My river, my friend

Every kid should have a river at his doorstep.

My river was the John Day: friend and confidante.

That Eastern Oregon waterway was unrelated to McMinnville's beloved Cloud Man. It was named for the early-day explorer John Day, who in 1811, as a hunter, joined the Wilson Price Hunt expedition headed west. He became gravely ill. He and a companion were forced to drop back and were robbed and left naked. He eventually was found, but later became violently insane. The John Day River in Clatsop County also bears his name.

Image via WikipediaI was sorry for the misfortunes of the discoverer of my river, but oh, how glad I was that he found it.

With the start of summer vacation, I spent every afternoon with my friend at the swimming hole in Monument. Some years the river was too high and swift when school was first out and Mother made me wait. As soon as it became friendly, each day after noon dishes were done, I grabbed my swimsuit and hiked to town. All the kids - towners and out-of-towners - gathered there.

We gals changed clothes in an old shed nearby. The boys undressed on a ledge in the high rock, upriver.

Early on, the John Day was cold - almost hostile. Sissies stuck in a toe to test the temperature, squealed and waded in gradually, gasping as icy water hit midsection. Macho kids plunged in, flailing arms and legs, dog paddling like a windmill to get blood flowing.

In early summer, we hesitated a bit before trying to swim across the river. Much of that crossing was over our head. Each year, because of winter's high water, we had a different river. Before we undertook the swim, we explored the sandy bottom with our feet to see how far out we could touch. Once confident we could handle the current and the distance, we swam to the large sandy beach across the river. There we baked in the sun, turning occasionally for even tanning and to avoid a burn after this first exposure of our winter-tender bodies to the sun. Sunscreen we had never heard of. Sun damage we did not know. When the sun became so deliciously hot we could no longer stand it, we headed back to the water. Some days we tested ourselves to see how many times we could swim back and forth.

We were self-taught swimmers and knew not the Australian crawl or the butterfly. We used an unorthodox overhand stroke, the side stroke, dog paddled, or floated on our backs squinting at the bright blue amphitheater. We had no diving boards. No water slides. We dried in the sun, without help of towels - and the sand then mostly brushed off.

No lifeguards, or even adult "tenderers" were on hand, but we kids understood and respected the river's strength. To my knowledge, no kid ever drowned at that summer swimming spot at Monument. The John Day taught us well and watched over us.

My river was infinitely more than just a swimming pool. During late summer, when oppressive heat hung on and the sticky flies were impossible to shoo away, the John Day offered "air conditioning." After we acquired folding lawn chairs, we learned to take them into the shallow rapids in front of the house where flies would not seek us out, and sitting there with feet dangling in the water, the John Day provided relief.

If summer tenaciously hung on, Wall Creek and Board Creek dried up, leaving the river for watering cattle. Every afternoon, the laconic Herefords wandered down to the river, usually in single file, to drink, and the John Day patiently awaited them.

Although summer and swimming were what I liked most about the John Day, mine was a year-round love affair. The river provided me with my favorite hike. I followed the dirt road that wound beside it, scuffing in the dust without fear of needle grass in socks. And hiking the road required little watch for rattlesnakes so I could look for wildlife: river otter, marten, porcupine, deer, bald eagle. My river hike provided also National Geographic-style scenery: majestic ponderosas plus the sentinels - Neal Butte, and Johnnycake Mountain with its crown of rimrocks. Below the rims, deer played hide and seek in the mahogany thickets. Sloping on down to the river, the ochre and liver-brown colored flats, scree covered, and devoid of growth, reminded me of the giant liver of some mammoth creature.

If, when I hiked, I was worried about something, I sat for a time on a rock beside the river and listened to the suggestions it offered.

With winter, when the river froze sufficiently to drive a team of horses across, we kids ice skated, building bonfires on the banks to huddle around. The ranchers then harvested the year's supply of ice with crosscut saws that sliced the ice into giant cubes to haul to the ranch house and bury in sawdust in the ice house that almost every ranch had.

True, our river had its churlish side. When the ice "went out," the John Day might take along fences, erode entire fields, float away buildings, drown cattle. Often, if snow melted too quickly in the high mountains, the river overflowed and spring runoff washed away all in its path. Several times the river took out the bridge at Monument. But for us kids the river could do no wrong. The loss of the bridge brought new people to town to build the replacement, and provided us high school girls, we hoped, with new dance partners at the community dances, and possibly dates.

But it is different now when I go back to the old swimming hole at Monument. Everything has changed. In the cemetery, at the edge of town, are the graves of my mother, stepfather, one sister, brother-in-law and an uncle. Families that I knew have moved away or are buried here in the cemetery. I go to Boyer's Cash Store - the old gathering place - and although it is still operated by the same family, I see no one that I knew.

We leave Boyer's Cash Store and drive up the river along the dirt road that follows the John Day. We rumble over cattleguards, pass Board Creek where we had picnics, and at the mouth of Wall Creek, in sight of the deserted old ranch house, we park. I get out and walk to the edge of the river. It laps at my feet and welcomes me. And suddenly everything is the same again. Here is my friend, my companion, my confidante. My beloved John Day is unchanged. My river goes on and on.

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Nudism helped me to love my body at last

When friends told me about Britain’s first naturist spa hotel in Birmingham — Clover Spa, which opened in March — I couldn’t help but giggle as they expressed their horror at the very idea of holidaying naked.

They pondered the discomfort of sunburned bits and shuddered at the thought of baring all for the world to see. Little did they know that I’d already been to a naturist spa, and loved it.

I have always been insecure about my body. In fact, for the first year of our relationship, my husband never saw me naked in daylight.


Secret nudist: Kerry's confidence soared after a visit to a 'clothing optional' hotel
In the morning, when I was having a shower, I would pull the blinds in the bathroom to keep it in semi- darkness. In the bedroom, I favoured candlelight.

Though it may sound silly to some, back then, my body felt like the stuff of nightmares — I have stretch marks, dimples and lots of flabby bits.

On a good day, seeing myself naked would prompt me to go to the gym on my way to work. On a bad day, it would cause me to spiral into depression.

A year into our relationship, Joe and I got married at his father’s home in Florida. Surely, now that we were wed, I’d feel more at ease?

I wasn’t. In fact, being in Florida made the situation worse.

While the family frolicked on the beach in tiny bikinis and swimming trunks, I watched from a sun lounger, sweating under a long black skirt and T-shirt.

Joe was concerned by my insecurities, but was nevertheless full of compliments — even when I felt I was at my worst — and told me how beautiful he found me. I believed him, yet I couldn’t quite overcome my phobia. Until I tried nudism.

Seven months later, we were back in Florida and drove past a ‘clothing optional’ hotel. I couldn’t help but wonder what went on inside.


'I saw stretch marks and flabby bits, just like mine. The difference was that these people didn't care'

‘Have you ever been in there?’ I asked Joe. ‘No,’ he grinned. ‘Do you want to have a look?’

Of course, he expected me to dismiss his suggestion. Yet my interest was piqued. Perhaps it would help me to see other people at ease with their bodies.

I wouldn’t have to strip completely, I decided before making a decision. ‘Let’s do it,’ I agreed.

As we pulled up and I opened the car door, I saw three older gentlemen walking towards me swinging tennis rackets, clad only in sparkly, white gym shoes.

They looked as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Then, two ladies in their 30s whizzed by on a golf cart in nothing but their sunhats.

The reception area looked like that of any other well-appointed hotel and the staff were friendly. I explained I was interested in visiting, but was fearful of the concept.


Sense of freedom: Kerry found being naked in public exhilarating (posed by model)
The receptionist smiled and told me that people could be as clothed, or as naked, as they wished. Pushing two free day passes towards us, she asked us to try it out for ourselves and explained a few house rules.

No sexual conduct was tolerated and towels had to be placed beneath you while sitting.

Before I knew it, we were buying two towels and heading out into the main resort area.

Men and women of all shapes and sizes lounged by the pool sipping cocktails, while others played team sports or chatted. I saw stretch marks, dimples, tan lines and lots of flabby bits, just like mine. The difference was that these people didn’t care.

As the sun beat down on us — me dressed head-to-toe in black — Joe eyed me. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

I pondered for a moment before heading towards two sun loungers by the pool, then said: ‘I think we should take our clothes off.’

Though nervous, I didn’t feel uncomfortable. Slowly, I slipped out of my clothes, and for one nerve-racking minute while I stood nude, I looked at others’ faces to see if they were laughing at my wobbly bits.

To my surprise, not a soul even so much as glanced my way.

‘Your turn,’ I said to Joe. His eyebrows raised, a grin crossed his face as he stripped off, too.

We arranged our towels before laying down and enjoying the sun. I felt an intoxicating rush of freedom. The sunshine on my bare skin was too delicious for words.

For so many years, I’d worried about what others thought of me. I suddenly realised what a huge waste of time that had been.

Visitors of N.J. nude beach face the increasing threat of lurking photographers

The regulars at Gunnison Beach claim to know the telltale signs of a photographer in their midst:
It’s usually a man who arrives with no book, no cooler, and most tellingly, no sunscreen. Clearly he intends to stay just long enough to snap some nude photos at New Jersey’s only "clothing-optional" public beach.
For years, nude beach etiquette advised visitors to leave their cameras at home.
Now, however, every beachgoer has a cell phone, and every cell phone has a camera. It’s easier than ever to take a surreptitious photograph of the nude sunbather three towels away. Once an image is captured, it might be privately enjoyed later, or even uploaded to a commercial website specializing in such shots.
"There’s always going to be some jerk out there with a camera. But cell phones make it more convenient for people who are going to do something like this," said Dale Distasio of Atlantic Highlands, who runs Friends of Gunnison, a group for beach regulars.
In Gateway National Park at Sandy Hook, photographers have the law on their side.
"As sad as it is, there’s nothing we can do to control this behavior," she said. "If someone wants to point a zoom lens at me and look up my ZIP code, well, I have decided to be naked on a piece of federal property, so that’s that. You have no expectation of privacy."
While commercial porn websites showcase only young, fit beachgoers, nudists with less-than-perfect physiques face a different threat: finding themselves mocked online. Distasio tells of three large ladies who frequent Gunnison whose group photo was posted online with the caption "Manatees."
Gunnison regulars, who are fiercely protective of their little bit of heaven, use everything from public shame to technology to fight back. They want to keep attendance robust at a beach they boast is the cleanest, the quietest and the friendliest in the park.
When the National Park Service took control of this barrier peninsula after the Army deactivated Fort Hancock in 1974, the beach tradition of skinny-dipping — begun by the all-male soldiers stationed there — was permitted to continue.
In Gunnison’s early days as a public beach, a photographer who ignored polite requests to stop could find his camera grabbed and his film canister unspooled and exposed to the sun.
"We’d pull the film out and everyone would cheer," said Lois Flicek, a longtime Gunnison naturist. ("We’re naturists," she tells visitors." ‘Naturalist’ is a birdwatcher.")

Andrew Mills/The Star-Ledger
A lone sunbather on a not-so-nice beach day at Gunnison Beach, a clothing optional area of Gateway National Recreation Area on Sandy Hook.
Once the Park Service assumed a greater role in supervising the beach, rangers advised against such confrontations. "They don’t want us to take the law in our own hands," says Distasio.
Sometimes it’s enough to hand an amateur photographer a business card that lists beach etiquette, including the admonition to "ALWAYS get permission before taking photographs."
If that doesn’t work, the next step may be lending a 3-foot-high windscreen to the young women who most often draw the interest of photographers. Or one of the small gatherings that crop up around regulars — Flicek flies a Grateful Dead banner to let friends know her location — will invite a newcomer into their protection for the day.
Eric, 42, who has been going to Gunnison since high school, has found that if an intruder ignores a polite request to stop, it is particularly effective to turn the tables and take his photo.
"When we ask them to stop, they say, ‘It’s a free country!’ and we say, ‘You know what, sir? You’re right.’ Then ‘click,’ we take their picture," he said. "And they freak out: ‘I’m a schoolteacher!’ or ‘I’m just here to look!’ You would not believe how many people come here fully clothed, sit there taking pictures, and leave when we take their picture."
Lately, this retired federal investigator has added a high-tech deterrent: He posts photos of what he calls "beach geeks" — predatory photographers — on his private Gunnison Facebook page, which now has 270 followers. Sometimes he posts while at the beach, right from his iPad.
(He didn’t want his full name used out of concern someone he may have arrested would seek him out at the beach, where he’d be unarmed. Many Gunnison regulars remain semi-anonymous to even their friends there, going by beach names like "Volleyball Larry" or "Bandanna Tom.")
In addition, beach regulars use text messages to warn each other of anyone whose behavior seems suspect.
Park Service lifeguards will not intervene in such disputes with one exception: when children are involved. Flicek tells of a visitor who sat near a German family, then periodically reached into his beach bag to fiddle with something. When they realized he was filming the children with a video camera, they informed park rangers. He was arrested, she said.
Eric, the retired federal investigator, pointed out that since the incident took place on federal property, it would trigger federal charges — and perhaps federal prison.
There were few children present on a recent weekday visit. Nudists say once children get to be school-aged, parents are less comfortable bringing them along. This makes Gunnison unusually quiet — no water fights, squealing at waves, or teenage boomboxes.
Nor was there any obvious photography of strangers. Plenty of people were engrossed in their cell phones, but they appeared to be texting. Meanwhile, a few friends were taking photos of each other. Still, the regulars say the commercial websites gather images during the summer, then post them over the winter. (Such sites will remove a specific image if requested by the photograph’s subject.)
A group of three 20-something women, first-timers deciding whether to proceed past the clothing-optional warning sign, said it hadn’t occurred to them to worry about being photographed. The prospect gave them pause.
"I just want to relax, get some sun — and no tan lines," said Jennifer, who didn’t give her last name because of her occupation. "It doesn’t mean I want to be on the internet!"