So there I was, butt-naked on a wet log, holding a half-eaten granola bar in one hand and trying to swat a mosquito off my inner thigh with the other, wondering how the hell my life had come to this. And you know what? I was happy. Cold? Yes. Slightly sticky from marshmallow goo I still swear wasn’t mine? Also yes. But happy.

If you’re here reading this book, bless your bare little heart, that means you’ve at least considered what it’s like to spend time in nature with your cheeks out and your bits breathing the fresh air. And let me tell you, it is one hell of a ride. A weird, itchy, hilarious, freeing, awkward-as-all-get-out ride. And I am here to be your guide through all of it. Name’s Kristin. I’m 38, I’ve got more ex-boyfriends than clean towels, and I’ve been camping in the nude more times than I can count—mainly because I lost count around that weekend I mistook poison ivy for baby spinach. Long story. We'll get there.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t born naked in a tent under the stars like some crunchy backwoods goddess. No, I used to be a regular panty-wearing gal like most folks. I believed in bug spray, SPF 50, and keeping my boobs contained in something with underwire. But then one day, I went camping with a boy who forgot his clothes and somehow convinced me that “true freedom” meant chasing fireflies in our birthday suits. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Reader, it was not.

Since then, I’ve gone on more nude camping trips than I’ve gone to the gym (which isn’t saying a ton, but still). And let me tell you, nude camping has given me some of the best moments of my life. Also, the weirdest. I once got chased by a goose while trying to poop behind a bush. I once tried to set up a tent in the dark, tripped over a log, and landed face-first in another camper’s spaghetti dinner. And I once got into a naked argument with my best friend Tanya about whose butt was more mosquito-bitten. (Spoiler alert: it was mine. By a mile.)

But beyond the chaos and the questionable hygiene, there is a pure kind of joy that comes with being completely bare in the wild. No waistband digging into your gut, no sweaty sports bra holding you hostage, no damp socks clinging to your dignity. Just you, your glorious body, and the sounds of raccoons getting into your snacks.

This book is for anyone who’s ever wondered what it feels like to roast marshmallows with your nipples out. For the brave, the curious, the unashamed, and even the nervous wrecks who still can’t believe they’re reading this with the blinds open. I’ll tell you where to go (without landing on some watch list), what to bring (spoiler: not pants), and how to enjoy yourself while avoiding things like sunburned labia, nudist weirdos named Terry, and geese with attitude problems.

We’ll cover the full spread, pun fully intended, from campsites that welcome your wobbly bits to the best snacks to eat naked without leaving crumbs in places crumbs should never be. Along the way, you’ll meet a few of my chaotic friends, hear about some of my many romantic misadventures, and get more unsolicited nudist wisdom than you asked for.

So strip down, slap on some sunscreen (all the places, honey, trust me), and get ready to laugh, learn, and let it all hang out. Welcome to Nude Camping: Where To Go, What To Do, and How To Have Fun While You Do It All!

Let’s get cheeky.