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Solomans, that is precisely what I have done. I got a slide scanner that digitizes at 14 MP, much better resolution than the method I used to digitize the photos the first time around. The quality is improved but don't expect them to look like digital originals; the source is high-speed Ektachrome film, ASA 400. Zoomed in, emulsion grain is discernible.

I will include basic commentary for each repost and a few bonus photos not posted before.

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This is the same as post #1.

Sundown Quarry. A congenial crowd on the eastern slag pile. This hole was the most popular for several reasons: It was one of the largest in the complex, had multiple access points for easily entering/exiting the water and had dozens of prime limestone slabs sunbathing. The aforementioned eastern slag pile and another, smaller, on the west, provided space for bathers to gather in groups. Additionally, on the east end, an 18-foot-tall cliff allowed those inclined to dive into the deep.

Sundown. After diving off the cliff, this young lady's swim brief needed realignment. Had she gone bottomless as well, such bother could have been avoided. But clothing optional means just that: personal choice.

Sundown. At the eastern slag pile, getting ready to climb aboard an air mattress. Her left foot is on a very popular sunbathing rock.

Sundown. This girl attended three times (to my knowledge) before she summoned the gumption to take off her top. After that, never again were her breasts denied sunshine.

Sundown, eastern slag pile. The parking lot was about a quarter-mile from Sundown. Carrying a beach bag and wearing only sandals, this girl always hiked the distance nude. Those in attendance could see her advancing down the trail in all her natural glory and at day's end, her shapely bare buttocks returned up the same trail.

Sundown, eastern slag pile. Backgammon.

Half moon Quarry. Usually, this girl wore only a bikini bottom but on this day, she wore a black one-piece which she rolled down, creating an impromptu thong.

Sundown. The two individuals on the left had just finished swimming and were messing with their hair.

Goldfish Quarry. Climbing out onto her limestone perch. This was the last exposure on my roll of Ektachrome and I forgot to bring a spare. Damn! She and a girlfriend (unseen) settled down to sunbathe and all could do was curse my negligence.

Sundown. The rock this couple is sitting on is an island. The scene reminds me of Adam & Eve after the fall from grace. Downcast eyes tells the story; yes we have sinned.

The same as post #5 only better quality.

First pic -Full Moon Quarry on a hazy, lazy August afternoon. Based on my observations, Full Moon was the second most popular quarry. A wide ledge on the right in this photo, and another on the left (unseen) provided lots of sunbathing space and easy access to the water. And lots of stone blocks, on the right, provided additional towel-spreading space.

The guy and the suited girl were boyfriend-girlfriend and usually attended alone. But once in awhile, they brought their female friend. In this series, they're situated on the same promontory as in the first photo, just shot from a different angle with a longer lens. I never witnessed suited girl nude, not even topless. She didn't know what she was missing.

The same as post #6.

Pic 1: For those of you geographically inclined: an overview of the Bloomington (Packinghouse) quarry property, ¾ mile north to south and ½ mile and east to west. The red X marks adjacent quarries owned by someone else besides the elderly gent. Packinghouse skinny-dippers sometimes encroached on these holes but were regularly chased away by security patrols.

A) Goldfish Quarry.

B) Triple complex: Full moon, Half moon, Sundown, the epicenter of nude recreation at Packinghouse.

C) Long hole, truncated by new highway. The north-south highway on the right was there in the 70s. The interchange and highway to the left (west) was built in 2002. At Long Hole, Mill Pond and the triple complex, the thin red lines shows the former shorelines before the highway was built.

D) Mill Pond.

E) Buried Rosebud Quarry.

F) Icebox. After skinny-dippers were booted out, Icebox was drained and stone extraction resumed. Thirty years of quarrying has resulted in an Icebox much different, and larger, than back in the 70s. In this Google Earth image, I don't even recognize it.

G) Former parking area.

H) The old mill.

Pic 2: The triple complex as it appeared in 2005. The pink dots delineate earthen fill that wasn't present 'back in the day' and the thin red lines shows the former shoreline. The complex is 200 yards north to south and 150 yards east to west. The red X points to a rock pile about 20 feet tall, topped with a large flat slab. From there I had a splendid vantage point into most areas of the triple complex. Much of my shooting was done from atop that limestone pile.

Pics 3-8. I spent so much time at the Packinghouse quarries that I became acquainted with many of its denizens. Mocha, a townie, spent more time at the quarries than I did. That's saying a lot! During the summers he practically lived there in his Econoline van. Despite his gruff exterior, he was a mild-mannered flower child. He never went nude; always wore a loincloth.

This series was shot at Full Moon Quarry on the wide ledge visible on the upper right in the first photo in post #44. Photo three shows Mocha hanging out with two townie friends: Carla, blonde, lying down, and Leslie, seated, dark hair. Shirley, standing, slim, sandy hair, was an IU student.

Two more folks with whom I was acquainted. Tim & Laura, married, were townies but from a different town 80 miles distant. Nevertheless, they made it down every few weeks to hang out. The eastern cliff at Sundown Quarry was cut in a zigzag pattern into the hillside. In the first four photos they're atop the 18 foot cliff on one of the zigs. Or was it zag? The cut stone face displays mature patina: dark weathered graying and stains from overlying organic matter. This hole was cut long before the people featured in these photos were born.

In the last six photos, on a different day, they're in the western slag pile.

The eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry had two distinct zones: the upper, relatively flat area and the huge rock jumble that sloped down toward the water. The first photo shows the flat area where Tim & Laura (from the previous post) are visiting with Pat, seated lower right. In the second photo they are joined by Henry, upper left. In his mid 40s, he was one of the older regular townie attendees.

I've read, and you probably have too, that some nature-loving nudists vehemently deny being exhibitionists. Hogwash! In my opinion, anyone who strips naked in pubic in plain view of others is an exhibitionist to one degree or another. (I include myself in that category) Pat, a once-upon-a-time IU student turned townie, fit my definition of an ardent exhibitionist.

Oftentimes Pat would don shoes and go hiking on the network of trails through the woods connecting the other quarry holes. In photo 4, shoes on her feet, she is departing on such a walk. Forty-five minutes later, in photo 5, she returns having made a grand tour of the grounds. Her motive was nakedly transparent: to exhibit her seamlessly tanned body to as many spectators as possible. On summer weekends that would be several hundred people spread out over the 200 acres of quarry property.

The last four photos where Pat is sitting/standing at Mill Pond is today buried under 25 feet of earthen fill topped with asphalt and freeway traffic. Pity.

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got til it's gone
They paved paradise and put up a parking lot (Highway)

Paradoxodarap,

Thanks for this amazing thread, but especially thanks for that sequence with the woman in the red bandanna and her husband. Loved it.

GREAT STORIES, GREAT PHOTOS.
ONEO F THE BEST POST ON OCC EVER!!
PLEASE, GO ON!
THANHS A LOT

brunettesrule, ratbol,

I'm glad y'all are enjoying the repost of these photos. When I first posted them 3 years ago I had digitized them with a low-resolution point-and-shoot camera set on close-up mode. The results were disappointing. Now, digitized with a 14MP slide scanner, they look better than ever, especially this series.

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During college, instead of taking off for the summer like most students, I remained in town to work and help pay for school. For those 3 months I became a townie. Weather permitting, weekdays after work I pedaled my bicycle out to the quarries (10 minute ride) and enjoyed tranquil evenings with my growing circle of friends. It was during those times I came to understand how Sundown Quarry got its name. As the sun sank low in the west, radiance reflecting off the long fetch of water washed the eastern cliffs with shimmering patterns, ebbing, flowing, morphing through deepening shades of rose, mauve and magenta until, at last, when the final glimmer of twilight vanished over the horizon, starlight alone shined down on the ancient stone.

I didn't spend all my time skulking in the woods with my Minolta SLR; most of the time my bare butt was parked on the rocks with my fellow skinny-dippers. Oh sure, in doing so I missed hundreds of photo opportunities* but I didn't care. Capturing candid images of human wildlife in its natural habitat was pleasing but I derived far greater gratification from schmoozing with the ladies up-close-and-personal.

The crowd at Packinghouse was a microcosm of society; all personality types were represented; those who preferred peace and quiet and solitude, pot-smoking party animals and everything in between. Those who sought to put the 'social' in social nudity gathered in the eastern slag pile at Sundown. On sultry summer weekends, scores of nudists spread their towels and shoehorned themselves onto every available semi-flat surface. Because of the helter-skelter arrangement of rocks, people sat and reclined at odd angles and at different elevations. And if you were lucky, you were treated to a view ordinarily reserved for gynecologists.

Acquaintances galore I made during my years at Packinghouse -students, townies, men, women- but true friends I could count on one hand. Kate, an IU student, spent her summers in town, attending summer school and hanging out at the quarries. And by the end of each season she wore a seamless tan of rich dark chocolate. Had she not been romantically involved, very easily I could have fallen for Kate. She was the kind of girl any man would covet: intelligent, witty, sensitive, spontaneous, playful, and, to top it off, very easy on the eyes.

Second semester of my sophomore year I had a class with Kate, journalism 212. Course requirements included writing assignments and photographic projects. Her forte was English composition and mine, black & white photo processing. That first week of class after New Year's we forged a partnership; we agreed to help each other strengthen our weak points. During group study sessions, Kate was brutally honest in critiquing my writing and diligently edited my mistakes. From her, I learned much. And I gave her the benefit of my years of darkroom experience, demonstrating the myriad techniques one could employ to transform marginal negatives into prints worthy of framing. The result of our academic mutual aid: we aced our midterms.

As winter melted into spring and opening day at the quarries drew near, I asked Kate if she would pose for my final photographic project. Over lunch one Friday at the student union building, I outlined my vision: a photo documentary of Packinghouse, featuring her smiling face and lean, toned, tanned body reclining on the rocks, walking through the woods, diving off cliffs and swimming in the deep clear waters, things I had the pleasure of watching her do countless times. I was stoked at the prospect of snapping up-close photos (and lots of them) of this nude nymph with the baddest tan in all of quarryland.

However, she declined my request and her reason was valid; photo projects were always placed on exhibit in Ernie Pyle Hall, the journalism building. She wasn't squeamish about public nudity but she drew the line at having her personal and academic lives intersect; she didn't care to have her classmates and professors see her naked.

And so, I was compelled to photograph from afar. Kate, dark tan, oiled, and her friend Julie at water's edge in the eastern slag pile, Sundown Quarry.

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*All the photos in this entire collection represents a tiny fraction of the people who patronized the Packinghouse quarries during the years I went there.

1&2: The west end of Sundown Quarry. This offers a perspective of its size; only ¼ of the quarry is visible. Western slag pile in the background.

3&4: Sundown. This girl was an infrequent visitor. Perhaps she should have attended more often to put some color on her breasts.

5&6: Full moon. This girl's boyfriend had already jumped in the water and was urging her to jump off the ledge and join him. The drop was only 7 feet but she wouldn't jump. Instead, she went the long way and scrambled down a slag pile into the water.

7&8: Mill pond. Baby oil time.

9&10: On a Friday, two women and their male friend spent the noon hour at Long Hole. They arrived, stripped naked, ate lunch, relaxed awhile, then got dressed and returned to their places of employment. The quarries were so close to town (4 minutes by car) many times on weekdays I observed townies spending their lunch hour soaking up sunshine rather than sitting inside some fast food joint.

Many thanks for adding to this wonderful thread. Your photos are absolutely beautiful.

This thread combines two of my favorite themes - 1) outdoor, environmental nudes, and 2) women with full bushes. Absolutely stunning.

Pedestal Rock, in the far southeastern corner of Sundown Quarry, was a place women could spread their towels and relax without being bothered by Catman. The rock was visible from the eastern slag pile 80 feet away and from the clifftop trails, but it was physically isolated from the flow of foot traffic. Had Catman tried to wheedle his way close, that would have exposed him as a world-class jerk.

In being a camera-wielding voyeur, I suppose some might lump me in with the likes of Catman -but with two significant differences: First, I plied my proclivity from a discreet distance, never disturbed anyone, and in all cases my subjects were completely unaware they were being captured on film. And second, my motive was pure: to preserve for posterity this era in quarry history. (Disclaimer: my pure motive didn't occur to me until years later.)

In the first photo, the girl on the pedestal is talking with a male friend barely visible on a rock below. Photo 5: I love watching women fuss with their hair, anytime, anywhere. And when they're naked in public outdoors, all the better. The last photo is one of my favorites among all those I snapped during my years at the quarries. What a stark juxtaposition: soft curvaceous flesh set against hard angular stone.

This girl's skin was so uniformly pale one could reasonably assume she had never sunbathed, neither swimsuit clad or naked. Was this her public nude sunbathing debut? Visible evidence pointed in that direction. She could have chosen a secluded rock in one of the dozens of slag piles scattered all over the property but instead she charged headlong into the heart of nudie country, Sundown Quarry. She may have feared that being alone and isolated would have left her vulnerable so, for safety's sake, she spread her towel in view of others.

On that sultry Saturday morning in July, Sundown was sparsely peopled; a half-dozen reclined in the eastern slag pile and a twentysomething couple floated lazily on air mattresses. Walking past on the south shore trail, Catman stopped and, unbeknownst to pale girl, gave her full-frontal nakedness a thorough ogling. He didn't intrude on her space; having visually consumed his fill, he turned and walked away. The day was young and he had many more quarry holes to inspect to see what sort of voyeur opportunities awaited.

Pale girl must have felt herself becoming sunburned; an hour after arriving, she got dressed and departed. Or maybe she left because more and more people kept arriving and she felt overly exposed. After this one visit I never saw her again, not at Sundown or any of the other quarry holes. Perhaps she decided that public nudity wasn't her cup of tea.

The Budweiser bottles were not discarded by pale girl; someone else dumped them. I never could understand why someone could carry in a heavy cooler full of beer (or whatever) and then, at the end of the day, not be able to carry out the lightweight empties. Trash was an ongoing issue at Packinghouse. I did my part by picking up and bagging trash in the immediate area where I was on any given day. And Mocha was always willing to transport the full bags to the dump in his van.

Others pitched in and helped with trash removal. The core user group at Sundown consisted of about 30 individuals who had a vested interest in keeping the quarry a clean, safe, civil place to hang out. Barbara was one of the long-time female core users. Her recipe of vegetarian diet, stress management, fresh air, yoga and full-body exposure to sunshine (in moderation) kept her physique youthful looking and her attitude on the positive side of the ledger. This petite brunette never divulged her exact age but I could estimate; once in a while she spoke of skinny-dipping in the quarries during her undergraduate years when LBJ was in the White House.

Barb always brought a sturdy, stiff-bristled push broom she used to sweep broken glass and detritus off the rocks where people spread their towels. And whenever needed, she swept broken glass off the south shore trail before anyone cut their bare feet. I can't speak for the other quarry holes, whether or not they had a dedicated patron like Barb. If they didn't, perhaps cleanliness was one of the reasons Sundown was so popular.

I absolutely LOVE the contrast between the dark hair and fair skin in that last series, Paradoxodarap.

The following is not a sexist statement but rather, the result of years of firsthand observation: college age women spend far more time sunbathing than their male peers.

After a long cold winter spent bundled in overcoats and trudging through snowdrifts, the first blush of warm spring weather sent scores of IU co-eds flocking to the quarries to get a jump on their summer tans. April was a month that saw, not only large crowds at Packinghouse, but also female-to-male ratios in the ballpark of 2-to-1. For a guy like me who enjoyed showing off and perusing fine female flesh, those warm spring days spent socializing amid a predominately female crowd made for enormously pleasing afternoons.

Summer was high season at Packinghouse and peak numbers varied by time of day and day of week. When the spring semester at IU adjourned, the vast majority of college students left town but 5,000 or so remained for summer school. Most of the summer students, it seemed, took fewer credit hours than during the main academic year, leaving them plenty of time to hang out at the quarries. Any time of day, students could be found there. On weekdays after work, townies came out to enjoy the long evenings and many stayed until dark. And on weekends, when students didn't have classes and townies didn't work, the 200 acres of Packinghouse played host to hundreds of people, virtually all of them free-spirited nudists.

Late August saw increasing attendance at Packinghouse as IU students made their annual migration back to Bloomington. And on the last weekend before the fall semester commenced, 40,000 students in the 18-22 demographic had nothing to do but cut loose and party. And for many, that meant skinny-dipping at the quarries. On that manic weekend, quarry first-timers experienced the same epiphany as I did at the beginning of my freshman year: here's a place you can run around naked in public and it's perfectly legal!

Quarry old-timers, as they approached Sundown on the trail from the parking lot, simply proceeded to their familiar favorite rock. But in late August I could spot first-timers a mile away. When the ocean of bare skin came into their field of view, without exception they stopped and looked around, sometimes for lengthy periods. That was the tell-tale giveaway. Only a handful turned around and departed; most, after reconnoitering, proceeded to an unoccupied rock. College students are adventurous souls who thirst to experience all things new and exciting and social nudity fit that definition. Based on the number of first-time college guys and girls whose bodies sported creamy white tan lines, I can conclude that for most, if not all of them, being naked under the sun wasn't part of their recreational repertoire.

Such was the case for the three girls in these photos. On that final August weekend before classes began, down the trail they came from the parking lot and stopped at the junction of the south shore trail. Tell-tale. After a minute spent looking around and talking quietly among themselves, they proceeded to the western slag pile. There, they spent another minute trying to decide which rock would be suitable to spread their towels. Finding no rock to their liking, they reversed course and walked the short distance to the eastern slag pile. Another minute of looking didn't result in a consensus as to which rock would be suitable so they retreated up the trail toward the parking lot. I figured they had departed or were going to look for a private rock in some isolated slag pile.

Ten minutes later, they appeared in the far southeastern corner of Sundown and made their way over the jumble of rocks, finally stopping at pedestal rock. There, on the pedestal and the flat rocks that formed its base, they spread their towels. For several minutes they remained clothed and then, as if daring each other, slowly they began removing articles of clothing until, bit by bit, all were naked. God! I love first-time nudist college girls!

That first visit led to repeat visits by the trio, always on pedestal rock where they could be a part of the scene yet maintain a measure of separation from the others. Their weekend visits continued through September and early October until finally, cold weather brought an end to the season.

In the first photo, in the eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry, Stephanie is talking with Bill, 35ish, lower right. Likely, he indulged his fetish for ladies undergarments at home and he also wore them at Packinghouse. He preferred white low-rise panties which, from a distance, passed for a speedo but up close, lacy frills sewn into the elastic waistband and leg openings were easily seen.

During late August, many first-time college girls glanced and grinned at this man who had the balls to wear panties in public. But wasn't his behavior less brazen than being naked? After all, he was covered. Based on the reactions to Bill that I witnessed, many first-time (and some regular) female attendees apparently felt that a man wearing panties was . . . unusual . . . but most seemed amused by his behavior: openly flaunting his fetish.

The cliff at Sundown was cut into the hillside in a zigzag pattern. The water was deep and the cliff jumpable along its entire length except in the far southeastern corner in the immediate vicinity of Pedestal Rock. In this series, Stephanie is scrambling over rock jumbles and navigating clifftop trails above Pedestal Rock on a mission to jump off the cliff which she did often. In photo six, she's standing 18 feet above the water on a point, one of the cliff zigs. Note the upturned faces in the eastern slag pile in the background. After jumping, she climbed out and sat on a rock for a short time, becoming acquainted with two suited newcomers.

Bill wasn't the only one to swim in ladies underwear at Sundown Quarry. This girl wearing the white T-shirt didn't know the couple with the dog; she was just using their rock to exit the water. I had never seen underwear girl before this day when she came down the trail from the parking lot, looked around for a minute then made her way to water's edge. After removing her cut-off denim shorts she swam for five minutes then, after climbing out, pulled on her shorts and departed. I never saw her again and I was there a lot. Such was the case for some first-timers at Packinghouse; they came, they swam and they left. After coming out to see for themselves this hotbed of hedonism, for whatever reason they chose never to return. Their loss.

This couple sometimes spread their blanket at Mill Pond where Fido could easily enter the quarry on the rock face that sloped gently into the water.

Rosebud Quarry was the oldest on the property, dating back to the late 19th century. Named for the mass of wild rose growing at water's edge, throughout the summer a profusion of pink and white blossoms pleased the eye and filled the air with heavenly scent. By quarry standards, Rosebud was small, about 60×60 feet, smaller than a baseball diamond but nonetheless it was a true gem. There were no cliffs; situated on flat ground amid mature hardwood forest, the hole was cut straight down into weathered gray bedrock. Only few rocks were suitable for sunbathing in the two small slag piles festooned with Virginia creeper and honeysuckle. Whenever I went to Rosebud, I felt my stress level recede. The ambiance of forest, flowers, water, and stone made it seem I was stepping into a tranquil Japanese garden.

Rosebud was off the beaten track and favored by few, only those who sought peace and quiet away from the sometimes rowdy crowds at the bigger quarries. In the first four photos this young woman is enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon. She tossed her air mattress into the quarry then slipped into the water and climbed aboard. I did nothing to disturb her solitude; from a distance, in silence, I captured her on film then retreated quietly into the forest.

Occasionally on summer weekends I camped at Packinghouse, always at Rosebud to avoid being disturbed by late-night skinny-dipping drunks who sometimes descended on Sundown Quarry after the bars closed. One July Friday evening I loaded my camping essentials into my panniers and pedaled out to Packinghouse. Seldom did I encounter anyone at Rosebud but on this occasion I did: two nude young women floating on air mattresses. When the pair noticed me approaching, walking my bicycle along the trail, the skinny blonde rolled off her raft into the water and the buxom brunette quickly did the same.
“Hey,” I greeted them.
The brunette brushed a wayward strand of wet hair out of her eyes. “Hi.” Her tone was civil but her furrowed brow betrayed her true mindset: she was irritated this interloper had invaded 'their space.' What did they expect? Absolute privacy? Anyone who skinny-dipped at Packinghouse, even at isolated Rosebud, ran the risk of being seen.

I leaned my bike against a tree, stripped naked, then set about unpacking my panniers and erecting my nylon mountain tent. Neither woman said a word; they remained submerged up to their necks and clung to their rafts while occasionally glancing in my direction. Owing to the mass of wild rose surrounding the hole (not to mention, poison ivy) there was only one place to access the water, right by the decrepit, rusting-away equipment shed, right where I was setting up my tent in a small clearing in the undergrowth.

Pushing her raft, the brunette swam toward shore. She climbed out and, using the raft as a gigantic fig leaf, stepped three paces to her beach bag and turned her back, affording a splendid up-close eyeful of her shapely, dripping wet buttocks. She dropped the raft, bent over, (nice!) picked up her towel, then quickly wrapped it around her torso.

Standing at the access point, her back turned, the brunette held her friend's large beach towel horizontally with both arms extended wide. The blonde climbed out of the water, stepped forward into the colorful terrycloth and wrapped it around herself. Nary a snippet of private flesh was revealed in the process. Hastily, without speaking, they stuffed their possessions into beach bags then, toting bags and rafts, they departed down the trail into the deep woods where they could dry off and get dressed in privacy. In a way, their reluctance to reveal themselves was hotter than if they had been seasoned nudists.

Three weeks later I was skulking in the woods with my camera, seeking photo opportunities. At Rosebud, I spied the same two women floating on their red rafts. I smiled. Now, their nakedness could not escape my scrutiny.

Rosebud Quarry, its deep clear waters, vine covered rock piles and mass of wild rose with pink and white blossoms . . . this heaven on earth where skinny-dippers frolicked under the summer sun is now buried beneath a freeway interchange. Gone forever. Rest in peace.

1: The eastern slag pile (upper section) at Sundown Quarry. The heavily traveled south shore trail is in the background. There, on peak days it felt like nude sunbathing alongside a busy downtown sidewalk.

2: The western slag pile at Sundown. This area was lightly used because this end of the quarry was quite shallow. In contrast, from any rock in the eastern slag pile one could safely dive into the deep.

3: Seated on the wall at Half Moon Quarry. Full Moon, Half Moon and Sundown laid side-by-side, north to south in that order. All were in the same excavation in the hillside so they could be considered as one 'hole,' but each had a distinct basin of water, hence their individual names, and characteristics. Full Moon was deep, 40 feet. Half Moon was shallower with more slag piles for sunbathing. And Sundown had the most slag pile acreage of all, making it 'party central' on busy summer weekends.

The three basins' close proximity made for much crossover; those who spread their towels at one quarry often visited the other two; all day long barefoot bathers strolled back and forth to swim in one quarry for a while and/or talk with friends, before climbing out and dunking their bare butts in another quarry. On peak days better than half of the total number of attendees on the entire property could be found somewhere in this triple complex.

4: Long Hole had another name: some called it 'The mile long quarry' even though it was only 1/4 mile long. Even so, along its entire length was a nearly continuous slag pile, both up at trail level and sloping steeply into the long, narrow pit. Difficult access to the water made Long Hole a sparsely used quarry for swimming but the slag piles were favored by those seeking a place to sunbathe in relative privacy like this couple. From a distance of 70 yards I stealthily watched for a time to see if they might get jiggy but no such luck. They were just enjoying quiet time for two.

5: On slag pile near water's edge, Long Hole.

6: Out for a stroll near Long Hole. Pat and this couple weren't the only ones to venture on long walks, leaving every stitch of clothing behind. Many others did as well. And I did the same while skulking around seeking photo ops. No need to worry about having your stuff stolen; slag piles everywhere offered thousands of hiding places for towels, clothes, etc. Nudity was legal at Packinghouse but even so, hiking the grounds with no possibility of covering up lent an extra measure of excitement to being naked in public. Especially when encountering groups of clothed young women. In late August, on the trail between the parking lot and Sundown, neophyte college girls were easy to spot; upon spying their first nudist, their body language and wide smiles always gave them away. And I knew what they were thinking: Omigod! It is true!

Whenever I wasn't skulking in the woods with my camera or sunbathing on the rocks amid my fellow nudists, I was in the water, either floating on my air mattress, swimming or snorkeling. Wearing a mask, snorkel and fins, I skimmed along the surface, peering down at submerged rock jumble mountains that sloped to the bottom. Whenever I pleased, I drew a long breath and dove deep into the abyss, 20, 30 even 40 feet down. There, in that silent world, the bottom was littered with discarded stone cutting equipment from bygone eras; pulleys, thick steel cables, gigantic gears and a host of contorted metal in every shape and size, all iced with fine gray-brown sediment. Young crappie and bluegill schooled amongst the junk, seeking safe haven from predatory bass and catfish. Passageways through the rock jumble mountains begged exploration; twisting, turning, I made my way slowly through a passage until I emerged on the other side of the mountain and only then, reluctantly, returned to the world of sun and air.

Snorkeling enhanced my enjoyment of the quarries; it offered adventure and also underwater voyeur opportunities. Whenever girls went swimming, alone or in groups, I drew a long breath, submerged, and kicked my fins a stealthy distance below. My mask aimed upward, I relished an entirely different perspective of their lean, lithe bodies slicing gracefully through the water. If only contemporary digital camera technology had existed back then. With a pocket-sized waterproof HD camcorder I could have shot more underwater video than Jacques Cousteau. And above water, the same; a tiny digital spycam I could have concealed in practically anything and captured thousands of candid up-close images.

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When the couple in this series first arrived at Sundown in spring 1980, they kept to themselves on a small ledge on the north shore. (First five photos, taken in April. The redbud trees are blooming.) From the get-go, the guy embraced the spirit of the quarries but not the girl; she wore a black one-piece. However, to please her boyfriend, after getting in the water she peeled off the polyester and parked it on a rock. Then, for a time, they swam and sat neck deep on submerged rocks a good distance from other bathers. And when they finished swimming, the girl slipped into her suit underwater and the two of them relaxed on the ledge in the sunshine.

Staying submerged allowed her to skinny-dip unseen by those above the waterline. But underwater, through my mask, I enjoyed private viewings of this girl who didn't want others to see her naked. Funny how the male mind works: dozens of IU co-eds could be nude sunbathing in the eastern slag pile and I fixated on the one reluctant to show her body.

Then came that Saturday. After the couple spread their towels on the ledge, the girl peeled off her red IU T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts, revealing, not a black one-piece but rather, white panties and brassiere. Posthaste, her underwear was lying atop the discard pile. Between their last visit and this one the guy must have used gentle persuasion to encourage his girlfriend to join the bares. Either that or she made the determination that if others saw her naked she wouldn't die of embarrassment. Whatever the case, she wasn't immediately accepting of others viewing her body, not just yet; as soon as her panties hit the dirt, she hopped down onto the lower ledge and jumped feet first into the water. Total time exposed to the Sundown crowd: ten seconds but it was more than she had ever done in the past.

After swimming awhile, the pair returned to the ledge. The girl hurried out and laid on her towel on her stomach for a long time before rolling over onto her back. The ledge was small and they had it to themselves but it was visible across the water from the eastern slag pile and also from the north shore trail about 30 feet away. (In the first five photos, the gravelly area, top center. In the first photo, Catman is prowling, upper left) For three hours the couple stayed at Sundown, swimming and sunbathing, and the girl remained naked the entire time, quite an accomplishment for this neophyte nudist. And yes, she attracted lots of attention; guys sat on a ledge higher up, ogling.

As the summer progressed, the couple branched out and utilized other rocks at Sundown; a rock in the western slag pile, (photos 6-8) and a rock in the far southeastern corner in the vicinity of Pedestal Rock. (Photos 9 & 10) Then, at midsummer, they waded in amongst the crowd in the eastern slag pile. That was when I, and other quarry regulars, made proper acquaintance with Kevin and Marissa.

Marissa possessed the most magnificent mammaries I had the privilege to immortalize on film. And, to my discerning eye, they were 100% natural as were the scores of other breasts on public display; no matter what their size or shape, nary a pair appeared to have been silicone enhanced; no tell-tale, abnormally rounded upper slopes or surgical scars on the undersides.

For the remainder of the summer, during repeated visits to the quarries, Marissa made no effort to minimize her nakedness. Whether hiking through the woods, walking back and forth between water and rock, seated cross-legged or sprawled on her towel, her relaxed body language confirmed she had wholeheartedly adopted a newfound attitude: Here I am, all of me, and everyone is welcome to look. Yes, even Catman.

Terrific stories and photos. I just realized that what dates the photos for me - more than the color or the clothing - is the hairstyle of the guys. You just don't see guys with hair cuts (and mustaches) like that these days.

I'm not sure when the era of cheesy mustaches and big hair ended for men. Maybe it was 'round about the same time pubic hair fell out of favor with women.

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This rock at water's edge in the eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry was always in high demand. It's the same rock feature in post #60. On a hot August weekend before the fall semester began, these two groups of IU students claimed the same rock, the first group on Saturday, the other on Sunday. The previous spring, the couple in the last five photos sometimes brought textbooks and notepads and studied while soaking up the sun. Speaking strictly for myself, the only subject I cared to study at the quarries was anatomy. On this wild & crazy, end-of-summer party weekend, this couple put academics aside; they were just enjoying the day and each other. They never hesitated to express affection but their behavior never went past a PG rating.

Certainly, they were more discreet than this couple.

https://forum.oneclickchicks.com/showthread.php?t=145926

This thread describes growing up in the American late 1970's/early 1980's perfectly...so much better than I could ever do. All we're missing is a.m. radio and Ronrico rum.

Just showed this to my wife and she dammed near had a heart attack
 

http://www.oneclickchicks.com/th/7/6.../7/8488943.jpg

This set is of my wife and I, She just about shit a brick when these were shown to her and her response was "who in the hell took these photo's? ". My question is did you get any in our more hmmm "intimate moments'? :) Good IU days. She's retired now so we don't mind you posting them.:cool:

topspinner,

Coming of age during the 70s was the best; that decade possessed a certain vibe unmatched before, or after. But, I suppose every generation believes 'their time' was the best. I feel fortunate to call the 70s 'my time.' The era of sex, drugs & rock 'n' roll was more than just a period in history . . . it was an attitude.

exit222,

On a forum with over a million members, it's not surprising that some of you find yourselves in these photos. Sadly, I did not capture any of your more intimate moments, but not for lack of trying; I took my SLR every time I went to the quarries. Had you and your wife been doing the deed while I was there, and if you had been within range of my telephoto lens, I guarantee both of you would be featured stars in the hardcore section.

Who am I? your wife wants to know. Among other things, I've been an avid photo hobbyist since age 13. Over the decades I've taken tens of thousands of photos, a wide range of subjects, and these Packinghouse Quarry photos remain one of my favorite collections. Her comment underscores something I wrote earlier; I was so stealthy in my activity, no one was aware they were being captured on film. That's how I prefer it: snap candid images of people just being themselves. The moment preserved, frozen in time.

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Packinghouse wasn't a playground solely for nudists, exhibitionists, voyeurs, gawkers, hikers, motorbikers and fishermen. The towering cliffs were magnets for rock climbers. Most of the cliffs plunged straight down into deep water but in a few places, notably the south end of Long Hole, wide dry ledges allowed climbers to practice rappelling. The more experienced among them climbed using minuscule finger and toeholds in the weathered gray face of the stone.

Lucy first came to Packinghouse with friends to go rock climbing. The group, from Indianapolis, learned from B-town friends about the quarry cliffs, but those friends failed to mention that after a day of climbing, they could rinse away sweat and grime au naturel. On all of their subsequent climbing trips, Lucy and her cohorts made Sundown Quarry their last stop before heading home.

In photos 1-4 Lucy is seated on two different island rocks in the west end of Sundown and in #5, she's on a rock on the north shore with one of her friends who never got naked. Not once. Dang!

This area, in the far southeastern corner of Sundown Quarry, was favored by women who sought a measure of separation from the crowd but still wanted to be part of the scene and exhibit their bodies. In that respect, these two were much like contemporary women who post naked photos of themselves online from the safety of home. The woman standing in photo 5 has nipple piercing studs, uncommon for that era.

Even though this area near Pedestal Rock was physically isolated from other popular sunbathing rocks, it was within easy reach of my telephoto lens from the clifftop trails. It's the same rock as in post #63, photos 9&10. But even without optics I could easily move within optimal viewing range. And the method I used was far less conspicuous than Catman's overland prowling. Floating on my air mattress, I would drift in the direction of Pedestal Rock. I made my approach slowly, lazily, so as not to spook women into covering up. I kept my distance, no closer than 30 feet, and didn't let my gaze linger too long. Because I was naked, never did I receive the kind of excoriation routinely hurled at Catman. Only once did a woman cover up when I drifted in too close to 'her space.' But it was too late; I had already entered her nakedness into my mental catalog.

These two furry girls were regular visitors who spread their towels at many different quarries. They always attended in tandem. I suppose each felt safer having a friend along. Over the course of one summer I saw them at Mill pond, Full moon and, in the first two photos, at Sundown in the same clifftop area where I photographed Tim and Laura (post #46, first four photos) only shot from the opposite direction. Sundown was situated such that hillside runoff flowed into the hole. Note murky water in the background. Ordinarily clear, the quarry had been sullied by heavy overnight thunderstorms. In the first two photos the guy sitting to the right (mostly out of the frame) was not Catman and he was not with the girls near as I could tell. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt he just sat there visually ravishing their bodies. And for the longest time, they let him.

In the last five photos taken on a different day, the pair is at Goldfish Quarry, hanging out with unknown dude.

I have a question for nudist girls who color their dark hair blonde: why don't you follow through and dye your pubes too? The blonde in this series, and a few other quarry regulars, sported the same two-tone, light-over-dark hair fashion. The young women who skinny-dipped at Packinghouse made an effort to keep themselves fit, trim, and healthy. And it showed; they looked great. But it seems to me if they wanted to look their very best, they would have paid attention to detail and made sure the cuffs matched the collar.

Although many skinny-dipped at Goldfish, very few were privy to its underwater treasure. Goldfish are not native to Indiana. Someone had to stock them. My best guess: an IU student, or possibly more than one, was leaving campus for the summer, or, having graduated was leaving for good, and couldn't take their aquarium so instead of flushing the fish, they released them into the quarry. At least two dozen survived and thrived. While snorkeling the depths amongst these docile creatures, some of which measured 12 inches, I was transported far away from the American Midwest; by all appearances, I was immersed in a tropical lagoon in some South Sea island paradise. How fortunate for those fish to be able to live out their natural lives in total freedom. Every one of us should be so lucky.

Griffy Lake, just north of the IU campus, was another place townies and students went to skinny-dip. The lake was on city owned property but the police department made busting simple nudity a low enforcement priority which in practice meant the State of Indiana public nudity laws were never enforced. Perhaps the local powers-that-be reasoned that setting aside a place for exhibitionists to ply their proclivity would translate to fewer instances of indecent exposure in the community at large.

Anywhere along the north shore beyond sight of the causeway skinny-dippers spread their towels on the narrow strip of rocky shoreline. But all was not hunky-dory at Griffy; a city ordinance that prohibited swimming was enforced. Every day during warm weather, usually in the early afternoon, a Parks Department employee walked along the north shore to remind those in the water that swimming wasn't allowed. A first offense garnered a warning and the second offense and beyond, increasingly stiff fines. After the parks employee had departed, everyone went back in the water. This cat & mouse game continued for years. During my four years at IU, I went to Griffy occasionally, just for a change of pace, but I preferred the quarries by a wide margin because of the clear cold water and clean limestone slabs for sunbathing. But when Packinghouse became unavailable in July '81, Griffy was the only game in town.

The first two photos shows the rocky point that was the single largest place along the shoreline where people could gather like they did in the eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry. In the first photo Tim and Laura are camped on the outcroppings and in the second photo, Henry had come along and spread his towel. All three were Packinghouse exiles.

Just around the corner from the rocky point, a small inlet had a few places to hang out. In photos 3 & 4 this couple was taking a break from swimming on a steep stone slope and in photos 5 & 6 these two women found much better place to stretch out and relax. The small breasted woman on the right worked in a garden supply store I patronized occasionally when I purchased fertilizer for my cannabis.

I didn't have as many photographic opportunities at Griffy as I did at Packinghouse. Far fewer people were in attendance and the geographic layout made it virtually impossible to skulk in the woods on the hillside and see people sunbathing at water's edge. However, when they were floating on air mattresses they could be seen unless trees blocked the view.

To compensate for the deficiencies mentioned above, I did a bit of covert up-close photography. My Minolta SLR's bulk made it difficult to conceal in a gym bag and more than once the loud, mirror-slapping shutter release sound resulted in turned heads and questioning glances. Most of those photos were not worth keeping -over/under exposed, out of focus, crappy composition- but I did manage to snap two presentable pictures of Becky (last two photos) another Packinghouse exile. For the last two months before the quarries shut down, she was a regular visitor in the eastern slag pile at Sundown.

I encourage exit222, and any others who might have patronized the Packinghouse quarries 'back in the day,' to post your recollections, stories, and photos if you have them. All of those accounts will add to the historical record of this amazing place that for generations of skinny-dippers, both townies and IU students, was a mainstay of their recreational lives and a source of much joy.

Really wish we could start a "go fund me" account to get paradox a telephoto lens.

and a time machine to send it back to when he took these pictures

To be fair, he might already have a time machine. It would explain how he keeps coming up with "new" pictures from almost 40 years ago, and it would also explain his name. If we're sending things back in time, though, a DSLR with a good video function would be a good choice. From the front, they still look almost the same as SLRs did back then, and the subjects could never imagine it could record video at all, much less when he's not looking through it and pushing the button.

Great pics and stories!