice box and instead put a bottle of Helmut's Enzian on the table.
We were hungry and thoroughly enjoyed our meal, even soaking up the tasty fat at the bottom of the pan with our bread. The schnapps -- we took to it in not quite delicate sips -- proved the perfect stomach settler.
Eventually, Emma raised her glass for a toast, "To you, Tom." She paused, "If you were my husband, I would never let you sell our hut!"
