I learned that the hard way.
They say that you can never go back but unfortunately that isn’t always the case. I was a young man working my second summer for the BLM on a three-man survey crew. The Head man on the crew was Gordy. Gordy had been working for over 30 years for the BLM Medford district. He knew every square inch of the forest and everything worth seeing in that forest. So, one day while heading back to the office, when Gordy asked if we would like to see the beaver pond, we said we would. I had seen a few beaver ponds in my day but there must be something special about this one, if Gordy wanted to go out of the way to show it to us. We turned onto an old dirt road that wound its way up the hill through the cool shade of some beautiful old growth timber, then came upon a large flat area. That flat was littered with canvas tents, makeshift shelters and hippie vans. We then came to a spot where the ground opened up into an old rock quarry, a few acres in size, 50 to 60 feet deep with better than half the bottom flooded by crystal clear spring water. In and around the water were 25 to 30 beautiful young people laughing, swimming and splashing, sunbathing, drinking beer, smoking dope and all without a thread of clothing to share amongst them. It was a sight to behold, and it was very clear as to how that quarry got the nickname “The Beaver Pond”. We didn’t stay long. Gordy mumbled something about three men in an official government vehicle standing around gawking at naked hippie chicks and made us pack up and leave.
Thirty plus years quickly went by without me ever going back to The Beaver Pond. I was working for the Forest Service by then, but the Forest Service always seemed to be short on money to pay my wages. The BLM, on the other hand, always seemed to have money so, my boss would frequently pimp me out to them, to do with me whatever they wanted. That summer I was back on a BLM survey crew working with two young fellows. I was now the crusty old veteran who knew every inch of the forest and everything worth seeing in it. One evening as we headed back to the office, the guy driving said he wanted to take a new rout back. That rout would take us right past The Beaver Pond. I felt it my duty to pay it forward so I told the story of The Beaver Pond and asked if they would be interested in seeing it. I got a resounding “Yes” so, we turned up that old dirt road. The forest was just the same as I remembered but when we reached the flat there were no hippie vans nor makeshift shelters. Instead, there were travel trailers pulled by nice trucks and SUVs. We slowly approached the quarry and peered down. There were 10 to 15 people sunbathing, but nobody was swimming. There was a motorhome parked right next to the water but other than that, everything was exactly the same. By exactly the same, I mean the exact same people where there that had been there some 30 years prior, still without a stich of clothing. 30 years of working hard and raising families. 30 years of good eating and good drinking along with 30 years of battling the relentless force of gravity and way, way too much sun exposer. My beautiful memory of gorgeous, firm young bodies, tanned to perfection and covered in glistening spring water as they frolicked in the summer sun was now forever gone. Replaced by the sight of a gray haired 280 lb. woman, completely nude, sitting spread eagle in a beach chair drinking red wine while she poked buttons on her phone. Her boobs resting peacefully between the first and second fold of her ample belly as her whole body glowed in the sunlight from what I assume was a pint or so of coconut oil. Her balding, scrawny, wrinkled, ol’ man was standing beside her. Everything about him seemed to sag as he stood there quietly smoking his cigarette and staring blankly across the water through his bifocal sunglasses. It was an unbelievably sad and disturbing sight for me to be witness to.
So, sometimes you can go back… but you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t!
They say that you can never go back but unfortunately that isn’t always the case. I was a young man working my second summer for the BLM on a three-man survey crew. The Head man on the crew was Gordy. Gordy had been working for over 30 years for the BLM Medford district. He knew every square inch of the forest and everything worth seeing in that forest. So, one day while heading back to the office, when Gordy asked if we would like to see the beaver pond, we said we would. I had seen a few beaver ponds in my day but there must be something special about this one, if Gordy wanted to go out of the way to show it to us. We turned onto an old dirt road that wound its way up the hill through the cool shade of some beautiful old growth timber, then came upon a large flat area. That flat was littered with canvas tents, makeshift shelters and hippie vans. We then came to a spot where the ground opened up into an old rock quarry, a few acres in size, 50 to 60 feet deep with better than half the bottom flooded by crystal clear spring water. In and around the water were 25 to 30 beautiful young people laughing, swimming and splashing, sunbathing, drinking beer, smoking dope and all without a thread of clothing to share amongst them. It was a sight to behold, and it was very clear as to how that quarry got the nickname “The Beaver Pond”. We didn’t stay long. Gordy mumbled something about three men in an official government vehicle standing around gawking at naked hippie chicks and made us pack up and leave.
Thirty plus years quickly went by without me ever going back to The Beaver Pond. I was working for the Forest Service by then, but the Forest Service always seemed to be short on money to pay my wages. The BLM, on the other hand, always seemed to have money so, my boss would frequently pimp me out to them, to do with me whatever they wanted. That summer I was back on a BLM survey crew working with two young fellows. I was now the crusty old veteran who knew every inch of the forest and everything worth seeing in it. One evening as we headed back to the office, the guy driving said he wanted to take a new rout back. That rout would take us right past The Beaver Pond. I felt it my duty to pay it forward so I told the story of The Beaver Pond and asked if they would be interested in seeing it. I got a resounding “Yes” so, we turned up that old dirt road. The forest was just the same as I remembered but when we reached the flat there were no hippie vans nor makeshift shelters. Instead, there were travel trailers pulled by nice trucks and SUVs. We slowly approached the quarry and peered down. There were 10 to 15 people sunbathing, but nobody was swimming. There was a motorhome parked right next to the water but other than that, everything was exactly the same. By exactly the same, I mean the exact same people where there that had been there some 30 years prior, still without a stich of clothing. 30 years of working hard and raising families. 30 years of good eating and good drinking along with 30 years of battling the relentless force of gravity and way, way too much sun exposer. My beautiful memory of gorgeous, firm young bodies, tanned to perfection and covered in glistening spring water as they frolicked in the summer sun was now forever gone. Replaced by the sight of a gray haired 280 lb. woman, completely nude, sitting spread eagle in a beach chair drinking red wine while she poked buttons on her phone. Her boobs resting peacefully between the first and second fold of her ample belly as her whole body glowed in the sunlight from what I assume was a pint or so of coconut oil. Her balding, scrawny, wrinkled, ol’ man was standing beside her. Everything about him seemed to sag as he stood there quietly smoking his cigarette and staring blankly across the water through his bifocal sunglasses. It was an unbelievably sad and disturbing sight for me to be witness to.
So, sometimes you can go back… but you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t!
