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.
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