Well, I never expected to become interested in square dancing, let alone progress though Mainstream and Plus all the way to A2. But even given the unlikelihood of that accomplishment, about the last thing I would have expected becoming involved in is gay male nude square dancing.

Then, last year, I heard about Peel Off in the Sierras. It's popular to name a square dancing event after one of the calls, especially if the name of the call can be used in a pun or can allude to the location of the dance. For example, a popular dance held annually in San Diego is called Pass the Sea, which is also the name of an Advanced-level call. Well, Peel Off in the Sierras is a weekend of square dancing at a private campground in the Sierra Nevada foothills. What makes this campground special is that it is run by gay men, and the campground is "clothing optional." In short, nude.

Everyone who went to last year's event said they had a wonderful time. At the time, I was skeptical. I had not yet gotten into the nudist scene, and the idea of a bunch of men dancing around in the nude in the middle of the woods to hokey country music (and there is none hokier than square dance patter music) struck me as just plain silly--or, at best, laughable.

But when this year's event came around, I was more open to the idea. I had, by then, attended several nudist events and gotten over my shyness about that. Then, this summer, I went nude backpacking in the Sierras. Fending off two bears with nothing on by my Tevas and a kerchief got me well past the notion of "silly" (and gave me some new points of reference for "absurd"), so I was ready to, as it were, give it a swing.

It was, of all my adventures this summer, my favorite.

Friday, August 23

I wanted to leave work early for the drive up to Plymouth so I could avoid rush-hour traffic both in the bay area and around Sacramento. Of course, last minute things came up that required my attention and attendence at the office. Although I left only 40 minutes later than I'd planned, that turned into 90 minutes on the road because of the route I took and the traffic I hit. It took me nearly two and a half hours to get from Mountain View to the Benecia Bridge. Strangely enough, though, I was not very upset by the delays. I only worried that I would arrive after sunset and would be stumbling around in the dark. I should have taken a flashlight, of course, and had planned to, but discovered the night before that the bulb in mine had burned out. I should have bought another on my lunch hour. I should have looked at a map and planned my route more carefully. I should have done the work that morning that kept me in the office that afternoon. And I worried that Chauncey, who had sent me the information on Peel Off II and sent in my original registration, would be upset that I wasn't there to spend the time with him.

So, with a head full of recriminations, I headed east into the Sierras. When it was clear I would arrive way past my intended 7:00 PM ETA, I stopped in Davis for a Murder Burger. Outside of Sacramento, I left the interstates and divided highways and started on the two-lane blacktops. I actually started to relax. The countryside started the slow undulations that indicate the transition from California savannah to Sierra foothills, and the setting sun made each road sign appear lit from within or burnished with gold--an appropriate illusion, since I was headed into gold country, not far from Sutter's Mill.

The sun set an hour before I got to the Rancho Cicada gate, which sat a little off a paved and dirt road that wound through vineyards outside of Plymouth. The sign on the gate said the camp itself was only a mile further, but the road wound steeply downward toward the middle fork of the Consomnes River, and with each turn the twilight grew thicker. By the time I pulled into the campground parking lot, my car was covered with dust and the landscape was disappearing in the dusk.

But below the parking lot was a deck, and on the deck were naked men, dancing. Hokey music wafted into the night air, and further down the hill there was a campfire, more men sitting at the long tables, finishing dinner, and laughter. I had arrived. Gary quickly checked me in and Rich showed me to my tent before it got too dark for either of us to see. I didn't see Chauncey anywhere, but I dropped my stuff in the tent, dropped my trousers and the rest of my clothes, put on my name tag and went back up the hill to watch the dancers.

I only watched that night. I didn't dance. Perhaps it was that I had not let go of the day's tensions, or because the event itself was such a new experience, but as I sat there watching a tip, the entire dance floor seemed to filled with flashing arms and legs, beards and eyes floating above them as if separate beings. I was overwhelmed. I could no more have stepped out onto that dance floor than I could have stepped into a blender.

I went back down the hill to the dinning area. I could hear the river rushing over the rocks. Most of the men who had been eating dinner had joined the dancing. I got a small bite to eat from the kitchen, and on the way down from the porch, almost lost my balance. A nice man named Brad helped and gave me a hug. By asking around, I found Chauncey out on the darkened lawn, talking to another man. He explained how he and his friends had left San Francisco about mid-day, but had been caught up in road construction delays from Sacramento to Plymouth. Odd, I had taken that same road and found no construction delays. In fact, it had been the most relaxing part of my trip. Apparently, by leaving later than I had planned, I got to the scenic road well after the crews and equipment had left.

Chauncey was quite tired and wanted to turn in. I was still abuzz, though, and wanted to stay up. We went back to the tent, where he gave me a spare flashlight, and he turned in. I went back to the campfire and stared into the flames.

The men returned from dancing on the deck up the hill, and conversations and introductions were had. Marshmallows came out. Brad and I started chatting, then holding each other as we watched the fire. We ended the evening in friendly embraces and much kissing as the moon set behind the trees.

Saturday, August 24

I rose late, missing most of breakfast, and chatted with the folks still lingering at the tables. Brad mentioned that he considered making a personal wake-up call to my tent. I encouraged him to feel welcome anytime, for any purpose. Then we headed off for the dance floor.

I danced Plus (girl's position) and Advanced (boy's position--not that it matters much at that level). I hadn't danced Advanced since before this year's convention (which I did not attend, due to GALA V ) and was more than a little intimidated by the proficiency of the other dancers. (I was also more than a little taken aback by the number of Pince Alberts, but we won't go into it.) Brad was my partner for the first A tip, and I did reasonably well. He said afterwards that the look of terror on my face was scarcely noticeable. Always the gentleman.

Lunch came around soon enough, and after dancing in the hot sun, I had quite an appetite. The folks at Rancho Cicada kept us well fed, however. I don't think those guys ever did stop making food.

After lunch, there were several alternative recreations. There was more square dancing, of course. There was also a hike up the river to a swimming hole (complete with rope swing). And there was body painting. I decided to do none of these. I took my copy of Vital Dust, by Christian de Duve, and found a shady spot on the lawn where I could read.

But I couldn't. It was just too idyllic a spot. I looked at the guys floating along in inner tubes on the river, lounging and reading (or seeming to, like me), and listened to the callers on the dance deck up the hill. Brad joined me, and we talked, embraced, kissed, and generally enjoyed ourselves as safely as we could without pharmaceutical assistance.

Afterwards, Brad went off to join some other friends, the dancers came down the hill to cool off, and the body painting began. I went in search of an inner tube in which to navigate the river, and was soon exploring the little rapids (which Nathan claimed were roaring cataracks the day before) and pools made by the boulders in the stream. I even chatted with Doug, a gentleman who turned out to be the man my insurance carrier uses to examine dental claims (mine was turned down, nonetheless, as Doug said it would be).

The body painting contest was underway when I got out. There were some really inventive designs. Dave had painted a Mondrian on his chest. Don had painted a Chippendale stripper's outfit on his body, complete with G-string and $100 tip. By far, the best design was a guy who had, with some help, painted himself orange from head to foot, with white chest and belly and black stripes over the whole design. He looked like Tony the Tiger. When he stepped out onto the veranda for the judging, Titus, the camp owner's large and usually friendly mastif, barked loudly in alarm. We all laughed, then we all started barking. "Tony" won by acclamation.

There was more dancing after dinner, but it all seems a blur. Two images stand out, however. One is of twenty-four naked men doing Weave-the-Ring with gay styling, which involves a whoop and a high kick. I burst out laughing from the sidelines the first time I saw it. The other was during a particularly fast and furious A2 tip. I was dancing and concentrating as hard as I could. The patter record had a zingy Latin beat to it, and just as I was rounding the corner on some complex call what should I catch out of the corner of my eye but six of the hunkiest guys in the camp doing the Macarena: arms, arms, face, face, hips, hips, grind, thrust, jump! My glasses nearly popped off and I nearly broke down my square.

The "competition" between the two callers was also fun to watch. They would each do three calls in a row, then hand the square off to the other caller. At one point, they were each trying their best to get the square into particularly difficult combinations, ones from which it would be hard to get the square back "home," or at least back to "normal couples."

There was also one particularly well-hung young man who was a delight to watch. He would dance one way, and his member would dance the other. It was, quite literally, fascinating.

The evening ended much as before, with conversations and marshmallows around the campfire. Chauncey's esophageal problem was acting up, so he took a sleeping pill and went to bed early. Brad retired early, too, to do some reading. Something happened earlier that evening, though, just after supper as we sat around the dinner table, lit by the kerosene lamps. For just a moment, everyone's face seemed to glow and their eyes sparkle. I was suddenly struck by the preciousness and fragility of our being, and how this moment, even as we realize it is this moment, is gone. "Never Ever," the song sung by the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus at the end of NakedMan, came to my mind, and I was near to tears. Even now, I see that moment in my mind's eye, and I stop and wonder at the wonder of being.