Quarry skinny-dipping

[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.

[Paradoxodarap]

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!

[Paradoxodarap]

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!

[JacksonSG-1]

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

[Paradoxodarap]

Originally Posted by JacksonSG-1

I am in complete and total awe . . .

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

[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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~

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.

[davis53]

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.

[mikex2]

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

[wabba1968]

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??

[Paradoxodarap]

Originally Posted by davis53

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.

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.

Originally Posted by mikex2

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

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.

Originally Posted by themutt

send me the set! LOVE THE BUSHES

Stayed tuned and you'll get the entire set.

Originally Posted by wabba1968

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??

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

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.