Posts Tagged With: nature

White Mountain Reminisce

Bears Ears, Utah #41

2024-06-11

We’re camped in the White Mountains. We’ve returned to our favorite spot, where we spent a month  glamping in the big top tent, back in 2023. It is 11am. It’s Dry, with a capital “D”. We are returning to Arizona from Utah in anticipation of the monsoon rains, but the “Monsoon Season” is still languishing down in Mexico.  Late yesterday afternoon, we pulled in and the dust that we made while parking made a foggy cloud that just hung there. It finally floated off, as the aspen leaves began to quake.

The Color of Utah

Familiar with the whole area, from years of wonderful explorations, we are noticing change. Back at camp we see that the small tree that we used to hang dishes to dry has fallen over, perhaps the snow cover from winter, or perhaps a large elk callously used it. Our aspens that we saved by placing our tent just so and using them to decorate our tent’s patio, remain and have kept growing.  Nobody has come by to chew of the leaves, or rip them out of the ground. We take measurements for the first time. Perhaps, we’ll see how these saplings do as the years go by in this harsh environment.

(To see the rest of this post, you’ll have to find the “2” and click the page turning button, below.)

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North to South and Canyon de Chelly

Bears Ears #40

2024-06-10

After so much time in the outback, arriving in Blanding, Utah had been the shock of civilization. The quiet little town was quite a contrast to the solitude and elbowroom of the uninhabited mountains. It felt hectic to go from store to store, preparing for the next leg of our journey, get a camp set up, shower, pay bills and hear the news on the phone and internet. Civilization, with all of its convenience, by comparison, seemed stressful.

Today, we no longer awaken under the call of birds breaking the silence, the peace, or the pleasant smell of a forest. We’re in a trailer park, amongst monstrous vehicles, with the footsteps and chatter of elderly anonymous tourists, our friendly neighbors. They are moving in less than perfect health, but content, leashed to their small dogs, smiling with waves to fellow assumed Good Sams. I pack up our sleeping quarters and compliment the owner on the tidy grounds, as we leave.

We travel south, through the increasingly more desolate and surreal lands. The last vestiges of civilization are crammed into the thin canyons with the highway.

 

In iconic rock faced valleys are monuments to “Indians” and offers a stay in conical teepees within a luxury resort.

Along the way are a restaurant and a local cross between a convenience store and a very small general goods outlet. I make sure that I slip out to pump the last available gas, probably for a long long time.

It seems that here, people need to make a buck with what they have available, or they’re retired.

Two hours down this road, ancient Canyon de Chelly sits. It is a bigger, more complex grouping of ruins, which were a part of systems of a very different civilization.

We are understandably traveling every bit of naturally naked, save the walls of the SUV.

(To see the rest of this post, you’ll have to find the “2” and click the page turning button, below.)

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First Hike 2026

2026-01-03

We headed up to Redington Pass the other day. It is an easy access and with the climbing, it is such a more well-rounded exercise, more than just walking a path. It is also, traditionally, a nude area and trail with nude use signs posted. So, on this day, we needed a nice quick hike; one which we could be freely nude without being bothered to cover up for weekend and holiday crowds. We park and then have to legally cover our bodies long enough to walk from the parking lot to the other side of the road and then sufficiently away from the road. There, from the “nudity ahead” sign, it is liberation. The minimal coverings are tucked away into a backpack, or under a shoulder strap. There is no need of them, no matter who we encounter.

This day, we decide take the high route, so as to descend further upstream.

To see the rest of this post, you’ll have to find the “2” and click the page turning button, below.

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Tortolita’s Back Door: Part 2

2025-01-03

We are hiking in the Tortolita Mountains. The first part of the story it here:

…We explore several minor wash canyons that cross the trail.

To continue, you’ll probably have to go down to the button labeled page #2, until I can get “Classic Editor to work again.
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Tortolita’s Back Door

2025-01-03

We’re taking a back road off of a dirt road that travels along the Pima County line’s north side. It should lead us to a mountain bike trail that heads into the Tortolita Mountain County Park.

It is familiar, it used to be in what I considered my back yard, a big backyard. I have taken this trail from the south many times, it is easy to find, a shot just past the windmill landmark.

See “Naked to the County Line”:

This time we’re coming in from the north, through a foothills of misleading dry flood washes. It is not clearly marked. The last time, I misread the landmarks and ended up in an entirely different area.

During that hike, we looked and looked for possibilities for the trailhead, or the correct wash as seen from a satellite photo. We thought that we found it as the sun set. Now, I hope to find it again.

To continue, you’ll probably have to go down to the button labeled page #2, until I can get “Classic Editor to work again.

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Tucson Gardening

This is another article of mine that was published fairly recently in “N” magazine, the quarterly of The Naturist Society Foundation. When we set up the new communal sweat on my property, I took it upon myself to provide a meditative, healthy atmosphere for the community’s members to wander in, while they languished between sauna rounds. It is also a gathering space for fundraisers, memorials, and other social events pertaining to The Tucson Family Sweat Alliance (TFSA). It is where DF and I live a significant portion of our clothes free life under the sun. I’ve added a few additional illustrative pictures.

Desert Gardening

Here in Baja Arizona, creating a Garden of Eden to live in has unique challenges. We have over 300 days of sunshine in Tucson each year, but precious few days of seasonal rains. That’s great for living naked, but a challenge for our flora.


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Sleeping on the Bear’s Back

Bears Ears #35

2024-06-05

We’re up here in Manti-La Sal National Forest, in the Bears ears National Monument. The morning has been casual, late rising, reading.  We have a breakfast, then it is time for lunch.

A boy, a young buck scampers around, only about 50 feet away from camp. He decides to have a green snack and stops. This isn’t the female who directed us to this spot in the woods last evening. This guy is decorated with emerging antlers. We stand and watch, then, moving quietly, easily; we grab cameras. This gentleman is fearless.

We snap a few as we creep forward. He backs away eventually several feet to match our move. We know his boundaries.

Relaxed, after a restful afternoon, we decide to walk.

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Hunting turkey

Bears Ears #34

06-06- 2024

The animals around here in these mountains are not so jittery nervous. We first noticed the deer’s behavior as we found a great camping spot and her pal’s attitude as he browsed the through our campsite the next morning. They trust us and I feel like that is something to respect. We share this place, as a kind of fellowship.

This morning, as I sit at camp, a curious squirrel comes up the road, stopping maybe 20 feet from my chair. It sits up on hind legs. A fluffy mass of tail, seemingly as big as the rodents entire body, whisk in serpentine circles in and out. It looks as if curiously weighing the notion to see what the truck, stove and other objects are about.  Around here, they look similar to the Arizona mountain squirrels, but the ears don’t have the comb-like flags at the tips. These critter’s triangle ears are tight symmetrical fur, arranged like a G.I. crewcut, square straight lines, lean. Its silver form takes off in a gallop from where it came from, playing with others down the road. I have been watching them comically gallivant there for a while.

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Right Between the Ears

Bears Ears #33

2024-06-04

It’s time to gather provisions and gas.  We’ll be heading up the road that cuts right in-between the Bear’s Ears, on top of its head and then onto its back. We’ll be lounging and exploring in the Manti-La Sal National Forest for a week or so.

In Blanding, Utah, I spend too much time for my liking. I’m stuck shoring up home insurance issues over the phone and checking internet texts and messages, after several days of no service. It has been a pleasure to be out of electronic contact, but this is the price. That process of waiting takes us to the visitor center, where I am able to spend some good time with a new hostess. She once lived up in those hills with her mother. I shamelessly grill her for insider’s information.

Just before we leave to backtrack to where we were this morning, which is 45 miles of carnuding. I pull off of the road at that sign that says ominously “Next services 121 Miles.” We strip, stuff away our clothing and resume down the now familiar road, to out west. For now, the wind blows through partly opened windows and the vent, circling, sensuously dancing all over naked bodies.

We find the road that will take us into the mountains. It is soon dirt. After a pickup truck passes,  I get out to switching into 4×4 for stability. We are alone here at the base of this mountain. I turn off the motor. Now in silence, I look up into the steep walls before me. They circle around us. The vast Canyonlands are behind us now. This is the beginning of an entirely new terrain and set of unknowns to set off into, naked. There is a sense of adventure, a new beginning and freedom.

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House on Fire: Bears Ears XXXI

2024-06-04

We had been up with the sun, yet here we are still getting a later start. This time however, the timing is best later in the morning. We’re heading for The House on Fire ruins.  It faces away from the morning sun, now. We’d like to arrive when the refection of the sunlight on red rock makes the roof of the ruins look like fire.

It is a short hike, just maybe 30 minutes, a quick mile or so and there is no slope each way.

We grab a fee to pay for this more popular site, but when we arrive, there is no bucket at the trailhead. There is just one car. The trail registry says two people. This is good, very good, good potential. We may have things to ourselves, instead of the shuffle of too many tourists. There had been a half a dozen cars when we passed by during the previous afternoon.

We carefully make our way down a slope and into dense foliage accented with various red soils, sand and rock. As we walk along, the evident path is comfortably shaded, off and on. We haven’t gone far, just minutes, when we bump into an older couple. They are from Germany in full hiking regalia. He reports “very nice” in a very thick accent. She is silent. By her demeanor, I suspect that she is not confident in our foreign language. Helpful and beaming, nearly giddy, as if he had just visited something of memorable awe, he states, “20 minutes, follow the wash.” They disappear down the trail toward the trailhead. One car, two people heading back to it, so I know that nobody is ahead. My kilt is quickly off and it feels so wonderful. The air is beautiful and I’m feeling lucky. I didn’t expect this.

Curiously, when we arrive at the ruins, there is no clear trail for such a popular remarkable spot. We must climb through a tangle of bush and roots on a sharp slope and then up a bare rock slope. There they are, still in the shade, several stone masonry structures, connecting the lips of a rock floor and ceiling. We drop daypack and water bottles. We plan to hang out for a while, waiting for photo opportunity.

The ceiling is everything that the pictures have purported. There is a chipped strata of red and yellow tones that rise up, suggesting fire. It is massive and beautiful. DF playfully sings a phrase from a song. It sticks in my head, inspired by this sense of flame, “We don’t need no water let the MF burn, burn MF, burn.” The crude tune from the 1990’s has lost its anger. It is joyous excitement.

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