This is a story about burritos. It’s also a story about cell phones, and why you should put down your phone to discover new experiences. New, nude experiences to be precise.

The alarm rouses our tent at 7am and, queens of efficiency, we are in the road by 7:38am. With no set itinerary, we have three days to get from Seattle to San Diego; just two best friends, a dog, and the open road. 

After a few hours on the road we roll into a small town southeast of Eugene. We need gas, and Highway 58 goes right through Oakridge, Oregon, so we stop at the only station in town. I’m not a coffee drinker, but Allison is, and she asks the gas attendant where to get the best coffee. Without hesitating, the gal tells us to circle back to Stewart’s 58 Drive In Restaurant & Coffee Counter. She sounds confident, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about coffee drinkers, it’s that you trust a good recommendation. We turn Pepe Le Blu back north to the coffee shop.

The burrito

While Allison orders a quad-Mocha (that’s a thing, right?), I casually peruse the breakfast options. I didn’t want a breakfast burrito, I’m not really even hungry, but when the menu recommends a “large chipotle flour tortilla stuffed with Bacon (their capitalization), sausage, eggs, onions, peppers, potatoes & tomatoes, with house made salsa on the side” all for $7.25, you say yes.

Unaccustomed to homemade food on the road, I think they’ll heat up this premade thing and we’ll be on our way. I am mistaken, I soon realize, and I settle in for a 14 minute pause. Allison is out attending to the doggo, and my phone is in the car charging, so I pick up a local magazine touting local attractions. That’s when I see it, no more than 30 minutes away AND in our direction of travel: a natural hot springs colliding with a river, promising different pools, mud-masks, and bathing suits optional.

I go outside to show Allison my finding, and we plot our course on her phone. 

The hot springs

Over the course of our 13 minute ride to McCredie Hot Springs, I enjoy the hell out of my burrito. The insides are a perfect balance of eggs, peppers, potatoes, tomatoes, sausage, and, of course, Bacon. I’m prone to hyperbole (a hardwired truth about any native Montanan), but I am not exaggerating when I say this is the most exquisite burrito of my life. I regret not ordering two.

We find what we think is the parking area and begin wandering down what we hope is the trail. We’re pretty unsure until we find a sign, scribbled on a white paper plate, warning us about nudity ahead. Lucky for us, we are always birthday suit ready. 

We scramble through the forest and eventually emerge at a river. Pools of clear-blue water sit waiting for our weary bones.

No sooner do we have our pants around our ankles than we hear a commotion behind us. We’ve been followed! We re-robe and scramble off to the side just in time to greet a couple that seems to share our disappointment at not being the only ones here. By silent agreement we all change into bathing suits and sit in separate pools. Eventually we’ll make friends, but for now Allison and I are happy to drink our breakfast beers in contented silence, basking in the happy accident that found us here in the first place.

The Lesson

One of my favorite writers Brendan Leonard once wrote about the magic of the burrito, and while I was a believer before, this experience solidified my devotion to wrapped, portable goodness. The next time you find yourself somewhere new, put down your phone and look around. You might be amazed at the new experiences you’ll discover.