Crystal Crane Gang

Welcome to another installment of "rainy Northwest weekend." This time around, me and Katie and Danielle and Chelsea drove way out east to a magical mineral pool. With Portland's frenzied state, I don't typically like to call out my magical respites—’cause they're a secret. But just this once, because I love you—the hot springs goes by the mystical name of Crystal Crane. If you have a spare 11 hours in which to do this drive roundtrip, then I salute you.

Anyway, here, out on the high desert with the mountains off in the distance, there was nothing to do but soak. And so we did. The pool was plenty big to swim around, and warm enough to turn your cheeks a sort of deep magenta after about 20 minutes. When an evening rainstorm blew through and pelted our skin with icy droplets, it felt good. Later, inside the cabin drinking wine from a can, I felt almost supernaturally relaxed. If only I could dip in a steamy mineral pool every night before bed.

The next morning, we got up early and, amidst the racket of golden-breasted birds, soaked again. The sun was rising, the steam was rising—it was a sweet, liminal moment at the beginning of summer.

Sniffing sagebrush on the wind.

Equal parts dogs and people. My kinda slumber party.

Morning medicine.