Quarry skinny-dipping
 

Just outside the town where I attended college, a complex of abandoned limestone quarries served as swimming holes for university students and townies alike. Deep, clear, cold water and clean stone slabs on which to sunbathe were an irresistible combination. Since the property was privately owned, nudity was perfectly legal and widely practiced. The quarry denizens weren't trespassing; they were welcomed by the property owner, an elderly gent. Wearing his customary denim coveralls, green plaid shirt and wide-brimmed straw hat, he made an occasional appearance to sit and visit with the lovely young ladies running around in their birthday suits. I earnestly believe that's what kept him kicking well into his eighties.

The quarry property had eight separate holes filled with water, each with a name befitting its unique character; Long hole, Mill pond, Icebox, Sundown, Half moon, Full moon, Rosebud and Goldfish. The holes were widely dispersed on the forested 200 acres (give or take) and connected by decrepit gravel service roads and a network of foot paths crisscrossing the property. On sultry summer days, scores of people were in attendance, each relaxing at the quarry hole of their choosing.

Throughout the 70s and into the early 80s skinny-dipping reigned but in July 1981 it all came crashing down when the elderly gent passed away and his middle-aged son inherited the property. He promptly locked the gate across the access road and had the sheriff arrest anyone who dared defy the brand-new signs, stating: NO TRESPASSING. The party was over.

The economic boom of the mid 80s spurred demand for building stone and the quarries reopened. Icebox was drained and stone extraction resumed. Sundown and Full moon became dump sites for tons of new slag: fractured overburden and blocks not suitable for milling. What had been a hippie haven became a mining moonscape.

The dawn of the new millennium brought more change; in 2002 a four-lane divided highway was built across the property, burying part of Long hole, half of Mill pond and all of Rosebud. Now, whenever I visit my alma mater and cruise my Camry over the graveyard of memories, all I can do is sigh. Time changes everything and not always for the better. Today, the spirit of the quarries lives on only in the hearts of those who loved the place and in photographs.

These photos, taken between August '79 and July '81, are guaranteed *not* reposts and in fact, are making their internet debut right here on OCC.

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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 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.

Exciting pictures from good old days!
 

Hope you got some more...

wow, this is awesome. The story, the pics, the memories....:)

Thats because where I went to college, there was a similar hangout. I had to look at the pics carefully, but clearly they are not from my school. But I sure did flash back, though!

It is sad what happened in this case. Naturally, I would like to know where this was, but of course that is up to you.
But i'm still curious - what was it like to be there in person, especially on a peak day? How many people might you find?

Judging from the vegetation, my best guess is California. I could be wrong though. It might be Texas or really - just about anywhere - midwest, south, west. It just doesn't look that east coast somehow..

thanks!

Klondike

Best Third Post Ever.

Estimating peak usage is difficult; people were scattered over 200 acres at eight different quarry holes. And some didn't swim. They just laid a towel on a stone slab in one of the dozens of slag piles on the property and enjoyed some peace and quiet and solitude. And for couples, some sought seclusion to do what lovers do.
Trying to estimate peak usage by the number of vehicles in the parking lot would have yielded inaccurate results. The quarries were a mere 10 minute bicycle ride from campus and many students, myself included, used pedal power to get there.

My best guess: on sultry summer weekends, somewhere between two and three hundred people were scattered about the property, a fairly young demographic, mainly twenty and thirtysomethings. And always, there was a roughly even gender split; it wasn't like some clothing optional venues where there's a hundred guys and two girls. At any one time, the largest number I ever saw at Sundown Quarry was around 80 individuals.

Since the quarries were so close to town, weekday evenings saw a spike in usage. For some townies, happy hour didn't involve patronizing dingy, smoke-filled taverns, quaffing discounted adult beverages. Instead, they went skinny-dipping in the fresh air and late-day sunshine.

The quarries were (and what's left of them still are) located in the American heartland. Dimfoy's comment suggests that he knows where. Dimfoy, 'back in the day' if you attended these quarries, did you snap any photos? If so, please post them.

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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 more powerful lens. I never witnessed suited girl nude, not even topless. She didn't know what she was missing.

When posting on internet forums, I refrain from revealing identifying information; been my policy for years. But in this case, I'm going to make an exception. When I'm browsing photos here, or anywhere, I find myself thinking, I wonder where that is. I know the curiosity exists . . . so here goes: The photos featured in this thread were taken just outside Bloomington, Indiana, home of Indiana University, my alma mater. The quarries were (and still are) officially named after the family that owns the property and operates the stone cutting business but generations of skinny-dippers called them the Packinghouse Quarries after the meat packing plant (now defunct) alongside the gravel lane leading to the quarry gate.

Quarry culture runs deep in this town. During the early decades of the 20th century, the limestone industry was the largest employer in the region and supported thousands of families. In older core neighborhoods, sidewalks are paved with, not concrete, but limestone slabs. And most of them have survived 100 years without need for repair.
The 1979 motion picture Breaking Away was filmed here and many scenes were shot the Sanders quarries, six miles south of town. Because of the movie, the term 'Cutter,' meaning townie, became a household word. The film was shot during September and October of 1978, my freshman year. I was in one of the crowd scenes, where the Cutters were accepting the trophy for winning the Little 500 bicycle race. Maybe that's why I'm destined for life of obscurity; my 15 seconds of fame came and went.

And quarry culture runs deep at the university as well. Most of the buildings on campus are constructed of limestone locally cut, milled and carved. Limestone statuary abounds on campus and the School of Fine Arts offers a course on limestone sculpture.
Nowhere else on campus is the quarry culture more visible than in the athletic department. Memorial stadium is better known as The Quarry. Just outside the varsity locker room sits a large limestone rock. When the football players emerge on game day, as they run past, each and every one of them slaps The Rock, honoring tradition and also, I believe, symbolically gaining from the stone the hardness they need to vanquish their foe on the gridiron. In the first photo, in the lower left, the mural on the stadium wall is reminiscent of the eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry.

On the web, an IU sports blog is called The Crimson Quarry. (IU's school colors are cream & crimson) I feel absolutely certain that many of the middle-aged alumni bloggers skinny-dipped in the Packinghouse quarries in the 70s during their undergraduate years. I would bet on it. For them, and myself as well, those days of naked fun under the summer sun will live forever in pleasant memories.

The second photo is taken from the 1961 Arbutus, the Indiana University yearbook. Apparently, skinny-dipping hadn't yet taken root, but even back then, IU students were swimming at Long Hole.

So, you see, quarries aren't just places to extract quality building stone and swim in the holes after they're abandoned. Quarries are a defining thread in the fabric of our community.

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I spent so much time at the Packinghouse quarries that I became casually 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 right in the first photo of post #6. Mocha is with two townie friends, Carla, blonde, lying down, and Leslie, dark hair. Shirley, 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. The eastern cliff at Sundown Quarry was cut in a zigzag pattern into the hillside. In the first four photos they're camped atop the cliff on one of the zigs. Or was it zag? In the last six, on a different day, they're in the western slag pile.

The cliff face displays mature patina: deep weathered graying and stains from overlying organic matter.
This hole was cut long before the people featured in these photos were born.

this is a veritable gold mine of retro naked pics of the likes we seldom see here. YOu have no idea how much I appreciate this plus the stories.

There was a quarry of sorts at my alma matter. Actually is was a small reservoir but it was surrounded by rocks where everyone sat.

My freshman and sophomore year, I would go occasionally alone or with some guys. My heart would pound as I would approach the rocks and get my first glimpse of college coed flesh through the trees.

Later, I went with some mixed groups including various girlfriends. The girls would usually at least go topless. ONe teased me by only taking anything off after she got in the water. I recall vividly trying to see through the murky water as she swam 5-10ft off shore.

My best friend's big breasted girlfriend allowed us a much appreciated look at her breasts. And my girlfriend also obliged him in return, but only briefly. Another mutual friend got completely naked, and this was supposedly made possible because "she was dutch". This was somehow what made it possible, since Americans were, of course, way too uptight to go naked on a beach, right? That was what she would tell us....

anyway, thanks for the memories...

Klondike

I'm glad you enjoy my photos and stories. Stayed tuned; I have plenty more of both. I took these photos for my own enjoyment and over the years have given a select few paper copies to only a handful of close friends. Years ago when I was in college, I had no inkling whatsoever that someday a mass market technology would enable the sharing of these images with, potentially, millions. I'm more than happy to have them enter the public domain.

Your use of the word, 'retro' underscored, for me, how much time has passed since the last of these photos were taken. It doesn't feel like three decades; the memories are as fresh as ever. 'Retro' served as a reminder for me, and should for others as well: embrace the present day, live it, love it, grab it by the horns and suck the very marrow out of its bones, for in the blink of an eye, ten, twenty, thirty years will have gotten behind you.

I too experienced heart-pounding excitement when visiting the quarries. When I arrived on campus for my freshman year, I learned through the student g r a p e vine about this place just beyond town, a quarry where you could skinny-dip. An unofficial, underground student guidebook listed 'alternative' local attractions including the Packinghouse quarries. Those cursory directions and hand scribbled map were all I needed; I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled out there.
When I first glimpsed a half-dozen unclad coeds sunbathing in the Sundown Quarry slag pile, I'll never forget my reaction: Yes! Yes!! Yessssss!!! I was utterly amazed; until that moment, I had assumed that only on California nude beaches did college girls run around naked. I was enthralled to find a nudie place so close that I could attend whenever I pleased. I went time and again and my initial excitement never subsided.

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The eastern slag pile at Sundown Quarry had two distinct zones; the upper, relatively flat area and the rock jumble that sloped down toward the water. The first 5 photos shows the flat area. In the first photo, Tim & Laura are visiting with Pat. Henry, on the left, mid 40s, 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 3, shoes on her feet, she is departing on such a walk. Forty-five minutes later, in photo 4, she returns having made a grand tour of the grounds. Her motive was nakedly transparent: to exhibit her tanned body to as many spectators as possible.

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 commuter 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)

During the summers, instead of taking off for parts unknown like many college students, I remained in town to work and help pay for school. For those 3 months, in essence, I became a townie. Weather permitting, weekdays after work I pedaled out to Packinghouse and enjoyed tranquil evenings with my growing circle of acquaintances. It was during those times I came to understand how Sundown Quarry got its name.
As the sun sank low and kissed the horizon, radiance reflecting off the long fetch of water painted the cliffs with shimmering patterns, ebbing, flowing, morphing through deepening shades of rose, mauve and magenta until, at last, when the final glimmer of twilight had vanished in the west, 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, 420-friendly 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 rock. 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, a 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 evenings, 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 nude 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 tanned body reclining on the rocks, walking through the woods, diving off the cliff and swimming in the deep clear waters, things I'd had the pleasure of watching her do countless times. I was stoked at the prospect of taking up-close photos (and lots of them) of this girl 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 by any means but she drew the line at having her personal and academic lives intersect; she didn't want her classmates and professors to see her naked.

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That was then and this is now. Kate with her friend, Julie, in the eastern slag pile, Sundown Quarry.

Your photos are amazing and much appreciated.

If the information given (names, classes taken etc) about the people photographed are real though, my opinion is you are revealing too much.

Thanks for your comments. I shot these photos using high speed Ektachrome. Some of the transparencies have faded over time, but fortunately, the ones of Kate remain as pristine as when new.

The second part of your comment; I respect your opinion but I don't agree with it. Some points:

A) Never have I, nor will I ever, post anyone's surname or intensely personal information.
B) The years someone attended the university, their major, honors received and degrees awarded are public record.

As to whether anyone might connect the information I posted, or public record data, with these photos . . .

C) People in public, clothed or nude, have no presumption of privacy.

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1&2 The western end of Sundown Quarry. The photos offer a perspective of the size; only ¼ of the quarry is visible. The western slag pile is 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 was already in the water and he was cajoling 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.

Thoroughly enjoying the posts. Even better than the South Yuba River in NorCal, although that place is safe from being closed off.

With the blessing of the property owner, public nudity flourished for many years at the Packinghouse quarries. But the downside: private property is subject to the whims of the owner. When the elderly owner passed away, his son, the heir, shut the quarries down.

Around the Midwest, there are scant few natural water features on public land where one can enjoy a nude day under the sun without Ranger Rick telling him to cover up or risk prosecution. And, to date, there is absolutely no place that comes close to approximating the outstanding clothing optional experience like the quarries except for Mazo Beach in Wisconsin. But even there, bible-thumping zealots wage a constant battle to shut it down. Fortunately, the powers-that-be in Dane County government have parried every attempt.

Often, I envy those living in the American west where beaches go on forever, rivers run free and hot springs flow as they have for centuries while at the same time, enlightened governments at every level allow citizens to enjoy God's great wilderness the way nature intended.

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For those who didn't care to rub elbows with other nudists in the eastern slag pile but still wanted to be central to the action, this rock at Sundown Quarry was a prime spot. These two women were fortunate to claim it on that busy Sunday afternoon. The south shore trail ran right alongside and as you can see from the photos, not everyone came to Packinghouse to skinny-dip and sunbathe; some came to hike, motorbike and generally, gawk at the nudists.

No one knew his actual name, but one perennial voyeur was known to all long-time regulars as Catman. Thirtyish, wearing shorts, T-shirt and a floppy canvas hat, (the kind Bob Denver wore on Gilligan's Island ) catlike he prowled the grounds, his beady eyes gawking at naked women. A two-quart canteen on a leather strap slung over his shoulder allowed him to stay all day. Most of the time Catman kept his distance and women simply ignored him. But sometimes, his behavior became intrusive; he would sit on a rock immediately adjacent to where alluring young women lay nude sunbathing. Catman didn't stare but his repeated glancing and looming presence were unsettling for some. And more than once, some of the outspoken women gave Catman a piece of their minds. But he would counter, and justifiably so, that he had every right to be there. If he wouldn't leave, sometimes those disgruntled women moved to another rock or, disgusted, got dressed and called it a day.
In my experience, nude women at the quarries didn't mind when nude men checked them out because everyone was on equal footing. After all, looking, and being looked at, was why we were there. But a clothed male voyeur, and a jerk at that, was another matter altogether. In confronting Catman and/or leaving, women were making the statement: If you're not willing to get naked, I don't want you looking at me.

One time, voyeurs came from an unexpected quarter. One splendid September Saturday, the university of Iowa Hawkeyes came to town to take on the IU Hoosiers. Indianapolis television stations dispatched news crews to cover the home football opener, not for the play-by-play broadcast but to videotape scenes before, during and after the game for the evening sports report.
Those skinny-dippers, both students and townies, who were IU sports fans were faced with a quandary: either go to the game or enjoy the waning days of summer at the quarries. Most had their priorities straight: they went to the quarries and listened to the broadcast on the radio. There would be many more games to attend after the weather turned cold.

The game announcer's voice booming over several radios lent an extra measure of camaraderie to the shared social nudity experience. Whenever the Hoosiers made a good play, cheers went up from the quarry crowd. When they scored a touchdown, Melanie, on her feet having just climbed out of the water, jumped up and down for joy, making her ample breasts bounce. Melanie, late 20s, a natural blonde, was a former IU student who loved Bloomington so much that after graduating she stayed on. (Sorry, no photos. That's the case for many of my quarry acquaintances.)
IU football fans didn't have much to cheer about that day; only one touchdown did the team score and the Hawkeyes prevailed 16-7.

The TV stations sent satellite trucks and news helicopters to cover the game. After the game, a steady drone became louder and louder until, without warning, a chopper appeared at the eastern end of Sundown Quarry, flying just above the treetops at walking speed. ( I'll not say from which station so as not to indict the guilty; flying below minimums in unapproved areas is a violation of FAA rules.)
The quarries were 2 miles from the football stadium and not on the fight path the helicopter would have taken back to Indy. Packinghouse wasn't a place you just stumbled upon; whether by land or air, you had to know where you were going. Likely, someone on the helicopter crew was a former student/skinny-dipper who wanted to capture videotape scenes to relive his undergraduate years.

The helicopter made a low, slow pass along the north shore of Sundown Quarry. Clearly visible in the open window: a man with a large shoulder-held video camera. Another man looked out the same window; you could almost see the whites of his eyes. The intrusion was too much for a few women; they covered up with T-shirts or towels. But most of the women just carried on blithely and some of them even waved at the crew. The man not filming waved back. At the western end of the quarry the chopper turned around and made a second low, slow pass along the south shore. When it passed directly above the eastern slag pile, the rotor wash sent dust, leaves and towels flying. (And anything else that wasn't weighted down.) Those who didn't mind the voyeurism were now pissed; they had to chase down and retrieve magazines, water bottles and clothing items, some of which wound up in the water.

Total time over target: ninety seconds. The pilot advanced the rotor pitch and the chopper thundered away, quickly gaining distance and altitude as it headed north toward Indianapolis. The pilot didn't fly over any of the other quarry holes, lending credence to my theory that someone on board was familiar with the quarries and knew the best nudity could be found at Sundown.

The quarry footage didn't make it on the evening news, but I imagine many copies of it wound up in the private collections of TV station employees. I have searched without success. Someday, I would love to stumble across that video on the web.

Pedestal rock, in the far southeastern corner of Sundown Quarry, was a place women could spread their towel and relax without being bothered by Catman. The rock wasn't private; it was visible from the eastern slag pile 80 feet away and from the clifftop trails, but it was physically isolated enough that if Catman had tried to wheedle his way close he would have looked like more of a jerk than he already was.

In the first photo, the girl on the pedestal is talking with a male friend barely visible on a rock below. 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 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.)

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 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 the 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 weren't 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.

Breaking Away was indeed filmed in Bloomington. The quarry scenes were shot, not at Packinghouse but at the Sanders quarries south of town. When 20th Century Fox was scouting for quarry locations they considered Packinghouse but one major problem scuttled that plan; the producers wanted a dramatic cliff for the diving scene and they found it at Sanders: a 65 foot drop local daredevils call rooftop. Go to Youtube and search 'rooftop quarry.' Even to this day young men and a scant few women risk arrest for trespassing for a chance to test their bravado against the monster. And in the process, fatalities have occurred.
Another factor may have scuttled the possibility of having the Breaking Away quarry scenes filmed at Packinghouse: the movie was a family film and the producers didn't want a bunch of nudists running around in the background.

Indeed, there are many quarries around Bloomington. I have uploaded a Google Earth image of the major quarry complexes. Packinghouse is the letter A and the Sanders, the letter I.
Additionally, two small abandoned holes, D and K, are on private property. How lucky for those land owners to have the world's best swimming holes in their backyards.

I have also included a cover photo from NCAA Champion magazine taken at the Breaking Away quarry. This singular image celebrates the union between Bloomington and Indiana University and their shared quarry culture.

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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 their 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 the new and exciting and social nudity fit that definition. Based on the number of first-time college guys and girls whose bodies sported 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 the last 4 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. They retreated up the trail toward the parking lot. I figured they had departed or were going to find 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 the remained clothed and then, as if daring each other, they slowly 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.

Awesome posts!

Stay tuned. I'm not done yet.

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. She removed her cut-off denim shorts, swam for five minutes then climbed 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 x 60 feet, smaller than a baseball diamond but nonetheless a true gem. There were no cliffs; situated on flat ground amid dense woods, the hole was cut straight down into weathered gray bedrock. Two small slag piles festooned with Virginia creeper and honeysuckle had a few rocks free of vegetation, suitable for sunbathing. Whenever I went to Rosebud, I felt my stress level recede; the ambience of water, stone, forest and flowers 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; in silence, from a distance, I captured her on film then retreated quietly into the woods.

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 that an 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 way out of 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 buttocks. She dropped the raft, bent over and picked up her towel then quickly wrapped it around her torso.

Standing at the exit point, her back turned, the brunette held her friend's large beach towel horizontally with her 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.

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 couldn't 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. On the wall at Half moon Quarry. Full moon, Half moon and Sundown laid side-by-side, north to south in that order. Since all were in the same excavation in the hillside, they could be considered as one 'hole,' but each had a distinct basin of water, hence their individual names. 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 dozens of barefoot bathers strolled back and forth to swim in one quarry for a while before climbing out and dunking their bare butts in another. On peak days better than half of the total number of attendees on the property could be found somewhere in this triple complex.

4. For those of you geographically inclined: the triple complex as it appeared in 2005. The pink dots represents slag fill that wasn't present 'back in the day' and the thin red lines shows the former shoreline. The entire three quarry complex is 200 yards north to south and 150 yards east to west. Note the slag piles beside the gravel service road and elsewhere.

5. 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 sat and stealthily watched for a time to see if they might get jiggy but no such luck; they were just enjoying quiet time for two.

6. On the slag pile near water's edge, Long hole.

7. 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 one needed to worry about having their stuff stolen; slag piles everywhere offered thousands of hiding places for towels, clothes, etc. Nudity was legal at Packinghouse but even so, while hiking the grounds, being far removed from any possibility of covering up lent an extra measure of excitement to being naked in public especially when encountering groups of clothed young women. On the trail between the parking lot and Sundown, in late August first-time college girls were easy to spot; upon spying their first nudist, their smiling expressions always gave them away as if they were thinking: Oh my God! 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 the submerged rock jumble mountains that sloped clear 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, discarded stone cutting equipment from bygone eras littered the bottom; pulleys, steel cables, gigantic gears and a host of contorted, corroded 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 through a passage until I emerged on the other side 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 eyes aimed upward, I relished the entirely different perspective of their lean, lithe bodies sliding gracefully through the water. If today's digital camera technology had existed back then, with a pocket-sized waterproof HD camcorder I could have taken more underwater video footage than Jacques Cousteau. And above water, the same; a tiny digital spycam I could have concealed in practically anything and captured thousands of up-close candid images.

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 three photos.) 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 the girl 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: two dozen 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 the longest 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 three photos, the gravelly area, top center. In the third photo, upper left, Catman is prowling.) 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.

As the summer progressed, the couple branched out and utilized other rocks at Sundown; a rock in the western slag pile, (photos 4-6) and a rock in the far southeastern corner. (Photos 7 & 8) Then, at midsummer, they waded in amongst the crowd in the eastern slag pile. That was when I, and other slag pile 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 bare breasts on public display at the quarries; no matter what their size, nary a pair appeared to have been silicone enhanced; no tell-tale, abnormally mounded upper slopes. Likewise, all of the girls who shed every stitch embraced the natural look below their waistlines as well; circa 1980 was an era before shaving became fashionable.

For the remainder of the summer, during repeated visits to the eastern slag pile, Marissa made no effort to minimize her nakedness by assuming demure postures; whether walking back and forth to the water, seated cross-legged or sprawled on her towel, her relaxed body language suggested she had wholeheartedly adopted a newfound attitude: Here I am, all of me, and everyone is welcome to look. Yes, even Catman.

You go girl!

I am in complete and total awe of this thread! Excellent stories and shots!

Packinghouse was awesome. I didn't fully appreciate how awesome until it was gone. For many IU students, skinny-dipping in the quarries was a big part of college life, on par with living in the dorms, going to class and using fake IDs in the bars. Its decades-long tradition had everyone believing the deep clear waters would forever be available for our enjoyment. We were wrong.

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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 #22. 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

The mutual animosity between Cutters and IU students portrayed in the motion picture Breaking Away, was pure fiction. In reality, Bloomington residents and college students got along famously, in the community at large and at the quarries. At Sundown, town and gown mingled without regard to arbitrary labels assigned in the outside world. Stripped to our bare skin we came together as One People. And it wasn't just nudists who fraternized thusly; the clothed and the naked coexisted peaceably as well. (With the possible exception of Catman.) Clothed fishermen and nude sunbathers could be found sharing the same quarry hole, most often at Mill pond which was favored by many anglers.

As its name implies, Mill pond appeared more like a natural body of water than a worked-out quarry. At the south end, an abandoned stone cutting mill had been stripped of its sheet metal walls and roof, leaving the rusting steel framework standing bare, surrounded by young tress which partially obscured the structure. Right by the mill, a short limestone wall a few feet high was the only clue that this body of water was indeed a quarry and not some North Woods lake teaming with pike and muskie. Those species weren't found at Mill pond but native bluegill, crappie, bass and catfish were -in abundance. At the opposite end of the quarry, a broad expanse of smooth limestone sloped gently into the water. There, fishermen unfurled lawn chairs and cast their lines.

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The elderly quarry owner shifts in his lawn chair to get more comfortable then casts his fishing line. He has been here awhile and has a mess of fish on his stringer. Getting no bites, he reels in the line and casts again. Before long, two alluring young women come along the trail and stroll down onto the smooth rock slope. Until now, the gent has maintained a neutral expression but when the girls arrive, a smile spreads across his wrinkled face. The girls, IU co-eds, are quarry regulars, acquainted with the gent, and they greet him by name. Twenty feet from his chair, they spread their towels.

The gent is polite and doesn't stare, but he does glance, repeatedly, as the girls strip off their shorts and camisoles leaving them clad in panties and brassieres. But not for long; posthaste, the cottony unmentionables lay discarded on their towels. The brunette stretches out on her stomach while the blonde remains standing and fixes her long hair in a ponytail. Once the scrunchie is securely in place, she faces the gent full-frontal and asks, “Having any luck?”
He turns his head, raises the bill on his wide-brimmed straw hat and looks at the girl. “Yup.” His weary eyes make a quick transit from head to toe and back before he adds, “Caught the purdiest bluegill. Wanna see?”
“Yeah!”
The gent rises from his chair, slowly, then shuffles, stiffly, to his stringer in the water. The blonde approaches and stands at arm's length. He pulls the stringer from the water, revealing a half-dozen fish, a mix of bluegill and crappie. “It's this'un here,” he says, holding up the stringer so that the fish in question is easily seen. The bluegill's scales are painted in shimmering hues not unlike rainbow trout. The girl ooohs and ahhhs at the fish which, by any measure, is worthy of acclaim.

“Can I catch one?” she asks.
“Sure thing.”
The gent returns the stringer to the water then wipes his hands on the front of his green plaid shirt. He retrieves his pole and baits the hook with a fresh nightcrawler. The girl is an experienced angler; with practiced precision, she casts the line and watches for the bobber to start moving, the sign of a nibble. No action happens; she reels in a bit and watches. Still, nothing. She reels it in all the way and all the while, she acts no differently than she would when clothed; her demeanor is calm, relaxed, utterly at ease in her nakedness.
Seated in his chair, the gent's eyes roam the expanse of her seamlessly tanned skin. When she half-turns toward him and draws back her arm, her perky breasts come into view and when she casts the line again, the forceful toss makes her round buttocks jiggle.

The bobber goes under. The girl needs no coaching; she yanks the pole hard, arching the fiberglass, and, having set the hook, reels in her catch. The bluegill is keeper, 7 inches. The old man rises from his chair and examines the fish dangling from the line.
“You wanna take it home?” he asks.
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I live in the dorm.”
“I'll mail it to you.”
“No! That's okay! Really!”
She smiles broadly. The gent winks and cracks a wry grin. He enjoys teasing girls as much as any man. The girl surrenders the fishing pole then returns to her towel where she reclines on her back. Her brunette friend rolls over, revealing herself full-frontal. The gent glances and grins.

For a time they pass the afternoon in silence, the old fisherman and the naked co-eds. Every so often, he looks in their direction but the girls don't notice; so safe do they feel in his company, both are dozing.

Awhile later, the girls rouse and head for the water. Not wanting to disrupt the gent's chances of catching more fish they walk a short ways along the east side of the quarry and only then do they jump into the water. On their walk his eyes lock onto their shapely backsides as they recede in the distance.

While the girls frolic in the water the gent casts his line time and again, sometimes hooking a fish, most times not. At length, the girls climb out of the quarry at the point where they jumped in then step carefully along the gravel path back to their towels.

Both take their time drying off, rubbing their towels up and down their arms and legs, around their backs, between their breasts and deep into their furry crotches. And while they do so, only an occasional glance at their youthful loveliness does the gent allow himself. With unhurried ease the girls wiggle into their panties and brassieres, shorts and camisoles. After stuffing possessions into beach bags, they bid the gent farewell.
“Bye,” he replies. “Y'all come back.”
Before they turn to leave, in unison, they chirp, “We will!”
They climb a short rise then turn right onto the trail leading to the parking lot. The old gent watches until they vanish in the woods. He shifts in his chair to get more comfortable then casts his line again. He looks across the quarry at the old mill; its bare steel framework standing stark against the hazy summer sky looks as frail as he. His bobber goes under but he doesn't notice; wearing a peaceful expression, he just gazes across the quarry as if daydreaming, perhaps lost in an ancient memory.

Some argue that only a thin veil separates the here from the hereafter and that spirits roam the earth among us. I hope that's true. I draw comfort from believing the old gent still walks his property, pauses to reminisce, and, on moonlit summer nights, sits back in his lawn chair, casts his line and smiles.

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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 at the south end of Long hole, wide dry ledges allowed climbers to practice rappelling. The more experienced among them climbed the smoothly cut faces using minuscule finger and toeholds. This stack of stone blocks, (first photo) 37 feet tall and located 200 yards west of Sundown Quarry, suited those seeking a slightly easier climb.

In the early part of the 20th century, massive stone blocks were removed form the quarry holes using tall steel derricks (my avatar) and stacked for two years to cure, to allow most of the water to evaporate from the porous limestone. Only then were blocks sent to the mill to be cut into dimensional sizes. For unknown reasons, this stack was never sent to the mill. It appears in 2013 just as it did in the 70s and even then it had been sitting for decades. But the blocks may yet be sent to the mill. Limestone is very patient; it's been waiting 300 million years and another 50, 60 or 100 will make no difference to it whatsoever.

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

In photos 2-5 Lucy is sitting on island rocks in the west end of Sundown and in #6, she's on a rock on the north shore with one of her friends who never got naked. Not once.

As a big fan of the movie Breaking Away, I would like to say thanks for the information, photos. Living in California I would like to make the trip to Bloomington to take a look at the quarries someday.

Great pics!
 

Great photos. Great to see some many REAL women with hair! Quarry looks like a wonderful and peaceful place.

beautiful pictures from a better time
 

This thread is just about the best thing on the web right now. Loving it.

Why oh why did women start shaving off their lovely bushes??

And when you get there you'll be amazed how much more beautiful the quarries appear in real life than in photographs. None of my photos do justice to the scope of the holes, their towering cliffs, massive slag piles and deep aquamarine waters. In Icebox for example, the water was so clear you could see 40 feet down all the way to the bottom.

Packinghouse was a wonderful and peaceful place. And it was more than just a place to swim and hang out; among those who attended on a regular basis there existed a genuine sense of community.

Stayed tuned and you'll get the entire set.

Sounds like many of you are in my camp: bush lovers. Why did women start shaving their lovely bushes? In my opinion the single biggest factor is the internet. The dawn of the digital age enabled millions of women to snap naked photos of themselves and post them online. (God bless 'em!) Some of those women who now had a forum to safely indulge their exhibitionist tendencies sought to enhance their exposure by removing hair. Once bald vulvas began appearing online, a groundswell of copycat shaving ensued. I have no scientific data to support this conjecture; it's just an intuitive feeling.
For you bush lovers, take heart; societal shifts are cyclical and someday the pendulum will swing back in a hairy direction. At least I hope so.

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These two women, like all quarry women, didn't shave. They shamelessly showed their lovely bushes on a rock in the far southeastern corner of Sundown Quarry. This area, in the vicinity of pedestal rock, 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 this regard, they were much like contemporary women who post photos of themselves online from the safety of home.

This rock is in the same area as posts 16, 19, 21 and the last two pics in 25. Even though this area was physically isolated from other popular sunbathing rocks, it was within easy reach of my telephoto lens from the clifftop trails. But even without optics I could easily move within optimal naked eye viewing range. And the method I used was far less conspicuous than Catman's overland prowling. Floating on my air mattress, I would drift, lazily, in the direction of pedestal rock. I made my approach slowly, so as not to spook women into covering up. I kept my distance, no closer than 30 feet, and never did I receive the kind of excoriation Catman routinely endured. And only once did a woman cover up while I floated lazily on my raft into her space. But it was too late; I had already entered her naked body into my mental catalog.

On those weekends I camped at Rosebud Quarry, sometimes in the early morning I tossed my raft into Long hole, climbed aboard and drifted away on a summer daydream. The quarry was ¼ mile long and only 50 feet wide. Down in the pit between the steep slag piles on one side and a 50 foot tall cliff on the other, it was easy to imagine I was running a river through some southwestern desert canyon, maybe on the mighty Colorado itself where it slices through the Kaibab plateau. Due to scant few suitable rocks for sunbathing, Long hole was seldom used for swimming; voyeur opportunities were scarce but I didn't care; by midday, the rocks at Sundown would be occupied by naked college girls awaiting my perusal.

Early one July Sunday morning while lazily floating near the north end of Long hole, I heard voices echoing down the canyon. Male and female voices. The voices were coming from the far end a quarter-mile away and out of sight behind a slag pile. Three splashes were heard followed by rhythmic sloshing. At the far end, three swimmers came into view, using the crawl stroke and moving steadily in my direction. I began paddling my raft toward them. The swimmers were moving much faster than I and before long they passed by, one woman and two men, all wearing swimming goggles and white latex swim caps emblazoned with red IU logos. That was all they were wearing. When they reached the north wall, they executed kick turns and headed back south. These IU swim team members were on a voluntary Sunday morning workout. When they passed again, I was able to plainly see the woman's pale buttocks in the crystal clear water. I continued slowly paddling my raft south as the trio swam lap after lap. When they had completed two trips to the north wall and back they took a breather. Seated on a submerged rock they talked quietly among themselves for a few minutes then headed north again. By the time they finished another two laps I was floating in the vicinity of where they had left their clothing. The trio stayed in the water for a few minutes then climbed out onto their rock. All were serious athletes; lean, muscled, strong shoulders and defined buttocks.

I've never cared for female bodybuilders. If pumping up is their 'thing' then fine, but I don't enjoy looking at them clothed or naked. But this female swimmer wasn't training to gain bulk; her athletic body was a testimonial to countless hours in the pool (and quarry) striving to be her best at her chosen sport. The three of them removed their swim caps and goggles then stood on the rock toweling dry. The woman wasn't concerned about my presence nearby and did nothing to minimize her nakedness; facing me full-frontal she toweled dry her short sandy hair, torso and smallish breasts as if in the privacy of the womens' locker room.
They didn't hang around to sunbathe; after drying they got dressed in underwear, gym shorts, T-shirts and athletic shoes then clambered up the steep slag pile and departed. How wonderful for those college teammates to share a nude workout and then carry that camaraderie back to campus.

Do you suppose a bare body slices through the water faster than one wearing a suit? Even a suit made for racing? In a sport where fractions of a second make the difference between gold and silver, swimmers do anything legal to gain an advantage. What if sanctioning bodies like the NCAA and the IOC allowed swimmers the option to compete nude? In striving to attain the Olympic ideal, why not compete like the ancient Olympians? As a bonus, it would be a major boost for TV ratings.

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The last photo is an overview of the Packinghouse property, from north to south 3/4 mile and east to west, 1/2 mile.

The red X marks quarries on property owned by someone else other than 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.

C) Long hole, truncated by highway built in 2002. Here, in the triple complex and on Mill pond, the thin red lines show the former shorelines 'back in the day.'

D) Mill pond.

E) Buried Rosebud Quarry. Rest in peace.

F) Icebox Quarry. After skinny-dippers were booted out, Icebox was drained and stone extraction resumed. Thirty years of quarrying has resulted in an Icebox much, 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.

This is one of the best thread's on the web right now especially when you find your wife and yourself in the images 35 years later.

Women don't shave they wax, use a depilatory methode or laser. A razor is a no no in that part of town due to ingrown hair follicles.

At the time a nice muff was great, after 20 years of marriage the wife surprised me with a Brazilian bikini wax and 12 years later we would not want it any other way. A waxed muffin is more sensual, tastes better and there is no need for toothpicks after cunnilingus any longer.

Let's put it this way "Ball's play much better on the fairway landing strip than in the rough" :cool:

Over the years, thousands of IU students came and went at Packinghouse, so it's not surprising that on an internet forum nearly 800,000 strong, some of the members will see themselves in these photos. And my feeling is that many members who aren't featured in the photos attended the quarries at one time or another during its decades-long run. For those of you who fall into either category, I urge you to post your Packinghouse recollections and stories.

I have no firsthand experience with intimate female grooming. My wife belongs to the generation that never shaved, waxed or anything of the sort. Since her youth she has been furry and likely, always will be. And that's fine with me.

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These two furry girls were regular visitors and spread their towels at many different quarries. They always attended in tandem. I suppose they 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 on the clifftop. Sundown was situated such that hillside runoff flowed into the hole. Note murky water in the background. Ordinarily clear, the water had been sullied by heavy overnight thunderstorms.

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? This girl and a few other quarry women possessed the same two-tone hair fashion; light-over-dark. 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 there, very few were privy to the quarry's underwater treasure. Goldfish aren't native to Indiana. Someone had to stock them. My best guess: an IU student, or possibly more than one, was leaving campus after commencement and couldn't take their aquarium so instead of flushing the fish, they put them in the quarry where they survived and thrived, all two dozen of them. While snorkeling in 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 diving in a lagoon off 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. 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 a 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.

Well, I hope y'all enjoyed my presentation on Packinghouse as much as I enjoyed this stroll down memory lane. And again, I urge those of you who attended the Packinghouse quarries 'back in the day' to post your recollections and stories. 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.

I'm with you Hothabenaro. I can live with a neat trim or a landing strip but there has to be some hair there!

Paradoxodarap!!!
You wrote that you took those photos with Ektachrome film. These scans are great but with the help of a negative (diapositive) scanner the resolution will be enormous. The pics are so great that a scan from the original Ektachrome diapositives will give us, the audience, an even greater experience!!!

Thanks for the memories. My wife and I were a part of this group and we are still mutual lifelong friends with most everyone in these photos. A few have them have since passed on God rest their souls. At the time we would have called you a peeping Tom now we are glad you were there. Good thing you did not hang out at the Icebox a lot because the girlfriend (now wife) and I did the nasty quite a bit there:cool:. Our next party should be quite interesting when our friends of this day and age see a slideshow of this. We will serve a lot of booze at that one.

I'm sorry your swimming hole has disappeared. This is what happens when you take it for granite :D

Kate
 

I love this story! You bring back memories of when I started going to a river with similar rocks to the quarry. Many people swim and suntan nude and I did the same as you, took pictures but then would go hang out with the nude women. I learned it wasn't that big a deal to be naked with them; enjoyed it so much! Anyway, I like your story about Kate; wish you had been able to have a longer relationship with her. I love your pictures and I love her bush.

Amazing Times
 

I was attending IU there in Bloomington 1976-80, it was an amazing time. The quarrys, the "natural co-eds, the cold libations and mind altering substances. Breaking Away was being filmed around the area and raced at the old Little 500 track where the not so safe chemicals were stored under the bleachers. I had friends, dormies, as extras and it feels kinda strange to see their 70s ugly mugs during the movie. Some of the race scenes at the old stadium would require the entire crowd that was there, say turn 3, to move to turn 4 for a different perspective. I had some great times there, took a few trips without really going anywhere, enjoyed the bra-less halter and tube tops. I'm glad I found this post, quite surprised actually, 40 years later.....joe

It's nice to see this thread bumped. What I'm realizing is that lots of schools have or have had at one time these local places where you can skinnydip. My school did, as I mentioned way back in this thread. Pics are rare, though. I don't think I've ever seen any from my schools spot, and I've surfed it all.

Anyway, bringing to light, either through stories or pics or maybe both, these college hangouts is rewarding but not without some risk of overexposure. It's a little like the campus naked runs. But I've wanted for a long time to know about campus skinnydip spots out in the northwest where I live. I know of a few, but have never found them rewarding. Are there others, and would a thread here, like this one, help in getting the word out? 40 year old reports and pics are cool, but not as helpful if the location has been shut down. But what's the aim here? To send occ voyeurs over to crash these places and sneak pics? No, that's not what it should be about here. So I'm a little in a quandry about this. Many of these campus skinnydip spots are well enough known off campus to have gained entry into lee baxendal's nude beach guide. Places like mazo beach, hippy hollow, etc. Some are mixed use i.e. students and non students alike go there. But my beach back in the 70s seldom had any non students, and I imagine there are scores of other spots little known to the general public.

So now, but if I wanted to solicited more reporting, I could start a thread down in the non fiction section, one similar to my nude beach reports thread. I wouldn't expect a lot of pics, so there it would go. And I'd let posters decide if they want to actually identify the location in their post. Posters can always be pm'd, and keeping reports non specific with regards to location might be a good idea.

But I doubt seriously that I would get a lot of reports. Threads in this forum get a lot more views, so I could as an alternative ask people to use this thread if they have any campus skinnydip stories or pics, and perhaps (with the thread authors permission) also rename the thread.

So, ill leave it at that for now. If this thread inspires anyone with similar stories from their college, let's hear them!
Ill never forget stumbling upon one of the most beautiful girls in my dorm totally stark naked in one of my trips to "the reservoir" as it was called. I'm sure many here can relate. Campus naked runs are cool, but skinnydip spots are better lit, and the fun lasts longer:) Maybe I can still get my fill of coed eye candy someday down at the U of Oregon, a big school which, curiously for the northwest, has no naked run..

D(K)