Smoke drifted past our table on the patio at the Rusty Nail. We downed drafts and waited for barbequed chicken. A shirtless waiter with a rolled cowboy hat and leather vest glided among the crowd of half-naked men.
"When were you last at the Geysers?" I said.
"Back in my hippie days," Luc said.
"There are no villas?" Michel said. He was from France visiting Luc that summer of 1979.
"I said camping," Luc said. Michel took another sip of his beer.
The Rusty Nail was owned by three lesbians, Pat, Toni, and Betty. It was incorporated June, 1977. At 9117 River Road, tourists exiting the 101 at Fulton on their way to Guerneville, passed right by it. They stopped. It was a safe roadhouse. Sonoma County deputies brought their latest squeeze there when stepping out on their wives.
We closed the bar, left after 2 p.m. and crawled into our sleeping bags at the Russian River Lodge, a mile down River Road. By ten the next morning we were headed to the Geysers.
"Sure you remember how to get to there?" I said. We were on the 101 headed north to Geyserville.
"There are signs," Luc said. Michel sat silently between us watching the California countryside.
"There it is," Luc said. "Left Turn Geyserville."
We turned left. After more signs and more turns we reached 'The Warm Springs of the West.' I pulled into the parking lot. Besides Nelly Belle, my GMC pickup, there was one vehicle in the lot.
"Were is everyone?" Luc said. "It's Saturday!"
We paid a small camping fee. Luc took us on a tour of the deserted buildings, told us of the orgies in the mud baths during his hippie days. We made our way on foot to the warm pool to setup camp.
I saw what had inspired Anglo-American poet Thom Gunn to write, "Some rest and pass a joint, some climb the fall/ Tan black and pink, firm shining bodies, all..."
We stopped to rest and pass the joint. That's when the jug of Gallo red slipped, hit the rocks, and slowly mingled like sangria with the warm waters of a small pool. One shining body, pink, in cutoffs, greeted us at the larger pool. We built a campfire, opened our rations, and spent the night fulfilling scouting fantasies. Sunday morning we headed back. Michel looked much relieved.
By noon we were back at the Rusty Nail enjoying bull-shots and eggs benedict. The bar was filled with city cowboys squeezing in every minute of their Russian River weekend.
photo: Jim Stewart
The shirtless waiter made his way across the crowded dance floor holding his tray of cocktails high above the dancers' heads. As he came toward the patio his pointed boot caught the one step up. He recovered but not before all but one of the glasses on his tray had slid and crashed to the floor. Stunned, he pick up the remaining glass, my bull-shot, and dashed it to the floor. He received a round of applause.
The last I saw the Rusty Nail, between Rio Dell Court and Champs de Elysses, it was deserted. A tangle of overgrown grapevines, once filched from a River Road vineyard, blocked its entrance.
©2014 [email protected] For further true gay adventures check out the award-winning Folsom Street Blues: A Memoir of 1970s SoMa and Leatherfolk in Gay San Francisco by Jim Stewart.