Tucked inside a converted North Portland Craftsman lies a hidden oasis. (Or rather, some sort of Airbnb-spa hybrid.) Blooming Moon has your typical spa standbys: facials, skin peels, massages, and mani-pedis. But what stands out is the self-guided soak and steam treatment in its backyard, in which you reserve the spa’s private retreat studio to treat yourself or a gaggle of friends. A soak and steam starts at $110 per person, but the price drops as the size of the group grows. The studio is outfitted with a hot tub, a large deck, a firepit, a bathroom with a steam shower and an incinerator toilet (an element of the spa’s eco-friendly ethos), a comfy seating area, and a kitchenette sporting a fridge to store your own nonalcoholic drinks and snacks. And for 90 minutes, guests can kick back in the hot tub and take a gentle steam shower replete with lavender essential oil aromatherapy. You can opt for just the soak-and-steam, or add on any other treatment pre- or post-tub.

During my visit, the fridge came stocked with blood orange and cucumber water and caffeine-free “Be Well Tea,” a blend of chamomile, peppermint, and lavender. I started out in the hot tub, sipping my mug of tea, with the jets on high. I brought a book to keep me company, but I found myself too relaxed to read. I laid my head back to rest and watched a little scrub-jay caper across the deck. After 45 minutes spent off and on in the hot tub, I switched to the steam shower and washed first, massaging my hair with Blooming Moon’s housemade shampoo and conditioner. The steam can be a bit slow to start as the temperature rises, so the spa attendant suggested I hit the “on” button before I hopped in the shower. I’d never used a steam shower, so I wondered whether it would turn out to be a glorified shower I could have just taken at home. Indeed, it was not. The shower enveloped me in hot, humid air that cleared my airways and soothed my tired muscles, akin to a schvitz or wet sauna. I spent about 15 minutes in there before I switched to a cool rinse. I finished by slipping into a cushy robe and slippers, placing a chilled eucalyptus-scented towel on my face and neck.

To round out my visit, I went for the seasonal cinnamon spice latte facial. As a fan of fall and winter spiced drinks, I figured, why not wear one, too? Allegedly, the spice boasts anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties that can relieve acne, exfoliate skin, and improve circulation. The actual studies backing that up are… not exactly abundant, but at the very least, the smell was going to give me a serotonin boost. Blooming Moon typically uses Epicuren’s cinnamon-spice ‘Hot’ Enzyme Peel for the facial, but the esthetician will examine what your skin needs and may opt—as it was in my case—for different yet equally cinnamon-y autumnal products. My esthetician applied a chai soy mud mask to calm my skin, and while it sat, she swept away my remaining tension with a hand and arm massage. She followed up my mask with antioxidant gel, Bulgarian rose otto oil, and a layer of sunscreen. I walked into Blooming Moon in what felt like boots of lead, carrying loads of built-up anxiety and stress. I floated out like a rosy-cheeked cherub on a cloud, bright-eyed and glowing. Who says drinking a latte is the only way to get a pick-me-up? 1417 N Shaver St —Isabel Lemus Kristensen

As Portland Monthly’s resident contrast therapy freak (see: our winter 2024/2025 issue), I can be something of a spa snob. So when the “thermal springs” within the hotel Cascada opened in early 2025, I wasn’t necessarily convinced it’d add much to Portland’s already-pretty-great lineup of bathhouses and spas. The hotel’s underground “sanctuary” of soaking pools, saunas, and cold plunge felt pretty similar to Knot Springs, minus the view. The outdoor hot tub and firepit sounded a lot like Everett House’s. And did a ritzy indoor pool and conservatory full of tropical plants really make sense here?

Still, I booked a Friday afternoon visit—$100 per person—which gave me access to the 82-degree conservatory, the subterranean soaking pools, and the outdoor hot tub and courtyard for three hours. Some may balk at the triple-digit price; if you do the math, however, that makes it a little more expensive than Everett House and a little less expensive than Knot Springs—fairly comparable. And three hours gives you enough time to genuinely relax; you’re not rushing to visit every tub, sauna, and cold plunge, and can luxuriate in a leisurely glass of wine or mocktail in a poolside day bed. You can forget the clock exists.

You enter the spa through the conservatory, on a mezzanine. It gives you an admittedly lovely bird’s-eye view of the pool and its various palms and potted trees. Descending the stairs, I scoped out the day beds and claimed one toward the far end, plopping my copy of The Vanishing Half next to my towel and the provided chaise cover. I decided to start my aquatic afternoon in the pool; I’m generally more of a lake or river gal, but Cascada’s pool was lovely and relatively under-utilized. The spa is 21+, which meant I could lie back and float without bumping into a game of Marco Polo or a flailing foam noodle. It’s not quite deep or big enough for full-on laps, which very well may be intentional; the conservatory is a social space, but it’s not as cacophonous as your average hotel pool. That way, it retains its sense of serenity.

After that initial dip, I headed outside to the hot tub, a round stone number near a chilly rainfall shower and an outdoor sauna. The sauna’s glass wall faced us, which meant we could make awkward eye contact with the one shvitzer inside. The firepit at the center of the courtyard wasn’t the most popular on a drizzly day, but I could imagine a lively chat happening there during a late spring visit.

After my initial float and soak, I was ready for the low-lit sanctuary, an entirely silent space minus the trickling waterfall fountain flowing into the mineral pool. I encountered three tubs bubbling at various temperatures, from tepid to borderline scalding. I started in the mineral tub; the main mineral is magnesium, which some research suggests could help with skin hydration and skin barrier function. It sits at a temperature pretty dang close to body temp, and I had enough room to float down here, too. Next, a sweat in the electric dry sauna, which hangs out at a satisfyingly toasty 190 degrees Fahrenheit (for context, your average gym sauna sits between 150 and 175). This is not a sauna where you can douse the rocks, which was a bit of a bummer as a certified lover of löyly (the sound and steam that comes from pouring water over sauna stones). After a 15-minute sauna session, it was time for the cold plunge, a walk-in as opposed to a hop-in or climb-in, which can be nice for those who like to work their way to neck-level. I lasted about 90 seconds before making a beeline for the hot tub, then tried again for three minutes pre–steam room. The steam room’s Italian marble benches gave it the feeling of some luxurious Roman bathhouse, though I found myself craving the herbal infusion of the Knot Springs’ wet sauna. A snowy shower of ice pours into a bowl right outside the steam room, so I grabbed a handful to rub against my skin, instead of revisiting the cold plunge. After a quick dip in the ambient tub, I returned to the mineral pool, ready to start all over again.

Even after two cycles downstairs, I still had an hour to go. So I headed back to my day bed, ordered a glass of white wine from the poolside bar, and curled up with my book. I’ll always love my birthday Everett House tradition and the Knot Springs steam room, but when it comes to an afternoon reset, consider me a Cascada convert. 1150 NE Alberta St —Brooke Jackson-Glidden

Portland might not have any exclusive night clubs. As I prepared for my visit to Knot Springs, though, I imagined it was the closest equivalent. All-access memberships run up to an eye-watering $400 per month, a combo hour-long massage and a 75-minute soak rings up at $219—depending on the treatment and day of the week—and even a single 120-minute soaking visit can cost up to $89 at peak hours. You might even catch local celebrities or athletes passing through town for a visit; even award-winning chef Gregory Gourdet has posted about his fondness for Knot Springs on social media.

At reception, you’re greeted with a waiver, a rack of covetable but pricey Swedish swimsuits for sale, and a Fitbit-like wristband that you hold up to a panel at each door, which beeps with a glowing, futuristic green light. Head up to the fifth floor to the springs, where you’ll leave your clothes in the locker room and don your swimsuit (no nudity here!) and provided Pendleton towel, then rinse off with the spa’s bespoke earthy body wash, minty conditioner, and house salt scrub. Step into the bath house, equal parts industrial and nature-inspired (think concrete and lots of plants), no right angles to be found, windows with views of the Burnside Bridge and the Old Town sign. Knot Springs isn’t a silent, tranquil spa; it calls itself a “wellness social club,” so go with a friend to dish details on your last date, or during packed peak hours, enjoy eavesdropping on a couple of bros discussing their next real estate deal. Phones aren’t allowed—it’s a nice opportunity to get away from the screen, so if you're flying solo, bring a book or perhaps your favorite local magazine (wink) instead.

For best results, try the bathhouse’s prescribed "Ten Steps to Relaxation" inscribed on the bath house pillar, which involve bouncing from the 104-degree hot tub to the 47-degree cold plunge, to the blistering hot sauna and back into the cold plunge. Cool off after the sauna with a scented refrigerated face towel and glass of sparkling water, or warm up after the cold plunge with one of the spa's two custom teas from Smith Teamaker. (Yes, I found myself juggling multiple silicone cups as I sipped on all the various beverages.) Being able to withstand the cold plunge for more than a few breaths—and without squealing—is a badge of honor here.

But pairing a soak with a massage afterward really takes the relaxation to the next level, and provided the serene experience I was looking for. Massages fall anywhere on the scale from a relaxing, nap-inducing Swedish massage to an intense ashiatsu massage, performed with the masseuse’s feet and body weight suspended from overhead bars. I was in the mood for more of a gentle touch, so I opted for the Swedish. After the soak, the massage therapist met me at the entrance of the springs and escorted me downstairs to the treatment area, where canvas tents were lined up, one after the other, like a little village of relaxation. The massage table was heated—a nice touch—and my massage therapist encouraged me to check in whenever I wanted more or less pressure, or wanted more attention on certain areas. To my own surprise, amid mid-2000s relaxing jams like “In the Waiting Line” by Zero 7, I found myself wanting more and more pressure. Maybe I’ll even be up for ashiatsu next time. 33 NE 3rd Ave Suite 365 —Katherine Chew Hamilton

Kanani Pearl, a low-key fancy spa, dives, purposefully, into Hawaiian healing and relaxation methods, facials to massages. The house body treatments sound straight out of Portland's food scene. Options include a papaya pineapple body polish—for one or two—and a green tea, seaweed, and ginger body wrap. But the lomilomi massage is the raison d'être and spiritual muse of Kanani Pearl. Cost is $171 for 85 minutes. 

Lomilomi, which translates as “rub rub,” is a Polynesian method of kneading massage, calculated to go deep into muscle relaxation. Practitioners use long continuous strokes made with forearms, elbows, knuckles, and in olden times, sticks and stones. The style is intuitive, and no two lomilomis are the same. I'd call it somewhere between a massage and body work, capable of unleashing thoughts previously hidden beneath the threshold of consciousness.

It can be intense at times. At first, my female lomilomi-ist, strong as an Olympian disc thrower, seemingly had a GPS locator for every knot on my back. I felt like my older brother had snuck in the room to give me an upper body noogie. That alternated with the sensation of someone making bread on my back with the flat side of a paddle. Honestly, I wanted to bolt.

But the thing about a lomilomi massage is it keeps changing, like the ocean, sometimes fast, slow, ominous, pulsing, profound, blissful. It's an experience. After my arms were gently pulled and stretched, my hands webbed, my fingers pulled and massaged, one by one, I swear I could have thrown a Cy Young pitch. At some point, my feet were flopping wildly like fish on a boardwalk, shaken awake, literally. Later, they were wrapped in warm towels like big outer-space boots. Another hot, moist towel cradled my neck. I became one with plankton. During the “belly rub” segment, my only thought was a deep understanding of why dogs are so happy.

The treatment concluded with a glorious head massage, gentle rocking, pulsing, scratching. I felt like the luckiest person on Earth. White Lotus has nothing on Kanani. 1111 NW Marshall St —Karen Brooks

At the Float Shoppe, you can relax in a small-scale version of the salty Dead Sea. The family-owned business offers floating and massage at a charming, old home-turned-spa in Northwest Portland. Its lobby is stocked with herbal tea from Tea Chai Té and a hot foot bath for a short soak before your 90-minute session ($85) in one of its closed-lid or lidless float tanks.

Full disclosure: I was expecting floating to be a hallucinatory, crossing-to-another-dimension type of experience—a little like Stranger Things, minus the terrifying Demogorgon. Besides hallucinations, studies have also found that sensory deprivation or floatation-REST (restricted environmental stimulation therapy) provides physical and psychological benefits, such as heightened creativity, reduced lactic acid buildup and muscle tension, and stress relief.

The Float Shoppe’s tanks are filled with Epsom salt–infused water and heated to about 95 degrees. I tested out the “Tranquility” float pod, which is recommended for first-timers like myself. It looks a bit like a large clam with optional starlights scattered across the inside of its shell.

The water only came to my ankles—but trust me, you’ll float. About a thousand pounds of Epsom salt are dissolved in the water, making it extremely buoyant. After lying in the water with a cushion under my head, I began to drift effortlessly, sometimes bumping into the sides of the tank. For several minutes, I was in a state of panic. I was acutely aware of my neck, slightly tense from the unfamiliar sensation of being suspended at zero gravity, and the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. A temporary wave of motion sickness even passed over me. I sat up to catch my breath and salt water trickled into my eyes. (Don’t worry: you're provided a spray bottle of fresh water to flush out your eyes or other sensitive areas if this happens.)

It's pitch-dark and silent in the soundproof pod; you’re totally disconnected from any external stimuli, including the effects of gravity, which can be startling at first. But as someone with chronic pain and athletic injuries, I was grateful to experience the weightlessness of floating. Your spinal column lengthens and your muscles relax.

After my 90 minutes were up and I washed my hair and ears with vinegar to break down the salt—the Float Shoppe provides a towel, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, ear plugs, Vitamin A&D ointment, lotion, and Q-tips—I stepped out into the open air, feeling slightly disoriented, but mostly refreshed.

I didn’t hallucinate, but I did find a sense of calm, once I got past the initial adjustment period. My experience taught me that floating requires patience as your body and mind slowly adapt to giving up control—something that I imagine comes with greater ease if you can afford to keep it up. 1515 NW 23rd Ave —ILK

The first and only dedicated wine spa in the United States happens to sit on a corner of Broadway in Northeast Portland—funnily enough, next to a bottle shop. While the visitors of the Wine Spa certainly drink their fair share of the stuff, and can opt for spa standards like Swedish massages and facials, the main draw here is its spiked soak, the crown jewel of so-called vinotherapy.

Vinotherapy purportedly traces its roots as far back as the reign of Cleopatra and the Roman Empire as an antiseptic for wounded gladiators, but the formal term “vinotherapy” doesn’t show up until the early 1990s. That’s when Bordeaux vineyard owner Mathilde Thomas and her husband, Bertrand, launched Caudalie, a French skincare company that specializes in wine-based skincare products and vinotherapy. While wine baths are almost nonexistent in the US, you can find them throughout Europe and Asia. The Wine Spa’s owner, Kelly Lewis, encountered them for the first time in Armenia and the Republic of Georgia, some of the oldest wine-producing regions in the world. Back home in Portland, Lewis decided to open her own in November 2024, upcycling wine that otherwise would have been discarded due to surplus or bottling and labeling errors—wines from places like Terra Vina Winery in the Willamette Valley’s Chehalem Mountains.

The supposed benefits of vinotherapy come from the antioxidants in wine, said to nourish your skin and promote collagen production. Whether it works is an ongoing debate among experts. I was a bit skeptical myself. But I went in for the Pinot Dreams package ($199), a 75-minute treatment that begins with a wine soak and concludes with a 50-minute full-body massage. A spa attendant led me to a lounge glowing with warm, diffused lighting. I plopped on a cozy couch and ordered a glass of wine from a menu with things like Hillcrest Tempranillo and Ram Cellars chardonnay. Eventually, I landed in my own room with a private tub, its waters infused with a bottle of Terra Vina red swirling with Epsom salts and botanicals. I immersed myself, settled in, and sipped a glass of pinot gris from the Yakima Valley vineyard Lone Birch. The room’s lights were dim, the air smelled sweetly of grapes, the tub’s jets churned out soft bubbles, and sleep-inducing melodies played from the speakers. I felt as if I had stepped into Dionysus’s sandals for a day. Throughout the ages, various cultures have considered wine the nectar of the gods. What’s more divine and mythical than soaking in a bath reddened with cabernet franc?

Once those luxurious 20 minutes were up, I rinsed off and hopped on the heated table where a massage therapist exorcized the stubborn knots from my body. My back was particularly defensive and ticklish. Early on, I requested more pressure, thinking battling it out with my taut muscles would fix all my problems. To which my massage therapist explained that more pressure is not always the answer. They started out soft and applied deeper pressure as they went, checking in with me along the way.

It’s hard to say if the wine bath did anything for my skin. But I did leave with some of that post-spa radiance and Jell-O limbs. Whether it was the wine in the tub or the wine in the glass, my body felt more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. 1517 NE Broadway —ILK