Daniel Kidwell

A couple of weeks ago, I reported here on my first skinny dip of the season in nearby (to me) Ponkapog Pond in my hometown in Massachusetts. This past weekend, I enjoyed my first proper nude hike without a net for the season, in a patch of forest on the Connecticut-Massachusetts border adjoining the Solaire Nudist resort. Saturday morning, I had joined three other friends and my son, all members of our freehiking club ANANEC for an early season visit to this venerable facility in Northern Connecticut (USA). Since the weather that day seemed to us to be less than promising for any extended freehiking, our intent was remain low key much of the day, lounging in the club house, chatting, soaking in the hot tub, sauna, with some ping pong, and a short lived venture onto the rain soaked tennis courts thrown in to get the blood going. After enjoying our bag lunches, the sun made a feeble appearance, only long enough to entice us out of our indoor lounge chairs and onto a couple of the maintained hiking trails on the west end of the property. We had no sooner arrived at a memorial glen graced by a scenic if small waterfall out back behind the old clubhouse, when the dark clouds threatening us as we walked, began spitting rain. The others decided it best to retreat for another round in hot tub, but I was determined to seek the lay of the land for a time, this being my first visit there. So I wish them well and headed west out a dirt road past the old rifle range, and into the woods.

I immediately encountered some delightful old unused skid paths which lead me in a generally southwest direction hopping over many jumbled trunks of cut and long abandoned trees, and windfall both old and more recent, in numerous small clearings scattered throughout an otherwise dense and undisturbed second growth forest. These curiosities from a former time of hardscrabble farming, laced together by a confusing network of long abandoned paths, old stone walls dating to a prior century, and evidence of occasional door yards and cellar holes enticed me onward. Not having the sun to guide me, I can only guess as to my actual compass headings. Presently, I encountered the shore of a long swamp that cut through this area in a generally north-south direction. (I later confirmed via Google satellite view that this was part of the watershed for the Cohasse Brook Reservoir in neighboring Massachusetts) Not wanting to venture into that swamp and thinking that I would merely loop back and eventually return to the rifle range for a short pleasant loop walk, I turned left and followed the ridge above this swamp in a southerly direction for a while till I came to a large stonewall and decided to follow it “inland” for a stretch. After I became bored with the stone wall and after crossing a couple of low soupy areas infested with hungry mosquitos I came upon bit of more recent double track to my left which soon lead to a trail marked with red paint patches on some of the trees and occasional red ribbons. This trail showed some usage, so I decided to follow it till I came to something more familiar. Becoming progressively less heavily used, the trail became hard to follow at times and I lost it entirely at several turns only to find it again over the next rise. I even encountered a couple of forks where red marks beckoned off in two different directions. At times, I chose to follow only deer trails heavily marked with scat.

Those of you who have ever wandered off a trail in the woods may know where this is leading. For the past hour or so, I had been walking in ever widening circles, without any real clue as to where I was. I was totally without a net, ie. no clothes, map, compass, or provisions. Just a delightful overcast spring day, with temps in the sixties (F), and just enough rain to keep the tourists at bay, with just enough humidity to keep a light sheen of sweat upon my totally naked body. Like a kid lost in the largest candy store imaginable. The fiddleheads all around me had only very recently burst forth into foot tall proper green ferns of a most rich and brilliant green. Many species of bird call were to be heard overhead in a canopy only this past week changed from its winter form. In fact, the forest all around these parts has within the past two days, magically transformed into that lustrous green of early spring. Several crows raucously called out my location to anyone nearby to hear, however there was no one but me to hear their message. The crows most likely knew much better my location, then did I at that moment, but they gleefully kept the details to themselves.

I had cameled up well on water before I had left the clubhouse with my buddies, so I was not immediately concerned about hydration, and my friends know that I like to wander so I was not yet concerned about my absence raising any level of panic on their part. So it was my moment to savor and wonder in my good fortune to be out here and connected to our world in this most intimate way. My saving grace was that I would occasionally catch a glimpse of the large swamp far off through the woods over my left shoulder, when I would momentarily top a ridge line. Enough to assure me along with an occasional consult of the often unreliable moss to be found on the north facing side of tree trunks and despite my continued deprivation of nearly any other point of reference that I was now heading generally north, a direction that would soon take me into Massachusetts if I continued on. The worst that was likely to happen would be that I may stumble out upon a textile road and have to inquire of passerby the direction back to the “nudist colony” from which I had obviously “escaped” I might be excused in this case to use these terms for a moment to describe my possible salvation, as Solaire was founded in the mid nineteen-thirties when the textile world used such terms to describe the nacient nudist movement here in the USA. It is held by many to be the first and longest in continuous operation of any of the presently existing organized nudist camps in this country. “Camp” apparently also being a preferred wordage of the time. Fortunately for me, no such scenario played out, nor did the law from either state come looking for me. Just me alone, and naked in this magnificent New England forest dressed in its newfound spring attire.

To make a longer story shorter, I spent the next couple of hours roaming with calculated aimlessness in a generally northerly direction eventually arriving at a good size stream with a brisk current, not what I had expected, but later determined from my consults with Google view to be an inlet for the reservoir in Massachusetts. At this point I decided to backtrack along the mysterious intermittent red trail that I had been following for some considerable time and to continue to look for anything promising to my left, which would now be due East. Presently after a good deal more of walking, I came to a trail of decidedly different character that branched off to my left, so I took it. Within a couple of tens of a mile, I spied a small sign nailed to a tree that said “Solaire” in small hand printed letters with an arrow that pointed straight ahead. Sure enough, within another tenth of a mile, I encountered some yellow markings, the markings of the better known of the two on site resort hiking loops…. the “Yellow Trail”. The red markings that I had encountered much earlier on in my roamings, I thought at first may have been those of its lesser used sister trail, which is why I followed them. However, I had soon grown suspicious of my initial guess in this regard because of the discontinuity that I encountered while attempting to follow it, and because of the red ribbons attached to some of the trees which I later took to be possibly marks for selective future lumbering. A later consult of Google view showed me that the red resort trail was well east of anywhere that I had tramped on this adventure. The same map views also confirmed that I had most likely covered three to four miles, while touching upon two states, all within an area not much more than three quarters of a mile wide east to west and perhaps a bit less than two miles long south to north. Through the duration, I was not certain at any given moment whether I was on club land, private property, or public lands, however all three types are represented in the area, and all looked the same to me. I am certain that I traversed all three types during my unfettered hike. A fun adventure without a net, and a fitting start to what promises to be a great freehiking season through the coming months.

After stopping to chat with one of the resident members who I encountered sitting upon his porch during my jog back to the clubhouse, I reconnected with my friends and relished a relaxing skinny dip in the still bracing waters of the ample club pond followed by a marvelous soak in the hot tub. What more could a nudist in denial through the winter just past ask for? -freewalkerma-

My wife and I will be journeying to Ireland this September for a ten day vacation. The western part of the island, Sligo, Easkey, Connemara, Galway, the Burren and environs. We will be with a small group on an escorted tour traveling mostly by motor coach, and my wife is not a nudist so I expect that this will be a mostly textile adventure. That said, and with the understanding that I am no stranger to making my self comfortable sans clothes on a remote bit of trail or beach in places not known for nudity, I'm casting for advice:

Can anyone comment from first hand or near first hand experience about how nude friendly the Irish culture is? It has been 50 years since we last journeyed there together. I'd like to know what the prevailing legal environment is including how rigidly or loosely any laws may be enforced. Also, how the local folks think about such matters when the law is not around to make havoc with our lives. Thanks.

-freewalkerma-

Following is a belated entry from this past February, brought to mind by recent discussion initiated by Shane on the home page here about the comfort to be found in freehiking under various weather conditions. In a response to that thread I referenced this blog, which I just noticed, had either been not posted here or lost in changes made during the early days of this forum. So here is a not too distant memory of a most notable winter past for many of us here.

February 2013

Last Friday, John Purbrick (also a member of this forum) and I journeyed together from our homes in the Boston area, up to Vermont to do some extended snowshoe hiking. It was our desire to make this a naked hike, and the weather cooperated, as best as it could, for February. The temperature was in the mid 30s (F), on this sunny day with few clouds, and most importantly, no breeze. We found pretty amazing luck for a trip that needed to be pre-scheduled, even if only amongst two free-folk. We had hoped for more participants, but trying to get even card-carrying freehikers to join a naked snowshoe hike is worse than herding cats. I knew going into this, that my group of naturist friends are possessed of far more common sense than I. My friend John, also an avid free-range nudist, is willing to try anything once or more…..he has enjoyed skiing naked in spring conditions many times in the past. He has not been naked in February winter conditions for long durations, but was willing to play along. And he knew going into this, that he was dealing with a fellow nekkid free-ranger, with a severe case of cabin fever, not a good omen, under the best of circumstances.

Starting out at 6am, we arrived at our trailhead around 10:45 am after a couple of stops along the way for provisions, and a last minute map consult over a change of venue. I had packed amply with about twenty pounds of water, food, and gear in my larger pack, the way that I normally prepare for an extended day hike in the winter, stuff that one never plans to need, but sure doesn’t want to be without in case of a change in the weather. John had packed more modestly expecting to tackle a couple of short 2-3 miles jaunts in the woods interspersed with a warm meal at a diner. Me the dreamer, John the realist.

We (I) decided to tackle a section of the Long Trail that approaches the summit of Stratton Mountain from the south, near Wadsboro. This, because we had found the snow cover to be a surprisingly modest one to two feet as we crossed into the state via route 9 near Brattleboro forty-five minutes earlier. Also because it has always been my desire to see this beautiful peak, along with the vistas from its fire tower during the winter. I wanted to take advantage of our fine weather to accomplish this goal. Envious of his light load, I conceded to John, switching to my smaller daypack and jettisoning most of my provisions to the trunk of my car. So, in the midst of some curious snowmobilers, unloading sleds from their trailers at the carpark, we were on our way, lean, mean, and ultra light.

During some previous winters, I have found enough snowpack near this trailhead, to cover the white blazes painted on the tree trunks, ordinarily five feet off of the ground. I have turned back on these occasions, being both ill-equipped, and solo. This day we found the trail conditions to be near ideal for our purposes, packed down from the passage of hikers on previous days, but with a fresh overlay of a few inches of new powder. Our agreed intent was to divert and hike via a side trail, to Stratton Pond, thus staying at a lower altitude. But we soon encountered a trail sign that informed us that we were destined for the 3900 ft summit, (a tall one in Vermont) and that our only route from this location to the pond would be over the summit and down the other side, about a seven mile hike each way. So we agreed to hike on up, for a couple of miles, then turn around when we felt it was time to return. Eager and already working up a sweat, I shed my clothes, not more than a quarter of a mile in. Now thats more like it.

The woods were for a moment, quiet as we worked our way up through the bare hardwoods on the lower slopes. The sun was warm, we had a trail to follow, and all was perfect in the world. Snowshoe travel is fun, relatively efficient, but more strenuous and slower then travel in summer over the same ground. We were pleased to be following some buried ski tracks, for it made the going a bit easier. I was most pleased, to be warm, comfortable, and naked, as we moved forward, doing just what I wanted to be doing. John was most pleased to be textile at the moment, doing just what he wanted to be doing. It is important to continue munching on gorp with a heavy mix of sweets, and sipping fluids, while hiking naked, particularly in the cold, and I always remain attentive to this need. However, after about forty-five minutes, that most important part of my male anatomy began urging me for a change. Nothing unexpected, these are after all, marginal conditions for extended nudity. So I slipped on my kilt, and a wool sweater, and we continued on. My Mr Peter knows all, because no sooner had I done so, then we broke into a clearing, and crossed a fire road, which is popular with the sledders. As we mounted the embankment on the other side, and headed back into the woods, a pack of winter sportsmen buzzed by doing 40 mph or so, in stark contrast to our 1 mph average rate of travel. The modern machines are far quieter that they used to be, so there was little warning of their approach. So we both stood and waved to them, in our most civilized and properly clothed manner.

After crossing the road, the landscape began to change. The trail became steeper, and the hardwoods began to yield to more pine, spruce and fir. We soon lost all evidence of our previous ski traveling ghost companions, as we followed the white blazes of the main trail upwards into virgin snow. We were now breaking new trail. It wasn’t long before both of us were warm enough to lose our clothes for this second leg. It was nice to be naked again, and in the company of a kindred soul. Our snowshoes served us pretty well in these conditions. Though larger ones would have been better for this stretch, we were both pleased not to be dragging the extra weight that would have entailed. None the less, while I was in the lead for a time, I found myself post-holing several times while John behind me, neatly avoided my folly each time by way of astute observation of my “bad judgement”. Not so for my “boys”, hanging where they do on the male anatomy. They took the full cold assault each time. OK, naked snowshoeing is not quite the same walk in the park as a warm August nude stroll on the beach……But I’ll take it.

After pushing on for a mile or so, enjoying every minute, a side trail came in and joined from the right. Evidently, the most popular route to the top, as from here on forward, the trail was well broken and compacted. With the easier going, the trail beckoned us forward. With the sound of the sleds long past, we were presented with a new winter wonderland, closing in. A deep evergreen grove extended all around, as far as we could peer into it. Here was to be found, a profound silence, as we paused from time to time to admire glimpses of the expansive vista of the Green Mountain National Forest, in its winter wardrobe, through small openings in the tree cover. John remarked about how little evidence of wildlife in the way of tracks, there was to be seen on our way up to this point. Just a few deer tracks, and maybe those of a fox or other small mammal. The smallest varmints were most likely tunneling beneath our feet in the snow. Then some chickadees spoke up, just to remind us that we were not all alone.

Our new challenge was the low hanging spruce branches, all ladened with snow. As we passed under some of these which had prior claim to our right-of-way, they would insolently drop their load of snow upon our neck, shoulders and back, the resulting shock of cold melt-water running under our daypacks, and down our bare butts. Refreshing at first, these little assaults to our nakedness grew tedious in time. Also, the air was becoming decidedly cooler as we gained altitude. Presently, John spoke up and said that he was ready for some textile warmth. I not yet cold, but aware of it, knew that I must either keep moving, or cover, so I eased on ahead as he suited up. As I rounded the next bend, I came to a small equipment shed, familiar to me from my last time in these parts a few years ago. That time, was also in the nude, but in October. I called out to John, that we had arrived at the summit. In short order, he emerged from the tree cover, in textile cover from the waist up. After pausing for a quick photo op, I threw on my sweater and kilt, we dropped our packs, and together we scampered up the abandoned firewatch tower at the site, for a quick look. The 360 degree view of the Vermont hills to the north and west, Harriman Reservoir and the world famous (to summer naturist sunbathers) Ledges to the south, and the White Mountains in New Hampshire to the east was stunning. Immediately below us on all sides, the equally stunning grove of evergreens that we had just traveled through, smothered in rime ice, as might be an enchanted forest and village diorama to be found under a Christmas tree. In our near view, to the northwest, down in a valley was our former destination, Stratton Pond, it’s distinctive shaped formed in a broad unbroken sheet of white ice. The sun was now slipping behind a more persistent cover of clouds encroaching from the west. We did not linger as long on the tower as we might have liked, as a new kind of cold was creeping into our bones.

My hoped for moment of naked bliss, on an outcrop of granite, under a warm February sun was not to be for us that day. Both John and I enjoy playing in the snow, but would not likely consider tent camping in it as our idea of utopia. I say this, so that my reader may know where to place us in the continuum of winter outdoors enthusiasts. In my humble opinion, partaking of winter sports is a practiced game of conservation and allocation of precious resources, namely those of personal heat, portable nutrition, and water. One may choose to bundle under the latest in high tech cover or old school wool and furs, and extend one’s time away from home, or one may choose to blow it all in a quick flame of euphoric nudity. The end result is the same in either case. One sooner or later, comes crawling back to the warm hearth, cold, tired, hungry and thirsty. One may guess how the scale of opinion tips to the latter choice in our case. However, I put on everything wearable that I had in my pack, soon after arrival at the summit, knowing that inactivity, coupled with my loss of body heat, dehydration and the accumulated sweat on my skin from the nude hike up was going to cause me to chill immediately if I did not. As mentioned previously, John had already begun layering on, before we arrived, and completed his task as I was going about mine. It was a kind of bittersweet moment as we stood and wolfed down our lunch provisions while fending off the cold. In the lee of the trees on this fully wooded summit, we found it still too cold to sit down on the cold snow and be even less in motion. There was a breeze up here and the sun was now playing hide and seek with us. I was beginning to shiver a bit, and was in a hurry to get moving again, lest I truly get into trouble. Neither of us had adequate reserve cover or provisions in our small packs to last comfortably for any appreciable time up in this place. So I rushed John a bit more than he may have preferred, and we both reluctantly departed and began our trek down.

The trip down became another joyous affair. The rate of travel was much faster with gravity working for us. I was soon warm again and had all of my textile back in my pack, where I preferred it to be, in no time. Not used to extended time on snowshoes, I found downhill under these snow and terrain conditions to be surprisingly rough on my legs, I was glad that I had my trekking poles with me so that I could allow my shoulders to bear some of the burden of my decent. Also my inner right thigh began cramping, a problem solved by sipping yet more water from my camelback. Not so John, he has cast iron knees, and was happily skipping down the trail, his single pole draped over his shoulder like an old fishing pole from those easy childhood days of August long ago. John lingered at the road crossing, adjusting his pack, while hoping that the sledders would be by again to catch a glimpse of me in total nakedness. We had heard them again through the woods, as we began to drop down from the evergreen forest, back into the hardwoods of the lower slopes. But they were determined not to see us again that day. They were a no-show at that moment.

As we passed the trail sign near the trailhead once again, this time around 4:45 pm, I remarked to John that we had just traveled nearly seven miles on snowshoes for the day, most of it while naked. And we had not encountered another person on our trail, the entire day. Pointing to the mileage inscribed upon the post and noting that it said 3.4 miles to the summit, he said “no way” to my 7 mile estimate, thinking that we had not reached the indicated destination. There is a Little Stratton prior to the main summit, noted on the trail map that we carry, which had lead to some confusion earlier, as we had discussed walking just a short way up, then returning to our car. I assured him that we had “gone the distance” and been all the way to the actual summit and back, since it is the one on the map that is anchored by the abandoned fire tower. Hoodwinked again by me, his crazy friend, John agreed with me in the end, that the trail and the day had both treated us most kindly, and that we had both been willing to follow “just a few steps more”, time and again, while enjoying our naked treasure, just to see what lay around the next bend. The best kind of naked hike of all. -Dan

PS. No textiles were harmed in the research for any of these tales. If we don’t count the single startled sledder (snowmobile) at the car park in Vermont, who noticed me, as I emerged, still on snow shoes, and naked from the woods upon our return from the Stratton summit, and commented that “I might has well have left my pack in the car as well, for goodness sake.” 🙂

freewalkerma 2013

Today (26 April) was the first day to combine mid 60s F temps, bright sunshine, moderate wind, and time to play hooky from the office for a morning, in quite some time. Not having a lot of time, I headed out the back door and over to my local swimming hole in the Blue Hills reservation near my home, south of Boston. Of course others had the same idea and were on the trail as expected. I encountered several equestrian riders and a couple of hikers still dressed as for February, as I jogged along the single track under the embracing warmth of the sun, clad only in my loincloth aka running kilt. When I arrived at the AMC camp, I found no one down by the water, so I quietly dropped the running kilt and slipped into the water, which was invigorating and a bit colder than it would have been at this time during a normal spring. Since our spring is taking its sweet time to arrive this year, I found this particular swim to be all the more enjoyable, my first skinny dip of the season, my first time naked in New England waters since last November, and certainly not as brisk as those final skinny dips of last autumn. Reminding me that spring is near, if not yet here, were the many species of arriving birds to be heard high up in the trees, though not visible to me from my vantage point offshore. My only companion in sight was a solitary fisherman in a kayak a hundred yards across the water in the adjoining cove. He took little notice of my presence.

Most notable and welcome at this time of year is the lack of bugs, which makes these early season outings most special to me. Also it occurred to me as I glided along that the weeds to which I am accustomed to be grasping at my loins and other dangling parts as I swim here later during the summer are still many weeks away at this time of the year. Most pleasant but curiously unsettling in their absence. Today, the pond's surface was perfectly calm at this end by the camp, it being sheltered from the easterly breezes of the morning. Thus the sun was doing it's best to warm the upper layer of the water to which I confined my nude activity this day. The water was as smooth as glass, and so I found my soul to be similarly settled during this brief “found moment” in my busy life. -Dan

Of what matter should one's state of attire be to anyone, whether nudist or textile? OK, being a Bostonian, I'm still kinda numb after yesterday's events. I'm not going to even try hard here to relate my thoughts to the subject of nudity, nor dream that nudity provides an answer. Once again, we have been touched by senseless violence. And we all are touched every time it happens, no matter where in the world. After many thousands of years, mankind still finds it necessary to beat the living snot out of one another over disputed issues, real or imagined. Yet we remain a thriving race, a testament to the overwhelming goodness that we harbor in our hearts towards each other. Or maybe we've thrived only by the grace of God. Rest assured, I am not advocating for any one of the world's petty religions, when I mention God in which I firmly believe.

Every advance in our technology has multiplied the impact of us being able to act out the best and worst of our instincts, enabling both individuals and nations to do more of both. Ironically I was just talking with friends over lunch on Saturday about how media coverage of atrocities was virtually unknown at the beginning of our Civil War in the US. People in high society even drove out in their carriages from Washington DC with their elegant picnics to “experience” the opening battles in neighboring Virginia. They were not prepared for what the saw. Our world has not been the same since. Yesterday another of my friends caught in the turmoil less than a half mile from the finish line on Boylston Street, instinctively pounded out…more correctly thumbed out "WTF" on his smart phone and no doubt received numerous replies immediately.

Social media is the latest and perhaps the most potent tool to be placed within our hands, certainly the most fascinating to yours truly who came of age during the brutal savagery that our nation committed in the name of good in Viet Nam. Yesterday’s bombs in Boston may have been inspired and enabled in part by the expansive power of social media. Yet I remained convinced that it is that same power that will enable our species to eventually find and embrace the best of our natural being and transcend the worst of our ape based roots. Such was certainly the case yesterday in Boston. If acceptance of us occasionally going about our business in a natural state becomes more broadly appreciated through the process, so be it. I would be an even happier camper. –freewalkerma–

There has been recent talk on the net about beheading Puxatony Phil, for his sloppy work in forecasting the end of winter this year. However I believe that the pesky rodent has earned a slight reprieve. I drove up to my mother's house downeast Maine last Tuesday night to visit with her for a time. I arrived in the evening after dark and managed a twenty minute Vernal Equinox hike of the moon-the-moon variety out in a brisk 25 degrees just before midnight, barely beating my own challenge put forth to some of my friends. A worthy nude night hike for its beauty and solitude which I will try to post later.

Last Wednesday was stunning for the first full day of spring up this way. A fresh 10-12 inches of snow had fallen the previous day re-coating the intermittently bare ground, thus this morning I was greeted with the task of clearing snow from around my mother's property. Her driveway had been plowed late on Tuesday by a contractor, so the biggest task was taken care of, but there were several other areas to be tended to by hand, most important for me was the clearing of the southeast facing sun deck that graces the front of the house. Fortunately I had not had to bother with clothes since departing my own house near Boston, so I was in no mood to find any this morning. One can imagine my pleasure as I stepped out into her cold garage from the kitchen around 9:30am, crossed over behind the cars, and tossed up the overhead door to a warm spring sun smiling down upon my naked body from a brilliant blue sky, and all of that gleaming white stuff on the ground reflecting back some of that precious heat. If there is to be any fun found in shoveling snow, then today must be what snow shoveling is all about. I eagerly grabbed the shovel from the hook on the wall, padded out into the snow wearing only my VFF toe shoes, and set to work. Tossing shovel full after shovel full of this heavy wet stuff had me working up a sweat from the beginning. At about 36 degrees (F), with that powerful sun overhead, it all felt so right to me at that moment. One of those moments of unencumbered euphoria that can't be planned. Nudity and most any kind of work really do go together well. As I worked my way across the deck, the just cleared planking behind me immediately dried. By the time I reached the far end, the deck was ready for what I had rebuilt this deck for a few years ago….nude sunbathing! A quick trip to the garage to retrieve a few resin chairs and a table from winter storage, and the deck was ready for another season of outdoor nudity.

After taking care of a few other brief tasks, and walking down the drive to the mailbox to collect the waiting sale fliers and other junk from the likes of Walmart and Target, I prepared my breakfast and retired with it, to the waiting deck. A small grouping of pine trees at the foot of the drive across the lane from the mailbox, which are actually on the neighbor's property, has filled in nicely over the past couple of years, so that the neighbor folks can no longer clearly look upon our driveway, deck, nor much of any of the rest of my mother's front yard from their own recently built sunroom addition, so everyone is happy, and I can be reasonably relaxed about my nudity while out and about there. I stretched out upon a beach towel spread out over the planks and proceeded to get lost in the moment for the next two and one half hours. A respite, broken only once when some good friends from up the road, motored down on their quads. I wrapped on a towel, the only thing I had at hand, as they pulled up in the driveway and dismounted, and I was able to greet them textile (sort-of). We chatted about the weather, what else? Another humorous study in contrasts, as they were bundled up as if it was still January. I run into this occasionally in my naked rambles during the winter up here in Maine. I guess that I am just out of step. But they know me well enough that they kept their concerns about my sanity to themselves. A very distinctly Maine like point of etiquette.

It is very quiet out on the point, so with no breeze, the only sound that I remained aware of was a red squirrel that perched on the railing over my head and incessantly chitted an alarm to all who would listen about this naked human sprawled out where there had been a blanket of new snow only a hour earlier. The chickadees that constantly flitted back and forth between the shrubs and the feeder over my shoulder on the other side, paid no heed to the warning, completely ignoring my presence. I don't usually enjoy sunbathing rotisserie style, but this morning was so compelling that I just stayed with it adjusting my position every twenty minutes, till around 12:30pm when the breeze started to pick up. Even then, not yet cold, the first notion that I had of the breeze was the gentle rising woosh through the tree tops of the adjoining forest that abuts the other three sides of the yard. This called to my attention the thought that I really should get out and explore a bit before some advancing clouds put an end to my little re-acquaintance session with the sun. So I hauled up and marched off around the side of the house, crossed the back yard and sauntered off into the waiting woods without a net. Yet another tale to be told of another hour, spent naked in a snow draped northern spruce forest without encountering any other human tracks nor any socially mandated need for clothing. Suffice it to say, I received my vitamin D fix for today, and then some.

I'd have to say after this morning, that there is some promise waiting for us within this spring, if only in a warm sun so far. Hang in there you all. -Dan

Postscript as of this morning:

Well these early spring days are falling into a pattern with clear blue skies with brilliant sun for a few hours each morning followed by advancing clouds through the afternoon. The UV is more intense up here, even this early, than back home around Boston because of the lower pollution levels. After spending the past few mornings on the deck sprawled out upon a towel, I believe that I am getting a good early start on some "no textile lines" color since beginning this daily routine following the Equinox when I first shoveled the snow off the deck the other day. The temperature even nudged 40 degrees (F) this morning for the first time in at least two weeks. And my daily forays without a net up into the woods are now coming with easier footing, as the sun has been making quick work of the snow that greeted my naked presence at the garage door last Wednesday morning. In the snow's place, mud. If the temperature would only creep a bit higher, I may actually be convinced that mud season has finally arrived! I never dreamed that I might actually look forward to the arrival of one of northern New England's notorious extra seasons. One huge bonus of my early nude season this year, is NO BUGS yet! I'll take it.

It is a great pleasure to be clothes free virtually 24/7 except for the occasional trip into town, or walk across the neighbor's meadow (where I am in sight of their kitchen window), down to the river, since my arrival here in Maine last week. My advice to you naked cabin fever victims: Ignore the lingering snow and stubborn cold and grab ahold of that warm spring sunshine when you can get it. Guaranteed to lift your spirits.

Greetings from Maine. Play naked. -freewalkerma 2013-

The sun beckoned again in Boston after the big snow a few weeks ago,
so I called up my friend John P and headed over to the Middlesex Fells
reservation for a couple of hours of naked snowshoe hiking. John
knows of a forgotten corner of the park where we found no footprints
in the snow. The two of us were able to enjoy a good 45 minutes to
an hour of stomping around fully naked under the February sun. All
told, we were out in the snow (textile the rest of the time of course)
for almost three hours, a much needed winter break.

The sun was warm, the snow was bright, much less accumulation than
right after our big storm, but still plenty deep. Here in this
suburb on the northern border of Boston, on this gift of a day where
the temperature soared into the upper 40s (F), we first followed the
dog-walker's trails into the park, then turned aside and pushed
through some persistent wild raspberry thickets in the shadow of Rt
93, as the trucks and cars rumbled by over our heads. After a time
following a bit of rigorous non-trail, our direction veered away from
the highway. Presently, we came to a small forest where we found the
hardwoods standing tall against the modest hillsides. Pausing just
beyond direct view of the highway, and stepping behind a glacial
outcast, in the form of a large boulder, we dropped the rest of our
clothing, and our packs, and began our walk anew. Nothing now
between our skins and the nippy but benevolently restrained breeze.

The noise of the highway quickly faded as we moved deeper into this
secluded refuge. This new little world stretched before us in its
winter garb, the trees as naked as we now were. Rock outcroppings
were poking here and there, through the bright snow and underbrush,
lending an earthy counterpoint to the rolling but otherwise endless
white sheet. All evidence of trail concealed beneath the snow, left
us to read the contours of the land and make our own trails. Walking
over the snow covered landscape, wet on top, but still frozen
underneath gives one a unique access to the area and license to
bushwack in a way not possible during the warmer months. Everything,
was at once familiar, yet all was new for the eye to behold as never
before, the clear blue sky above, encouraging us and implying that
all was well for this fine February day. As we fell into that unique
snowshoe gallup, a kind of slightly extended gait with its own rhythm
that one only finds on snowshoes, we got to talking about how February
is slipping by. At that moment, the two of us resolved to put an end
to my cabin fever. We plotted some more naked mischief for our near
future, this time to be in Vermont.

freewalkerma 2013