After walking a mile or so into the woods, you don’t expect to see a naked man. At least I don’t expect it. True, this was at Rooster Rock, known for its clothing optional beach. But the beach was flooded with river water, leaving only the forest above for exploration. It’s one thing when people are sunbathing nude or frolicking in the surf wearing only a bandana. It’s another thing to arrive at a fork in a hiking path and see a sixty-something gentleman sprawled on a blanket like a Burt Reynolds centerfold, in wait for whoever might care to be impressed by his tube steak. Later, I regretted not calling out a loud Mrs. Doubtfire-style “Well, hellllooooo!” Stephanie thinks we should have set up camp a few feet away and mirrored his antics. Craig suggested it was one of those times you wish you had three-foot-long chopsticks.