My Visit to a Somewhat Nude Hot Springs Resort
Eliminating inhibitions as I check off items from my solo sensuality checklist
Just a warning: this is longer than my usual. If you’re reading via email, bring this post up on the Substack app or at clavicle.substack.com. I also have pics that show skin. I don’t think they’re a big deal, but some people are (insert your preferred word here.)
During the July 4th holiday weekend, I visited a hot springs retreat center that was clothing-optional. Well, only in the pools. With my focus on solo sensuality, a distraction my therapist thinks is a way to avoid open dating again (she’s so good!), I concocted a checklist of sorts which included a “nude resort/vacation.”
After some research, I wasn’t impressed with the offerings in the PNW. Thankfully, a friend recommended an enchanting getaway, hidden in Oregon’s Williamette National Forest, south of Mt. Hood. (I don’t want to name the place because I broke some rules, and I would like to not be banned.)
I left Friday morning with my kids wishing me well on my “weird naked vacation.” Though I was traveling into the mountains, I knew I was facing a weekend heatwave with temperatures at or near 100.
Like the high-maintenance girl I am, I overpacked for my au naturel vacation and headed west. Stopping at The Dalles, Oregon, as always, for a pee break and trying on clearance clothes at Fred Meyer, I wondered if I could manage a stop at the Goodwill and check out the truck stop-convenience store-sex shop down the road, but I decided that would have to wait until the return trip.
This retreat center is in a national forest, a big one, with no cell-phone service, so I knew it would be a matter of time before I would be relying on an offline version of Google Maps. This wouldn’t be a big deal if it wasn’t so fucking hot, the forest roads weren’t so one-car wide, and I wasn’t led down gravel roads when the forest ranger told me not to go down “dirt” roads. I also had a little over a quarter of a tank of gas with over an hour to go. Sure, that sounds okay for regular travel through connected civilization, but I had no idea if I was lost as I drove through what resembled numerous episodes from The X-Files right before an alien abduction in the wilderness. Approximately four times, I pulled over, coached myself not to cry, and convinced myself to trust the Google machine. To top it off, the retreat center’s website tells patrons to not rely on Google Maps or any map app because they’re not correct. So if I went missing, my kids could tell people it was because I left on my “weird naked vacation.” Lovely.
Covered in sweat due to heat and mental exhaustion, I finally arrived, parked, and stumbled into the gatehouse. I vented about my journey to the two deadpan clerks who weren’t thrilled with my exasperated arrival. They obviously didn’t care, especially when I delivered my one request: Since I had an 11:30-1:00 massage booked on my last day, could I have an extra 15 minutes to move my belongings out of my room? (You had to be out of your room at 1:00 but could stay on property until 3:00.)
The answer was no. I could bring my stuff to the lodge. Wow, thanks. I didn’t want my stuff to melt in my car, but I decided I would figure out my conundrum on Sunday. I loaded up my belongings into one of their makeshift rickshaw-like carts and found my room…
Which was in a tin can portable. Again, it's almost 100 degrees outside. (I’m guessing because I had no ability to check. I was officially cut off from the outside world for the next few days.) Stay positive, I told myself. I dropped off my stuff, took my underwear off from under my short dress, and grabbed a towel. No hesitation. Let’s do this.
I headed to one end of the retreat center by the sauna with three Meadow Pools, the Near, the Middle, and the Silent, each regularly temp-checked by fully-clothed workers you casually say “hi” to. There were just a few people in attendance. I slipped off my dress like no big deal, skipped over to rinse myself off by the shower, and entered the Near Pool.
And this is really where my story begins…
I easily chatted with an older couple in their 60s who rock climb in Nevada. They were delightful as we talked about what brought each other to the retreat center. She was interested in my story (you, my friends, know my story) and told me about her book which was about being proud of your nakedness, I think. Before heading off with her husband, she offered me a copy of her book as well as to the other people chilling in the Near Pool… and politely asked for an Amazon review. Smooth. (Shoot me if I ever become this person who carries around copies of her book from a never-ending Mary Poppins bag.)
Another couple from Chicago, also around my age, heard my story, and we picked up the conversation. They were funny, engaging, and shared some similarities to me like their own sexual exploration and the husband’s past in Southern Baptist life. We quickly became pretty tight and ate dinner together, laughing about the raunchiest of life because that’s what you do when you’ve met kismet friends in a naked hot spring an hour or so ago.
The food was vegetarian and delicious. I didn’t need snacks because the food was so filling, but we were also just desperate to fill our ever-dehydrated bodies with water from the fill stations around the resort.
After dinner, my Chicago friends and I wandered over to the Spiral Tubs which increase in temperature with the last one being a cool plunge. We removed our clothes and dipped into one, meeting two new friends from Bend, Oregon, who were celebrating a birthday. Soon after, another couple took up space in the tub, and we played a game of “Tell Me Your Life Story.” With gasps, chuckles, and follow-up questions, our knees and arms bumped into each other as we took breaks from the steaming water, occasionally lifting ourselves onto the edge before lowering ourselves back in.
And it was normal. It wasn’t daunting for me to be naked. I love being naked. It was the fact there were other people like me who also thought it was normal. (About 80-90% of people were nude in the pools.) I’ve always struggled with belonging. Especially after leaving ministry and writing about my erotic exploits, I’ve cautiously let people in–actually, let’s be honest, I don’t let people in–because I know not everyone can handle me, a 41-year-old wife and mother of three who loves kink and sex, is coming to terms with her polyamorous nature (if it’s even right for her), owning her queerness, and solidifying her confidence in sensuality.
My therapist recently told me: “You’ve lived a life of extremes with constant whiplash.”
Makes sense. I’m so tired of “driving” back and forth on this journey. I just want to meet some cool people who get me, even if it’s at the most vile rest area on the interstate of life. I’m desperate for the ability to rest for a while without needing to brace for shock or being fetishized. I don’t want to over explain or defend my brand of normal.
And the last thing I want to do is trauma bond. I’m not insensitive. I’m just over it.
So there I was, cramped with five other naked bodies, comfortably being me.
It was around 10:00 or so and we headed back to our various sleeping quarters. I showered and tried to cozy myself to bed, but it was still too hot. I lay naked on the bottom bunk with the windows open as I seriously considered leaving my door wide open. (By the way, there are no locks on the doors in this Shangri-La.)
Morning came. When I checked my phone, it was around my usual 4:00a wake-up, and I was delighted to not see notifications on my phone. I was already dreading hearing the endless pings when civilization and technology could reach me again. During the previous night, one of my new friends from Bend recommended going out early to get some shots of myself in the Silent Pool before other patrons woke up. (Having digital devices of any kind were not allowed in the soaking/public areas.) I almost got out of bed, but cool mountain air circulated in my room. I snuggled under my covers and fell back asleep.
Waking up at 6:00, and knowing it was too late to take sexy pics, I made my way to the pools where I met a man in his 60s from New York. We were the only ones in the Middle Pool. We chatted and laughed. He ogled my body as I moved around finding new comfortable spots or adjusted my hair bun. I’ve been on enough dates to know when a man is going to a place of sexual intrigue in his mind. When he whined about an upcoming trip to the Jersey Shore with his wife’s family, that was my cue to say goodbye. He got out to head to the sauna and walked with me. After lauding me about my confidence (I know… sometimes), beauty (I know, sure), and sensuality (I know and still trying), I waved and said, “See ya around.”
That morning I had a different interaction with another older gentleman at the lodge who offered me coffee. (Coffee was not available unless you brought your own or bought a scoop of ground coffee at the gift shop… when it opened at 8:00a. Eeks. And no, you may not use an electric grinder because the resort runs on hydroelectricity, and you are advised to reduce your electric impact. I may have charged my phone and laptop.)
We talked about places we’ve lived, and surprisingly (no, not anymore) our paths previously crossed. He was a professor at my small-town alma mater in south Georgia at the same time I was a student. Sometimes I feel we’re all moving in circles, and we very nearly meet when life forces us to slow down or speed up our pace.
Our friends corralled together for breakfast and roughly planned out our day which was to include a mini-field trip later in the afternoon. Mr. New York called me over and said, “I have a surprise for you.” Oh goodness, I thought. We’re supposed to be clothed in all other public areas outside the pools. What the heck is he going to show me?
“Check out this butterfly. It’s just been sitting here.”
“Oh cool. Let me get a pic.”
“Can you send me the picture?”
“Well, got to get back to my friends. Bye!”
(After breakfast, he asked me how to find my Substack. Hopefully, he has not. Don’t get me wrong. Love older guys 😍, but not ones in closed, monogamous marriages.)
The retreat center offers free wellness classes. No sign-up, just drop-in. We went to a meditation-sharing circle which offered a nice ruminative boost. While holding the “sharing stick,” one individual vented about how much the facility had changed, something about it having less masculinity. He appreciated the mix of masculine and feminine elements, but it wasn’t the same. We’ll call this guy “Mr. Good Ol’ Days.” My friend-group had no idea what he was talking about, so the Chicago husband asked him during lunch after our group played a rousing game of “Guess My Enneagram Number.” After hearing about jet skis and a formerly open trail that was too dangerous for women-folk, we collectively placed Mr. Good Ol’ Days in the “Bless His Heart” category and moved along.
Hot, exhausted, and addicted to sunscreen, we took some time to browse the gift shop and library. (Surprise, surprise, that lady’s nakedness book mysteriously appeared on the shelf! Destiny!) While the Chicago couple drove to the nearest town fifteen minutes away to call their kids who were staying with family, the Bend friends and I went to our rooms to rest, in need of some downtime and relief from the heat.
Well, that didn’t happen for me because I was invited to engage with a hippie Christian couple outside of my room.
This wonderful duo, enlightened beyond my understanding, must have felt a burden to share their “truth.” Here is the wisdom they revealed to me as we sat on Adirondack chairs, river sloshing away, and sweat pooling into every crease of my body, signaling a ferocious need to escape:
After briefly telling them about me and my husband, I was told we probably had a chemical imbalance.
The wife was obsessed with a special tea to combat the symptoms of Lyme disease.
She experienced a coffee enema (???) after which God started talking to her audibly, and she can sometimes understand animals and machinery… “sometimes,” because let’s not get carried away. (A construction site must be like a rave to her.)
They dabbled in fatalism and predestination in reference to the existence of bad people like murderers and child molesters.
The husband stared at my chest, abs, and legs numerous times. (I understand, but make it less obvious, especially since we’re sitting less than a foot from each other. The naked people in the pools had better tact.)
Thankfully, the Chicago couple came back. (I don’t remember how the hippie Christian couple disappeared, maybe via a chaotic scene akin to Jumanji or Transformers where they were whisked away by animals or robots, and I’m too much of a heathen to have noticed.) The Chicago couple bought a patriotic postcard as a gift for our birthday Bend friend. I added a free admission certificate to the tribal museum adjacent to my workplace along with a bookmark I made the previous weekend at Barnes & Noble.
Chicago husband also put his plans into action by hiding some hard seltzers on the opposite side of the river for us to later rendezvous together as a group. (Alcohol is not allowed at the retreat center and is not to be consumed.) My mysterious hippie Christian friends reappeared at the lodge, offering us a whiff of their magical tea blend–no joke. We joined our Bend friends for dinner with Mr. Good Ol’ Days occasionally popping into our conversation, and then we were off on our field trip.
But Chicago wife and I decided we needed to take a little detour to hide birthday Bend friend’s gifts in the middle of the Labyrinth. Sounds mystical, right? Well, it’s not. Towards the back of the retreat center, there’s a circular maze with dried grass and river rocks barely ankle high. Like you can see the center from anywhere in the Labyrinth. We joked as we made birthday Bend friend lead the way to her special gifts.
And there sat the postcard, certificate, and bookmark (she almost took a shell–we were so close to initiating a curse!), and she loved it. We hugged and continued on our illegal outing.
We passed the staff-only community village, where apparently alcohol and trash were allowed. (Patrons to the retreat center cannot leave trash behind. Whatever you bring in, you must take with you. There are no trash cans, only compost. In the bathrooms, they used reusable, washable towel dispensers. Never seen that before.)
We walked and walked, possibly through poison ivy, laid out a sheet and sat in a circle by the river. (Oh, and going off land/off trail was also not allowed.) Chicago husband found his seltzer stash. Chicago wife took out her vape (no cannabis allowed). If you know me, it’s not my thing. Just makes me sleepy.
Birthday Bend friend accidentally bought colorful pencils instead of colored pencils for this trip, but the cool thing about these pencils was the fact they had introspective prompts on them. So among gulps of Truly seltzer, we went around the circle and got deep, taking turns being vulnerable and shedding some tears. (At least, I did.)
My heart… these people… heavy sigh.
With mosquito bites galore and the sky darkening, we returned to camp with a dip back into the pools. Around 10:00 again, we parted ways. I showered and easily fell asleep.
Four in the morning on Sunday. Cool breeze. Did not want to get out of bed.
I want pictures. I want pictures. I want pictures.
So at 4:45, I set out to the Silent Pool. The retreat center was dead. Excellent! The air felt refreshing and invited nudity and a warm dip. No one was present as I passed the Near Pool, a sole woman in the Middle Pool (stay there please), and no one in the Silent Pool. Perfect.
I set my phone and snapped and recorded and relished in the tranquil setting. I also slipped and looked suspicious and sweat like a hog because the Silent Pool is the hottest of the three, but I’d do it again.
After about fifteen minutes, I hopped out, hid my phone in my Powell’s bag, and watched the forest come alive with a dip in the Near Pool before heading back to my room. I then enjoyed one of the best showers of my life in an outdoor stall with a gorgeous view of the forest and river as sentimentality washed over me. This weekend was a gift. I wasn’t ready to leave.
But all good things must come to an end. We enjoyed our breakfast with Mr. Good Ol’ Days in tow and participated in a yoga class. It was calm and rejuvenating until I started focusing on the clock.
Yeah, let’s fuck this up.
My idea was to hurry back from yoga to my room at 11:00. That would give me enough time to grab a rickshaw, load my stuff, lug it to my car, take my one bag of toiletries (AKA “meltables”) to the lodge, and have minutes to spare before my 11:30 massage.
Well, our awesome yogi kept saying “in closing” at 11:00, 11:05, and again at 11:10. At 11:13, I stealthily packed up my gear and bolted out the door. I ran to the cart shed, almost got pummeled by my cart, and loaded up my gear. There was NOT enough time to get to my car and back to the lodge, so I rushed to the lodge with my cart and just parked it outside. Sure, this is utopia, but I still didn’t want all of my stuff just out there. I ran inside to talk to the gift shop clerk and check in. She saw how sweaty and stressed I was as I cried, “I was trying to follow the rules, but I made it!” Long story short, they apologized, offered to watch my cart, and ushered me into my massage room. I noticed my shoes were on. (No shoes allowed inside the lodge.) I rushed out to place them by the door and saw my friends. I quickly let them know about my cart, and the Chicago couple volunteered to take my stuff to their room since they were staying one more night.
I then experienced a wonderful massage that included an intense and much needed glute kneading. My masseuse also went over time, overcompensating for our slightly late start.
I met my friends for our last meal with Mr. Good Ol’ Days as our honorary guest. This is where sentimental Desiree comes out, a side of myself that is intensely observant, rarely talkative, and encased in the metaphysicality of the moment. Or, in other words, when you’re trying to be proactive due to Andy Bernard’s wise words in The Office series finale: “I wish there was a way to know you're in ‘the good old days’ before you've actually left them.”
Sure, I’ve felt this way on breath-taking occasions with my kids when I was desperate to slow time, but since leaving ministry and releasing the hems of my inhibitions three years ago, exercising the right to be my authentic self, I’ve felt this connection only twice before with others. The last time was at my friend’s religious deconstruction and sex positivity conference in Portland where I had the pleasure of interacting with on-the-mend yet empowered people like me. Our stories wove together in sweet normalcy, still present in the fray. Unfortunately, most of those connections have faded away.
And the other time was with one specific partner. Our off-and-on seasons were eye-opening and indulgent. I never felt awkward or the need to be less of myself with him, but then cracks formed and as he stated “you’re evolving and I’m just not,” a warning that we were meant for two different paths. All of that considered, if I was offered an FDA-approved pill to remove all memories of him, I would take it. Fueled by the highs and lows of affection and heartbreak, writers aren’t supposed to say that.
So yes, sitting there as lunch was wrapping up, I snipped this moment–taking in what people left on their plates, how sunglasses sat on heads, details about how the Chicago couple got their sheep–and pasted it on my mental collage, allowing it to cure in case I allowed it to go into the “Nostalgia” file… which I really have no control over.
I came back to reality as we cleared our table and our Bend friends prepared to head out. We even allowed Mr. Good Ol’ Days to take our picture on the lodge’s front steps. (We’re not heartless; he was nice enough to offer.) We gave hugs and exchanged phone numbers. Then it was down to me and the Chicago couple. We walked towards their room so I could pick up my stuff, but I stopped by the bathroom and told them they needed to give me words of wisdom before my departure. When I returned, Chicago wife read out-of-context lines from the book about nakedness we received, and Chicago husband reminded me I was fine just the way I am after hearing about the weariness of my journey and insecurities. It was a sweet “dad” moment.
They helped me load up my car. More hugs, and I was off.
I zoned out during the long, sweltering drive back home, deciding the Goodwill and truck stop-convenience store-sex shop wasn’t worth the extra minutes away from my family. I got home a little after 8:00, and I told them (most of) the story I just told here.
My favorite part: “The guys had normal penises. No one had a monster penis. Everyone was cool.”
Totally normal. All of it. Or maybe just for us on the fray.
Aside from an overnight religious or Girl Scouts trip, I’ve never really experienced “summer camp.” For many, it’s easy to associate that experience with fond memories, connection, and the opportunity to step out of your norm, or how others back home see you. In many ways, I’m late to the game in regard to sensual liberation, sexual exploration, and just adopting an IDGAF attitude in the next chapter of my life. But I hope my trip and our group fosters recollection and emphasis on acceptance of self and sweet release in the various forms of vulnerability whether through pencils with prompts or nakedness.
Appropriately named as our WhatsApp chat, our “summer camp” bond reminds me that the journey doesn’t have to be rushed. My in-progress status/obsession/disappointments can dissipate as I saunter and soak. I get to just be.
Great writing!
I love how you write and your sense of humor and vulnerability. I had the shittiest year of my life in 2024, but have the attitude 2025 is a new me. Reading this and your journey somehow gives me the faith it can happen with the right attitude and willingness to be vulnerable. Thank you for the extra nudge. Still trying to figure it out at 67.