We are here in Northern Michigan after fleeing a rainstorm that arrived hours early, chasing us out of Turtle Lake Resort. This morning, we’re in a family campground and I suspect from the sound on the roof of the tent, that the Michigan forecast is wrong again. The rain due at 2pm is apparently arriving at 6:30am.
I whisper, “It might just blow over. It’s not due ‘till this afternoon.” I’m thinking from under my comfy sleeping quilt cuddled with DF. I’m tired and I want to sleep in. That sound on the tent is a drizzle, but we’ve also heard that before in Ohio and Northern Vermont. We certainly want to avoid a wet tent to pack into the tightly crammed trunk, soaking everything and maybe creating mold.
We get out and quickly, perform our well-practiced routine, tearing the camp down safely and tucking it away. All during the process, the rain intensifies. We’ll be leaving for Lake Shelbyville a little earlier than planned.
Michigan is actually a beautiful state. I do have to get past the old towns and cities, where there is deterioration and of course, along with it renewal. For me, much of them lack charm.
Heading upstate to Leelanua Peninsula, near Travis City, has its striking moments along with economic blight, which refect ups and downs over the years.There are rolling hills and forests, but there are enclaves of poverty here and there amongst it. Some rundown old homes have rebel flags out in front. Since Michigan was never a part of the Confederacy, we know what that cry is about. Then, in contrast, just down the road, there is more green and a pleasant prosperous farm, fields loaded with cherry trees. Some of the pieces are inviting and some angry.
We have made a point to head through a public forest, because there is potential for walks, camping and naturist solitude. These protected places of natural beauty are however, being hit with a blight that is killing square miles of trees. It looks as if it will destroy the whole ecosystem. We are saddened, but further north, the forest’s plague fades. I suppose that it is still colder there longer, too cold for the infestation.
The road feels long and pretty darn straight. By afternoon, we’re ready for food and a break from something besides a roadway. We’re not sure what to eat. Sometimes it feels like the only choices are fast-food, Mexican, or pizza, after several weeks out here. We do have a picnic lunch choice to eat.
We were last up on Mt. Lemmon in the spring of 2020. We hiked down to Lemmon pools and explored on through the Wilderness of Rocks. It was early in the Covid lockdown and we got surprised by around 35 other hikers on a trail that rarely saw anyone else. We just had to grin and bare it, having brought no clothing along with us.
The next day, a bolt of lightning hit the mountain range and burned with little control for over a month. Every day, we watched heart broken, looking up to the flames above, from Tucson below, tasting and smelling the smoke. The Forest Service maps reported that a huge area, something like 120,000 acres went up in smoke. Our favorite spots were hit, one by one.
We finally got the gut fortitude to return and assess the damage, as it applies to us on August 27th of 2021. We found there, that the historic extra wet monsoon rains have left the entire region is in hews of green. Trails are getting overgrown. After a year and a half long drought, it is stunning.
We expect much of our forests to be gone, but from the look of things, the desolate aftermath of a forest fire has been replaced by a mass of bush, grass and shrubs. We have heard reports of abundant flowing water!
The hiking trailheads along the road have been closed to hiking, due to the extra year of drought that led to the fire’s fuel.
We begin the 21 mile drive up the Catalina Highway, from 2500 ft. to 9200ft.The saguaro studded lower hills are great, as if nothing had ever happened. I remark that maybe nothing did happen here.
I got an unusual comment on Sycamore Canyon post, today. Someone thought walking alone there, to be boring.
It consequently occurred to me, that I have been writing few stories of solitude, or lone nude walks. During the continuing “Nude Across America” trip, DF and I were glued together nearly 24/7 in a little Honda and our beds. Also, I am now away from my digs in Tortolita and immersed daily in the sounds of the city.
This website was never meant to be a weekly blog, but a repository of stories. It is to guide people into the joys of free range naturism and to share. I created a “Table of Contents” page up at the top to help navigate through all of this. I confess to not having been prompt about keeping up with the content there, but there is plenty.
There is a series there in the “Trip Reports” section of the Table of Contents, “My Private Place for Naturism.” There are 28 episodes, where I am walking nude and alone. These explain the wondrous quality of aloneness. There can be nothing boring.
A walk in nature is with nature. To be nude in nature is to be even closer. You might as well be holding hands with it. To walk freely to where your nose takes you in the moment is adventure in nature.
Alone, one can be more aware in every way, to feel inner reactions and guidance. When with someone else, there can be distraction. The roles of a social self can interfere with the being, just being, or in touch with the authentic self, or to be cast naked in the moment.
I understand what you mean about feeling bored when alone. I have experienced it. It is also important to not get stuck in social contexts and instead, to be alone. There can be nothing boring about being alone in a natural place. If you seek people oriented things, go to where the people are.
DF and I are often alone when we are together hiking, during these reported trips. Then also, we share, too. We lag behind on the trail, we walk off, and we give each other space. We generally don’t talk, but instead we listen in the many ways.
Sycamore Canyon itself? If I were to find myself bored there, I’d leave all of my clothing behind, swim across the river, to walk the tracks. There may be danger to experience. There may just be the feeling of being very much more alive in my own skin.
Sure hope that the video works…there’s a learning curve, becoming proficient.
There are those favorite places in the world. One of those, for me, is in Redington Pass.
When the flow is strong, the stream splits into dozens of channels in the bedrock.
There is a boulder there, large and flat. I can sit with my legs crossed India style. The slight slope makes it more comfortable. There, as the waters cascade down the carved channels toward me, I feel wonderfully alive.
The mist from the turbulence of the falls floats by, across my bare body, chilling just right, as the sun warms my back.
Minerals and tannins create effervescence. The tiny bubbles fizz like root beer, fizzy all over, up into nostrils. I touch the world with the inhale of breath. I smell fresh mineral vapors.
It is like an energy, a presence that flows down. Chinese call it chi, the natural fung shui of it seems evident. I raise my palms and know something unique.
Sound is only the pleasant roar of water flow and the silence in-between. It seems to wash away any thoughts that have nothing to do with where I am right now, here, alone, at one with nature.
In the southwestern New York, we came across an emerald gem. It has a grey bedrock channel through it. In some places it sparkles like tiny diamonds. It’s called Skinny-dip Falls. It’s a canyon gorge with a nude area about a mile long. Some sources say that it is designated, but it appears to speak for itself.
We have been having a peaceful R&R morning in Shawneee State Park, Ohio. It is mid- week, Tuesday, and we are nearly alone. I count just five occupied spaces out of the many in our area.
I take to the asphalt, walking down to the ranger station to square up and ask about hiking in the area. There are park maps pulled out, as I inquire. Not seeing what I am looking for, I mention that we have been a way from eastern forested areas like this and we would like solitude, maybe some meditation.
There is a trail up the road. Suspiciously, it doesn’t sound quite right, but there is little else to go on.
A short trip up the road through the canyon is a boat launch and dam. A lower parking lot is empty. Nobody is around. We get our light gear and follow a sign, walking across the road over to a hole in the foliage. It soon becomes apparent, that this trail is all our own.
Just a few feet in, we confidently strip off. I toss my clothing into the pack and out of the way.
Lawn mowers are everywhere, everyone has a big green lawn. Dorothy, we’re not in Arizona anymore!
We begin with a slow easy start, meandering through the back country roads of Missouri, smelling the cool morning breeze as it wraps around our bodies.
There is a beautiful bridge that we use to pass over to “east of the Mississippi” a sort of demarcation dividing the USA in half. Western Americans know this concept as if pioneers embarking “out west.” We anticipate a change. Oddly, on the other side of bustling Cape Girardeau, sits a strip bar and gas station, surprisingly nothing else, just some fields and trees and the road.
We’re going across five states today, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky and landing somewhere in the Ohio River Valley. I’ve checked the nudity laws. They vary from state to state, some more threatening than others. It is best to just use our regular carnuding strategies. We’ll be on Interstate highways mostly. Not much concern, but of the view of a bored truck driver who might awaken from his driving tedium.
I pull over for cell phone reception at a rest stop to make a telephonic doctor’s appointment. With that out of the way, we decide on lunch on one of the picnic tables and have a break from is longer day of driving.
The place seems odd to me. Each tree is perfect and uniform in shape and size. These clones have been here many years and manicured, probably planted at the same time. It reminds me of a Jetson’s cartoon that I saw years ago, where in the future, the trees are all gone. Their replacements are actually metal and uniform. I wander off to the edge of this park in fascination. I find much wild biodiversity attempting to creep in the empty space and take over. It is barely contained by perimeter fences.
As we sit and eat, we people watch. I contemplate that there is a defining identification regionally about clothing. Redneck chic is a big thing. Western outfits began to be replaced more by baseball caps with logos and tee shirts, as we have made our way eastward. Illinois seems more urban with paler skin from lack of sun. Indiana has the redneck look down pat. It seems like a tribal thing. My wrap around kilt, a convenient individuality, gets second glances. If only we would spend our summers dressed as human beings. There is much to do about really nothing. Continue reading →
…Missouri welcomes, as does every state. A long expanse of trees covers the countryside. There are national and state lands preserved for the future, bringing back the heritage that has been logged away. I had set up for some camping and hiking exploration in the Mark Twain National Forest, but hearing the voices of old friends on the phone, changed my mind. Follow the heart.
We stop for ice cream and gas along the highway. In the parking lot, there is a young man with the lid up on his old pickup truck, sitting with car trouble. Five Amish men in their traditional dress, black suspenders, gather around him watching. After a while, I see a black horse carriage trotting away down the highway. No motor troubles.
We turn off of the Interstate as the shadows begin to get longer. The two lane road winds through forest and farmland.
The Free Range Naturist 