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In Hot Water

By David Feela

It was one of those weekends when everything I tried to get done somehow came undone. I must have been ranting and raving, possibly even cursing, when I heard Pam come up behind me and say, "We'd better get you to the sanitarium."

At first I thought she meant it as a sort of euphemism, a soft way of saying I think you're acting crazy. That was, however, not the case. When I put my tools away and came in to wash up, I found my suitcase packed, waiting beside the front door.

"What's up with the suitcase?" I asked.

"I told you, we're going to the sanitarium," she replied, with a twinkle in her eye.

That night I slept fitfully. I remembered reading about wives at the turn of the century, how their husbands put them away, especially if they were unmanageable or outspoken. The relatives and neighbors were told the dear little Mrs. had gone for a rest in the country. What would people be told if I disappeared? After all, I already live in the country.

On Monday morning we woke to a skiff of snow on the ground, drove three hours over Lizard Head Pass, across the Dallas Divide, and into the town of Ouray. I felt refreshed by the drive through the mountains, escaping my routine chores. As Pam explained that morning, our destination was the Box Canyon Lodge, but back in 1925 the property had been known as The Cogar Sanitarium, a place where ailing people sought the healing and restorative powers of the natural hot springs.

"Did you really think I'd have you committed?"

"Oh no," I replied, "a straight jacket is impossible to get fastened while wearing a seat belt."

Late in the afternoon, after checking in, attired in swimming suits, we climbed the cold stairway where four terraced platforms served as landings for each tub. Each tub capped by a metal cover had steam escaping from around its edges, suggesting we were about to step into a boiling cauldron. We lifted the cover and climbed in, lowering ourselves into the water until we released simultaneous sighs.

On the slope that continues to rise behind the tubs, steam continuously escapes from a rock outcropping - the source of the hot spring water. So much a source, in fact, that the entire lodge is heated by geothermal. Both room and domestic water heating. Water coming out of the ground at 140 degrees Fahrenheit, cooled to a comfortable 105 degrees for the hot tubs. Politically speaking, this is a location where green is hot.

We'd been soaking for only 10 minutes when Pam nudged me out of my reverie and pointed up the hill to a trail not 50 yards away. A deer nosed its way along the path, oblivious of our presence, grazing. Close behind, two young ones followed her lead. It was almost a perfect scene, until a stout and cautious 8-point buck brought up the rear of the deer family outing. Then it was perfect. They all stood together. We stared.

After another 20 minutes Pam leaned toward me, showed me her hands, and whispered: "I'm turning into a prune." We stood slowly and the scene dissolved.

I went back to soak by myself after dark. When I stepped out of the room in my wet swimming suit, it was snowing. Big heavy flakes. I climbed to the tub at the top of the stairs so I could look down on the town. Far above a full moon wrestled with a bank of heavy clouds. Eventually it got swallowed, but the struggle was beautiful. I soaked in the tub, my head covered by snowflakes, thinking about all the trouble I made for myself on the weekend.

Then I howled like a coyote, so that my voice pierced the falling snow and ricocheted off the mountain walls. I know I should have stayed quiet - people may have been trying to sleep - but sometimes you can't help acting a little crazy.

Hot water finds writer David Feela wherever he goes, which is how he finds a wrinkle in every adventure.