Mark Alexander – Page 556

I regret that I did not start recording my adventures in San Francisco for posterity until more than a year after I arrived, so you’ll have to forgive me if my memories of my first visit to the Russian River are a little hazy. Specifically, the name of the hot guy with the mouthwatering uncut cock who first took me there completely eludes me. (It’s odd the things we do remember, isn’t it?)

I’d spent most of my first summer in San Francisco at the beach; officially Marshall’s Beach, but unofficially “No Name” or “Boy” or less commonly, “North Baker” (photos here). It was a strip of clothing-optional sand north of Baker Beach and south of the Golden Gate Bridge where men of a certain persuasion would go to get some UV (and if they were lucky, slobber) on their naughty bits.

It was there that one afternoon I hooked up with a British ex-pat who, after we were done making the baby Jesus cry, asked if I’d ever been to the nude beach at the Russian River. I told him I knew of the Russian River, but except for passing through Guerneville, I actually hadn’t been there yet, and certainly not to the nude beach.

We made a date for the following weekend, and drove north. We turned off of River Road and onto Wohler, winding our way through wineries until we came upon Wohler Bridge. We drove past the bridge and parked on a spur of pavement just north of the turnoff. Judging from the number of cars parked, this was definitely the spot.

It was a little bit of a hike to the beach itself; something that my 29-year old body handled with ease. (It would probably kill me if I attempted it now.) A well-trodden trail led through a beautiful grove of trees until it dumped us out in an expansive field (pictures 1 & 2 above). We crossed the field, and after passing through another small grove of trees, found ourselves at a small rock-strewn beach (pictures 3, 4, & 5) on the river—already bursting at the seam with naked and semi-naked homosexuals. There was no place remaining to lay out our towels, so we headed back to the field and found a spot in the grass where we could spread out and get some sun.

I don’t remember what ultimately happened between me and my British ex-pat, but I will forever remember him as the guy who introduced me to this magical place. I returned by myself several more times as the years passed, discovering that naked boys in the forest were there for reasons other than simply enjoying the sensation of wind on their bare skin…

Rumor had it that the property at the time was owned by Fred MacMurry, who apparently had no issue with cute nekkid menz traipsing around his field and forest. Even though the property was posted as “private” no one had ever been hassled for trespassing.

In recounting this, I headed over to Google Maps to take a peek at what the place looks like now. I was devastated. There is now a gate barring access to the area from Wohler Road. The one-time grassy field is gone, now dotted with trees and shrubs. A road has been constructed to the west of where the field had been, leading to some kind of maintenance building, and while there appears to still be a footpath through the former field leading to the river, the beach is nowhere to be found. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. It has been 33 years since I last visited, and Fred himself has been dead since 1991. Changes to the property were bound to occur…

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November 4, 2021November 3, 2021

So That Explains It!