Journalist Bares His Uneasiness at Camp

By most standards, my assignment should have been a piece of cake.

A festival on a sunny October Saturday in the scenic Santa Ana Mountains. It was to be a celebration of the Old West, complete with chuck wagon cooks and a make-believe sheriff roaming the campgrounds.

For me, the task promised a break of sorts from my usual Saturday morning jousts on the police beat.

That this festival was to be held at Orange County’s only nudist camp really didn’t bother me until Larry Waughtel, wearing nothing but a western scarf and cowboy boots, stretched out his hand to welcome photographer Aurelio Jose Barrera and me to McConville.

Now, I’ll admit that while this story was not my idea, no one forced us to take the assignment.

But as we took the long mid-morning trek to the tiny camp near Cleveland National Forest, the irony of the day struck me. On the car radio, the now-infamous weekend that was the Clarence Thomas hearings blared away. And I couldn’t help think, not so much of what I would write on the nudist camp, but of that thoroughly disgusted look flashed so often the day before by Sen. Orrin G. Hatch at each reference to the allegations against Thomas.

The prosecutorial Utah Republican’s shiny forehead surely would have glowed a fine autumn hue had he gone with us to the mountain camp founded in 1933 and named for its founder, former New York grocer Pete McConville.

As for me, not knowing what to expect from the camp and its nature lovers, my strategy on meeting Waughtel was to focus on a rather innocuous portion of the anatomy--his nose--while I fumbled through introductions and interviews.

A tougher test came when Waughtel summoned his wife from their family cabin and she came bounding up the path to greet us. Eyes fixed on the middle of her face, I found her quite pleasant and polite. I sensed that she was attempting to put us at ease, but this was obviously going to take some time.

Like a good host, Larry offered to have us experience the “freedom” and mix more discretely by discarding our own clothing, but we politely declined and continued our tour of the festival grounds.

On most assignments, journalists generally prefer to mix completely with the crowd as much as possible, striving for the simple perspective of an observer. But blending in here would be impossible. Even if I dropped my shorts and took a walk in the forest with these strangers, I didn’t think I would be able to match or mimic their insouciance.

“We’re not hiding behind anything,” Waughtel said. “It feels so damn good not to have to put something on. When you get up in the morning, you’re dressed. When you are ready to go to bed, you’re dressed for that too.”

Conspicuous by our clothing, we continued on to the camp’s dining area where guests mingled about, including one man wearing only a fanny pack and climbing shoes while busily preparing for an afternoon hike through the heavily wooded grounds.

The man, a bit curious of our presence, smiled as he rushed off for his outing. I could only think of sticker bushes.

We walked around the sun deck and swimming pool, an area Waughtel described as the hub of most activity in the camp, which is affiliated with the 7,000-member Western Sunbathing Assn. By the pool, a couple dozen members engaged in friendly conversation and the serious business of worshiping the bright sunshine, stopping only briefly to take notice of the two clothed guys from the newspaper.

About noon, the “chuck wagon” opened for business, and some gathered near to partake of the barbecue. My normally healthy appetite waned when I saw bratwurst being skewered on the grill.

But just when all seemed hopelessly foreign, I was introduced to Jeanne.

A 67-year-old government auditor, Jeanne’s easy manner and warm smile put me nearly completely at ease, though she sat before me bare-chested, a blue blouse tossed over her left shoulder.

She spoke of her family’s early introduction to nudism and her belief that clothes presented phony images of people, uncomfortable without the trappings of material possessions.

“Some people would think that I was a lecherous old lady,” she said during our conversation. “So many people equate nudity with sex, and it really isn’t.”

In the story I wrote from my visit, I included Jeanne’s very genuine explanation of her lifestyle. Yet from the telephone calls I received from young men--a tad overenthusiastic with their questions, I knew not many readers paid much attention to her words.