We’re heading down to the Huachuca Mountains again. This time not up high on the spine, but nestled down below in the foothills of scrub oak forests. We’re looking for a short retreat away from it all in a remote canyon.
Near the turnoff, the Border Patrol has a couple of fellows in custody as we drive by. This has always been a smuggling corridor. Lots of propaganda has been created in recent years about bands of thieving murdering alien people along the border. Contrary to the media ingrained fear, smugglers are busy with their own business, wishing to be in stealth and those whom they guide are focused on a better life and getting out of the border region as soon as possible. They avoid everybody. I’d suppose that our desire for minding our own naked business with stealth corresponds in some ways. A better life is many things to many people.
The old two track road into the hills is looking very ragged.
It has been a while and I don’t feel familiar with it. I decide to turn around and try a quiet spot that I know. It will be a longer walk, but seems just right today.
Wow! This has been the longest time without a post ever.
We’re all right, just in a busy energy consuming time. Closing the BnB and accommodating a new renter instead. We put a stucco finish on the front porch and the sauna.
Stucco Party
We have been in the garden, and also doing a bunch of rearranging. You know, new rugs and more new coming in and old stuff out.
The next couple of posts have been in the works, but they are linked and must be written and sorted out at the same time, which requires a couple of solid free days to sit down, write, choose pics, etc. without distractions. It’s coming, it’s a priority, it’s partially done.
Asking the garden, “What’s for breakfast?”
Jbee and DF
I am on the forum of FreeRangeNaturism.com often, if you would like to converse.
I once had a conversation with an ex-forest Service member that I was dating. She told me how back in the day, when working in groups in the wilderness for days at a time, she and her cohorts, had had a skinnydip. They had become less formal, had developed trust. She related how she and others had ended up walking for miles and days, happily and practically, attired nude. No problem was seen, by this.
I have also had conversations with passing forest workers, when myself and companion were nude. It happens. It is natural. Many apparently innately understand nature and naturism’s bonds.
They go hand in hand. It’s natural. Edward Abbey relates. Here is an excerpt form his book, Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness: A Celebration of the Beauty of Living in a Harsh and Hostile Land.
He has a day off from the Forest Service and has climbed from the Utah desert into the high snowcaps:
“The wind stops, completely, as I finish my lunch. I strip and lie back in the sun, high on Tukuhnkivats, with nothing between me and the universe but my thoughts. Deliberately I compose my mind, quieting the febrile buzzing of the cells and circuits, and strive to open my consciousness directly, nakedly to the cosmos. Under the influence of cosmic rays I try for cosmic intuitions—and end up earthbound as always, with a vision not of the universal but of a small and mortal particular, unique and disparate. . . her smile, her eyes in firelight, her touch.
Well, let it be. You’ll find no deep thinkers at 13,000 ft. anyway. The wind comes up again, I get to my feet and dance along the cornice of a snowbank that hangs above the void. Down there in the forest, somewhere, my camp, my old truck, my fireplace—home. I look for a quick and easy way to return,
The climb up from timberline had taken about two hours. Looking down at the graceful curve of the thousand-foot snowfield it seems that the descent should not require more than five minutes. I put on my clothes, shoulder the rucksack and work down over the rock to the couloir and the upper end of the slide.”
We naked people are not alone. Everyone is a naturist, they just don’t all know it…yet.
I am on the forum of FreeRangeNaturism.com often, if you would like to converse.
Our cultures teach in overt and subtle ways. The lessons learned don’t always serve us well. It can be difficult to escape the ingrained. Perhaps you’ll find this relatable.
I grew up being taught that unclothed was sexually stimulating. I grew up being taught that my casual nudity as a child was insignificant, but not wearing clothing was naughty. I was taught that we must conform to social norms, which were even more extreme back then. Women were wearing white gloves and males of all ages were in suit and tie. All were acting a part, when shopping and even visiting in each other’s homes.
It was naughty to be naked when the parents weren’t watching. It was liberating and titillating. By the time that I no longer needed a babysitter, feeling secretly naked was done doing cartwheels.
Images of forbidden nudity increased its sexuality, yet living in Paris, with its art, or Follie Berger, I was receiving an incongruent message.
We’re in Southeastern Utah, camped out near the Butler Wash, alone and free.
The sand around camp is cool and refreshing on bare feet. Soles meet mat-like substrata. Sound and wind is dead still. The Sun is still behind a hill to the east. The light of dawn tells us that the golden glow is nearly ready to burst out, as it rises. In time, there is a slight breeze, a push by the new warmer air, a micro-warm front. I hear the cottonwood trees rustle lightly. Across the valley, the barren ridge is taking on the luminescent colors of the sky.
Then I notice that rumble in the air in the distance. Will it build, or will it occur and go away. I decide to let the mind quiet. With that exercise, the wind also quiets, once again. I smile at a little voice inside, “Purr-fect.”
Last evening, we took a walk to see where this road leads. It brought us to a surreal landscape on the ridge on top of the cliff to the south of camp. On the way, we saw some other unusual geology on the side of the road and later, from above, it became evident that that was a part of a field of other different unusual forms.
We had been up early, hiked the canyon and visited the Fish Mouth cave and ruins, here in southeastern Utah. Visiting the ruins was enriching. Afterwards, we spent the heat of the day, relaxing and resting from our excursions.
The afternoon was spent listening to the sound of insects, while we rested and waited for the air to cool off again. The sun has been getting more and more uncomfortable in the afternoon. The desert is getting hotter. Without clothing, this warmth feels good, but as the seasons change, it will become to feel like too much of a good thing.
We now know that this being comfortably naked in the heat of the day won’t last long, because the Weather Service says that it will get hotter Thursday.
When the time comes, before dinner, we have decided to explore the area around camp and the road behind us. For miles around, there are no other people. None have been seen driving on the so called main road, all afternoon. It is a desolate looking conveyance which dips so much that it is a motor homes nightmare. There are pockets of deep dust that would swallow the tires of a conventional sedan.
Main Road
We are around a half mile back on a tributary to that that appears to go to nowhere in particular. There is no concern to keep nearby cover-ups around, let alone any clothing. We can go for an unburdened walk as far as we care without concerns.
We have arrived at the second ruin site of the hike and it looks extensive. Among it, there are a series of granaries in a different style of construction.
Smoke soot blackens the ceiling of the overhang that has sheltered these communities’ efforts since the beginning.
We’re about to leave civilization again, Blanding, Utah. We have waited all day for the mobile wood fired pizza trailer to exude the aroma of a classy tasty slice, or two, or three.
There is no seating for this restaurant. We’re sitting on the door stoop of a nameless building, a hollow store with windows that reveal only a waiting opportunity for a mercantile idea. The evening sun beams in, exposing old dusty carpet and a path leading to dark shadows beyond.
Before us, framed by old sidewalk concrete, sits a typical flat oil soaked cardboard carton, Americana, with the familiar golden color of roasted baked cheese.
Soon, a fitting notion of appropriate desert will find us around the corner at the end of a too slow line for a chocolate covered frozen banana.
Earlier that day, there was some quick business finding the proper common tool at one of the best stocked Ace Hardware ever. Right next door happens to be the ice-cream shop. DF indulges my gluttony now and then, as I falter at the consumption of a rather larger than expected bucket of Huckleberry, she helps me out with a very small plastic spoon. Civilization is tempting.
We had spent the afternoon wandering in a wonderful dinosaur museum. After those encounter’s with ancient tracks in the bedrock, we have found another aspect of history to be fascinated with. It is fun.
The prehistoric critters are stunningly huge.
A flying bug’s remnants look enough to have ability to carry off anything that a large raptor might.
We had expected less, but the place is quite serious and we now have more valuable information to apply to our walkings. We leave with a better sense and understanding of the terrain that we are visiting.
We are leaving, going into raw nature, after a couple of days of nice small town people, pleasant tidy newish homes on incredibly wide streets and its one intersection light, a four way stop. We pass our refuge with its hot water showers and chilled fruit flavored Pellegrino and then that ominous sign warning a foreboding 121 miles to the next services.
In contrast to the comfort of the community, there is a sense of adventure, freedom and health on this, the open highway. As we cruise, we wriggle out of our protection against the consequences of uniform conformity. From opened windows, the dry air circulates around us, sensually cooling and caressing, as bare skin adapts. A barrier is lifted allowing natural symbiosis, an intimate mutualism in a close reunion.
We find a campsite perhaps a mile across a valley from where, tomorrow, will be our morning’s first hike.
The big cave, looking as if an open fish mouth, looms in the distance. We have a light healthy snack and climb into our cozy open air cocoon when the sky turns dark. Another short reading out loud to each other of Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” and we drop off, during a last look up at the blanket of stars.
With the top off of the tent, the dawn comes up in luscious/delicious hews. It contrasts lovely with the green cottonwood leaves, which now hang still.
I’ve heard these leaves several times during the night. Any gentle breeze will dislodge their songs. These tenacious beings possess various strategies for fertility. Now, it’s not so much the fluffy white fairies that launch and float amongst us, accumulating, settling like snow, which will last years and be blanketed with fallen leaves. But in this night, fall tiny masses of what sounds like raindrops. Awoken by their sound, I look outside of our net nest looking for clouds. Puzzled, I find stars, no emerging downpour, no problems to deal with alarmed in the middle of the night.
My partner’s presence places a warm feeling in my heart, so I roll over to gaze upon sleeping DF. She is not so much a peaceful sleeping beauty tonight, but blissfully conked out. Camping and hiking keeps us busy and our recovery time is dear.
We’re in south-eastern Utah. We are leaving the ruin of an ancient complex, which still boast a tower. As we climb out of the canyon, I look back one last time.
The petroglyphs called “Two Feet” are ahead of us.
I gave directions to the “Two Feet” petroglyphs to the couple that helped us find the towers. I warned, telling the story of our misleading pathway, there. As we are heading back on the main road, we hear their white truck coming up the main road in the distance. Once again, we scramble to cover up. DF is in just a shirt and me, a kilt wrapped around my waist, as we greet them. They have found the petroglyphs. They smile, telling us that they knew they were on the wrong level, when they saw our distinctive toe shoe’s prints.
The Free Range Naturist 