Opinion: In Defense of Skinny Dipping

BY NICOLE BETHUNE

The first time I went skinny dipping in the backcountry was in an alpine lake in the Sierra. I found myself off trail in a secluded section of a pass, on a small peninsula spotted with pine trees surrounded by snow-chilled water lapping at the thin strip of sandy shoreline. Thwarted by snowdrifts and insufficient gear, I had to cut my 15-mile planned route short to just 3 miles and I was still consoling a bruised ego. I set my pack down and slumped next to it, letting my dog off leash and watching her bound into the icy water without hesitation.

I struggled for years to be comfortable in my own skin. But getting outside and challenging myself picked away at that—and with each foray onto the trail, I started to see my body for what it could do instead of what it looked like.

The sun was strong enough that sweat plastered my bangs to my forehead and pooled at my waist where my hip belt rested. The water on the lake glistened, reminding me that the swimsuit I’d packed was stuffed into the very, very bottom of my pack. 

Without letting myself reconsider, I quickly verified no one else was around, stripped, piled my clothes on top of my pack, and stepped into the water. The cold of it nipped at my ankles and sent goosebumps rocketing across my skin. I plunged in, gasping at the shock of it, and leaned back, floating on the surface. My skin numbed, and with it the usual barrage of insecurities. I realized I didn’t care what I looked like—I wasn’t fixated on the way a swimsuit fit, or how the fabric cut into my hips. Instead, I closed my eyes and let myself be held by the water and the mountains around it. By the songs of birds in the arms of pine trees sprawling overhead. 

Something as small as forgoing a couple scraps of fabric broke something free, dissolving the last vestiges of self-consciousness that lingered from years of pinching skin and obsessing over reflections and numbers on a scale. For once, all of those thoughts were quiet, and I was just a human basking in the wild. 

Since then, I’ve not felt an ounce of hesitation about skinny dipping. Swimsuits have been permanently stricken from my packing list, and if I ever need coverage at a busy backcountry hot spring, well, there’s always underwear.