For my Worst. Night. Ever. y’all rightly decided to send me to Jiro’s Relationship, Friendship, and Connection Lab. You so know how I hate to explore my feelings. I was a bit panicked to get there on time because I got stuck in traffic on the way back to town from Oregon City. Despite hunger pangs and dehydration, I made it to NW Portland with seven minutes to spare and walked into an office with a waiting room. There were no signs about relationship classes, so I holed up on a couch across from a woman who looked like she was having the Worst. Life. Ever. I waited. I waited some more. More waiting. And finally, not having Jiro’s phone number, I fucking left. That’s right…
I got STOOD UP for a relationship seminar.
- From squawmt.com
After the jump, read about how Alison and I went to Squaw Mountain Ranch and froze our asses off. Don't forget to vote on Steve's Worst. Night. Ever. It's the last one, make it count!
It’s a long drive to Estacada when you’re hungover and nervous. The Squaw Mountain Ranch is about 10 miles past Estacada on a dirt road turnoff that stretches over a mile into the woods, peppered with signs that say “No Hunting.” There was a dude on a motorcycle right behind us as we drove in, making us even more nervous like it was going to turn into a nude reimagining of The Last House on the Left. We drove into the resort, which looks just like a summer camp for an ’80s teen romp movie, and we parked by the office and gift shop (Nudestroms!). An elderly man in a safari hat and shirt tapped on my window and directed me to park in a different spot. Alison and I realized at the exact same moment that he wasn’t wearing any pants.
Phil, who’s 71 years old and has been a member (tee hee) of the resort since 1981, took us on a tour, starting with registering in the tiny office as he navigated around us. It took a few minutes to get used to standing so close to a man wearing no pants. Phil is the bomb though. He was so proud of his cabin, a tiny but comfortable bachelor pad with kitchen, shower, bed, comfy chair, and bong. It’s probably for medical use—Phil has skin cancer, which would be a definite hazard for a nudist. He bought his house years ago for less than $500 and he lives in it year round. It’s obvious that he loves the nudist camp and mentioned that very few young people are members. Apparently there’s only one child who’s a regular, a grandchild of a member, and the rest of the nudists spoil her rotten. It’s too bad—it seems like a great place to grow up, with a playground, air hockey, pool table, hot tubs, swimming hole, mini golf, and potlucks.
At this point, the skinny-dipping organizers were yelling for everyone to gather at the swimming hole. We were a little reticent to get naked, still fully clothed and lugging around our stuff. We couldn’t figure out a good spot to get undressed so we kind of hunkered behind a tree by the swimming hole, while a group of nudists gathered nearby. There were a few kids, two teenagers, a couple women our age, quite a few middle-aged couples, and older couples. Obviously, they were all nekked. So it turns out that undressing is way more awkward than just being naked. We should have stripped down in the restrooms. Who knew? But once naked, it wasn’t so bad. I was feeling fat, but after a minute it didn’t matter. I sort of just looked really intensely at people’s faces, as to not stare at their junk too much. In fact, I kept forgetting to steal surreptitious glances at their nakedness. Alison was on boner patrol, but she didn’t see any. I got a glimpse of a chubby on an old man, but that’s it.
We stood in a line, naked as jaybirds, to sign up for the skinny-dip. It’s an official nudist organization signup so all the nudists resorts in the country total up their participants for the world record attempt. Once noon hit we all jumped in. Lake Opal is a man-made swimming hole fed by a natural spring. It was fucking cold. Like 50 degrees cold. People screamed when they hit the water. A photographer took the group’s picture to document how many people were skinny-dipping (51!). A middle-aged man in front of us turned his back to the camera and muttered, “Not until I retire.” We swam for a while after the pictures. There was a little girl floating on an air mattress with a teenage boy pushing her around in the water. Her mom chatted with us from the dock about her daughter’s autism. I never thought I would have a naked conversation about autism while swimming. I had to get out—it was too blasted cold. I chatted with a friendly older couple who said that there were at least seven other people there who had come just for the skinny-dip. One man suggested we stick around for the hamburger and hot dog feed—there’d be karaoke! I couldn’t get a mental picture of myself, naked, eating a hot dog, and belting out an off-tune song. That sent shivers down my back… also I was cold.
Alison and I gathered up our stuff to head up toward the lodge. The teenage boy who’d been swimming with the little girl walked by. He pointed to a woman who was standing by us and said to her, “There’s something in your… [makes strange hand gesture] butt.” The woman had a tampon string hanging from her… butt. She said, “It’s a tampon.” The boy didn’t seem like the smartest whip. That certainly shows a lack of knowledge about women, Alison noted. Indeed. I don’t think he was a professional naturalist.
We thought about hanging out a bit longer, but eventually decided that we felt pretty okay about our levels of awkwardness for the day. I got dressed by my truck—once again, the most uncomfortable part of the whole venture. It seemed a bit indecent to be putting on my underwear in the parking lot. It also felt a little strange to just leave without saying good-bye to anyone, until a very nice woman walked by to say farewell, she hoped we’d come back someday.
I think we would have stayed a bit longer if it hadn’t felt so disingenuous to be partaking of their hospitality without having any intention of becoming a nudist. I wish I had an interest—I mean who doesn’t like summer camp? The nudism just doesn’t do much for me. I wonder why there hasn’t been a resurgence in naturalism for the hipster set? There’s this beautiful place in the woods, with a rec room, horseshoe pits, camaraderie, and rustic cabins (many of which have been there since the '30s and '40s, still with wooden skids used to move them into the camp from outlying logging camps). It’s ripe for a young person invasion, but Squaw Mountain Ranch’s ranks seem a bit thin. What is it about a time and place that makes it perfect for a movement like this? Squaw Mountain Ranch is the oldest nudist camp west of the Mississippi, opening in 1933. Through some half-assed research it looks like many nudist colonies started up in the mid to late-'30s, when people were interested in getting back to nature and throwing off some of their Depression-era sadness. Now seems like a great time for a revival. It was certainly fun for a short period of time and I didn’t even play their mini golf course—that probably would’ve sealed the deal.
