Along the West Marin coast north of San Francisco, isolated patches of coastal redwoods still invade the steep canyons that cut sharply into the rolling hills from the ocean.  Acting as flumes for the fog, these canyons cut upwards where they emerge into Bolinas Ridge, a broad ridge of blowing grass and a rolling scenic highway that is the backdrop for practically every car commercial known to man.  From there the big trees spill down the other side into protected valleys where they thrive. 

For each trampled and touristed redwood grove like the famed Muir Woods, there exists a dozen or more, smaller, more intimate groves that are virtually unknown, except to a small band of locals.  Some are dense, dark and cool, even on the hottest day. Some contain springs and crystalline waterfalls that leap from the Franciscan mélange like dancers.  One such canyon up towards Olema once had an earthen dam that impounded a small, clear pond that was surrounded by jutting serpentine rocks and towering stands of mighty redwood. 

The pond was originally constructed to hold water for cattle, but when the cattle disappeared the pond was taken over by the local hippies who turned it into a peaceful, “clothing optional”, reality-free fairy-land known simply as “The Nudie Pond”.

To reach the Nudie Pond, you drove north on Highway 1 until you came to an unmarked dirt track that led up a canyon.  Beneath the trees, out of sight from the road, the cops (who left us alone) and worst of all – the tourists, was a small dusty lot full of old cars, motorcycles and Volkswagen buses.  A short walk on a path made spongy with redwood needles led one deeper into the forest.  The drone of the ocean faded and the air became still.  And then, upon rounding a gentle curve, the glimmer of sunlight mixed with the pungent sweet smell of marijuana and both joined with the intoxicating strains of acoustic music to announce that the pond was dead ahead.    

The Nudie Pond really had only a few rules:

1. No aggression

2. No glass

3. No radios or boom boxes – only acoustic instruments were allowed.

Although clothing was “optional”, it was an option exercised by none.  Everywhere, from the quiet, confident nudity of fat and furry oldsters to the smoldering sensuality of pert young adults, to the innocent nakedness of young children, body parts moved easily to the rhythms of the day.

For me, as a young and single male, the day always showed enormous promise when I began my hike up the path to the Nudie Pond.  Shouldering a backpack containing a sandwich, a book to read, and a bag of harmonicas in every key, my step was light.  There was music to be played, things to be shared, and a tan to be evened out.  But more importantly, there were beautiful, naked women everywhere – calm and assured, without self-consciousness or fear – to be quietly, if only visually, enjoyed.  Who knows, I would think to myself, today might be the day that I strike up a conversation with one of them… a special one… a conversation that might languish throughout the afternoon.  We would laugh and share stories, at times becoming dreadfully introspective.  And then at day’s end, after slipping clothes back on sandy, sun-burnt bodies that we’d both visually digested, we’d drive over the hill to Fairfax, or Mill Valley or Sausalito to drink Anchor Steam beer and share a plate of quesadillas.

You never know.

You just never know.

But as each new day passed slowly from morning to late-afternoon, one-by-one, the naked young women would slip back into loose sun dresses and floppy hats and head back down the path to the rest of their lives.  Each one that left was like the ticking of a clock. 

Finally a point would come.  It wasn’t subtle.  Everyone knew it.  In fact, it was so obvious that, if it had made noise, it would have screamed.  It might as well have been an air horn blaring to mark the end of a shift.  As the long redwood shadows tucked the sunny pond back into eternal shade, the last naked woman would pack up and head off… leaving a dozen naked, lonely men sitting like randy baboons on a rock.

The last girl had left the Nudiepond. 

Potential had dissipated. 

The day was over. 

It was time to switch to Plan B.

Within 10 minutes the last of the baboons were pulling back onto Highway 1 and heading over the hill.  The pond was empty.  The redwoods chuckled to themselves as they pulled themselves straight and tall and prepared once again to filter fog and moonlight.

But they knew that tomorrow we’d be back.

Because you never know.

You just never know.