[Paradoxodarap]

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.