The Nevada Nudist Traveler's Guide

I have always believed that some people were born for big cities and cocktail dresses and there are others of us who were clearly meant to wander around in the buff like half feral cats with sunburned shoulders. Me, I am the second one. Which is how I found myself in Nevada, of all places, with nothing on but a floppy hat, one mismatched flip-flop and the sudden realization that sand gets into crevices you didn't know existed.

Now let me just be honest right here, I am a Pacific Northwest girl. I am used to drizzle and pine trees and moss growing on my mailbox. In my neighborhood the wildest thing I do is drink wine on the deck while watching a raccoon try to steal my dog's food. So the first time I went south and got out into Nevada I thought, well this will be fun, I will pack a swimsuit. And then Nevada basically looked me up and down and said honey, a swimsuit is just going to melt into your armpits out here. And it was right.

So began my journey to being completely and unapologetically naked in the Silver State. Nevada is this wild dusty magic carpet of sagebrush, hot wind, and people who genuinely do not care if your boobs are out as long as you are not stepping on their beer cooler. And I fit right in.

There was a moment, I swear, standing out there my first day with the air so dry that even my eyelashes were cracking, that I thought, so this is how people lose their pants and never put them back on. One minute you think you are modest and normal and the next minute a gust of wind takes your shirt and you think well that was God's will and you just keep walking.

Of course, my best friend Tanya was the one who egged me into my first truly naked Nevada adventure. She said, "If we are going to do this, we are going to do it right, Kristin, no half-assing it." And then, because life is rude like that, I ended up half-assing it. Literally. Sunburned cheeks, the kind you cannot sit on for three days without making sounds like a distressed walrus.

This book is my love letter to that whole absurd experience. It is the dirt under your bare feet, the stories that make you spit out your iced tea, and the solid advice that will keep you from, say, getting cactus spines in places your gynecologist will never forgive you for.

I have been to the clubs, the secret hot springs, the dusty trails that feel like you stepped into a Clint Eastwood movie, and I have gotten lost naked behind a gas station more times than I would like to admit. But this is Nevada, baby, and in Nevada, the less clothing you have on, the more you are doing it right.

So grab your hat, your sense of humor, and for the love of all things holy a good strong sunscreen, because I am about to take you on a ride through the most unexpectedly freeing place to be bare that you never knew you needed.