Weird & wonderful Breitenbush

Sit with me on this cedar bench. There’s a naked stranger in the pool before us, and behind us, in the woods, a group plays the drums. Later, they’ll sing “La Bamba.” Walk with me up the stairs of the lodge, past the woman with a full-on beard and the skirt-wearing man at the piano. Stand with me while we read the activity board for tomorrow: yoga, trance dance, EDGU – also known as evolutionary spinal maintenance, a practice wherein, according to the instructor/inventor, you “relax into your already perfect true nature.” And that doesn’t even include the workshops like “Timeless Loving: A Gentle Introduction to Tantra for Couples & Singles,” “Manhood: The Transformation of the Nice Guy” and “Taking Heart in Tough Times.”

Welcome to Breitenbush Hot Springs, a truly weird – and wonderful – place.

A few years ago, my friend, Annie, discovered this retreat and conference center near Detroit, Ore., and she’s been a fan ever since.

Now, Annie attends medical school while juggling the schedules of her three children and occasionally passing her husband in the hallway, so she doesn’t have time for much nonsense. But somehow the woo-woo world of Breitenbush works for her, so I decided to have a look for myself.

Annie came along with her two daughters, Emma and Sophie, who were good sports about everything but the food. Oddly enough, the all-vegetarian, mostly organic meals – served summer camp style three times a day in the lodge – lacked a certain amount of kid appeal.

Go figure.

Homesteaded in 1904, Breitenbush’s 154 acres stand in the midst of land belonging to the Forest Service, which is about a year its junior.

The property later found its way into the hands of one Merle Bruckman, whose father had made his fortune mass-producing the ice cream cones that became all the rage at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair.

Bruckman set out to build the best resort in Oregon, complete with lodge, cabins, butcher shop, barbershop, a powerhouse on Breitenbush River and an Olympic-sized swimming pool, since closed.

“He just went to town with it,” says Peter Moore, Breitenbush’s business manager. “This place got famous from the late 1920s through the 1940s. It was a total scene.”

Fast forward to the late 1970s, when Alex Beamer stumbled upon Breitenbush, long shuttered behind barbed wire.

Beamer had some family money himself, so he bought up the land, posted flyers in natural food stores, and waited to see what would happen.

A handful of people showed up, and soon an “intentional community” was born.

“It was a lot of work for three and a half years,” Moore says.

They replaced the foundations of 60 or 70 buildings, put steel roofs on everything and dug miles of trenches for underground utility lines.

“A couple of business consultants said, ‘You’re crazy. You’ll never make it,’ ” says Moore. “But we’re here, 28 years later. We’re making a statement here. It’s not just a rhetorical statement. We’re making it with our lives.”

The 30 member-owners of today’s Breitenbush community run the retreat center and live on the property. Almost all make the same modest wage, regardless of job title.

“Everything you need to live is provided for – rent, utilities, medical and dental insurance, child care and schooling – plus $7.25 an hour,” says Moore.

“It’s a little functional society with everyone working together as best we can,” adds Alea Brager, event coordinator.

The community operates off the grid, generating up to 40 kilowatts of power on the river and heating their buildings with a geothermal system. They have their own ambulance and fire department – and they’ve almost finished paying Beamer back for his initial investment.

It hasn’t always been smooth sailing, though.

For the first few years, the group made all its decisions by consensus – a method that proved too cumbersome to sustain.

“In 1985, we agreed by consensus that we would never make decisions by consensus ever again,” Moore says.

Today, they operate under a convoluted, circular set of checks and balances I will not bore you with here.

As a guest – for a personal retreat or an organized workshop – you may or may not be exposed to Breitenbush’s philosophical underpinnings. It’s really up to you.

Bruce Bartlett, for instance, came for an annual “daddy-daughter road trip” with his 12-year-old, Lily.

“It’s really fun to soak in the water,” he says, “and there’s good hiking.”

“We came for the quiet,” Lily says. “I just came back from New York. It’s nice to go here from someplace really loud. But none of my friends would come here. They’re too conservative.”

She might be surprised. After planning a family event for 100 people, another pair I met were eager for the “solitude, peace and rejuvenation” to be found in Breitenbush’s majestic setting: multiple hot springs pools, massage therapy, sauna, meditation room, walking trails – and no phones, televisions or curling irons.

They were in a pool, taking advantage of the clothing-optional option – at least until I came along – and no one seemed more shocked than they were.

They even asked not to be named.

“We’re probably the odd ducks here,” said he, 59.

His 60-year-old wife agreed.

“We are part of mainstream Christianity,” she said. “I’ve felt some self-consciousness, but at the same time, we recognize that this is someplace we can be renewed.”

Indeed, Breitenbush’s spiritual leanings veer off every which way. You’ll stumble upon shrines and little pottery figurines all over the place: Buddha, Mary, Pan, something that looks like Lord Ganesh, etc. There’s a Native American sweat lodge on the grounds as well.

You can escape all that doctrinal abundance, though, in your small and simply furnished cabin quarters. Only some have bathrooms, and – in keeping with the let-it-all-hang-out atmosphere – you’ll bathe in the community showers, which pump out great gushes of the mineral waters.

If that kind of togetherness makes you uneasy, you’re out of luck. The whole Breitenbush ethos seems to involve an almost pathological celebration of sharing.

Annie came across a couple embracing on the cedar-shaded deck of the lodge, rubbing each other’s backs and murmuring affirmations. As they broke apart, one of them asked: “Now, what was your name again?”

Still, everything about Breitenbush is so earnest and good-hearted, it’s hard to remain cynical.

“People come into a more powerful, positive heart space here,” Brager says.

“This is a healing spot. There are things that transform in people when they come here. They find something,” says Harold Smith, who works in the Breitenbush kitchen.

“It’s a beautiful paradise, a real magical place.”