[Paradoxodarap]

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.