Nights are dipping into the 20s. At bedtime, we turn down the propane heater to 60 degrees and it clicks on and off in an unsteady rhythm while I snuggle under no fewer than four blankets, watching the condensation bloom on the plastic window. My own breath gathering. This new way of knowing winter.
Last Friday we drove through Pagosa Springs, Colorado on our way to Taos, New Mexico. A friend told us to check out the hot springs, the bathhouse run by a resort. And with that biting winter chill in the air, I couldn’t say no to a hot soak.
While J wrapped up a work project, I wandered into the bathhouse alone, took off my shoes in the locker room to discover the slate floor was heated, and stood there half-stripped, soaking warmth up through my feet, swaying like a mad woman.
Outside there were 25 hot spring-fed pools to choose from. Steam lifted up off the water and the eggy scent of sulfur clung to my skin. I wandered around, barefoot, towel wrapped around my waist, searching for a quiet pool. Across a little bridge sat one lonely pool, in the shade, fed from the springs running down the rocks. The sign said the water was 103 degrees, but as I waded in, I guessed it was closer to 100. It was warm. Not scalding (my normal preference). But I wanted to be alone and so I sunk my shoulders below the water and floated there, reading from my Kindle, watching the crowds move in and out of warmer pools across the terrace.
When I lived up Boulder Canyon, our rental had a hot tub perched out on a little cliff that the landlord didn’t exactly know how to run and left its use and maintenance to the six of us living on the property. The plastic buttons didn’t work right and no matter how hard I pushed, I could never get the temperature to click above 100 degrees. So I learned to sit in this bathwater and wait. Always in the first 15 minutes, I’d think, This is too cold. I’m going to get out. Fuck this stupid hot tub. But after a little while, my body would begin to heat up from the outside in. Before long, sweat would gather along my temples, and I’d raise my shoulders out of the water to cool down. I learned that I could make the broken hot tub work for me, I just needed to get through an initial period of doubt each time.
Yesterday marked two months of camper life and it feels as though this life choice has been a bit like stepping into a lukewarm pool that you know could be hotter but for whatever reason isn’t. For the entire first month, I worried that I might never — metaphorically — be warm. Those first few weeks were filled with doubt and a constant internal chatter asking, Did I fuck up? Why am I doing this? Most days I felt like a failure. Nothing felt right. I couldn’t estimate accurately how much food the little RV fridge could hold, and I didn’t know if the WiFi would remain stable for work calls. Sleep was a struggle every night. I desperately wanted to bail and find a hotter pool with more immediate gratification.
One day I noticed something was shifting though. My bed looked a little cozier and the hum of the fridge was a white noise comfort rather than an anxiety-inducing rattle. My morning chai became an anchor to heat my system and cleaning the desert dirt from between my toes transitioned to more of a daily ritual rather than a daily chore. I started to warm. Before long, I was so snuggly and comfortable in this decision, this life, that it was hard to imagine feeling any other way. I was excessively annoyed by how well patience worked. It’s so aggravating when those old myths are correct.
In the pool at Pagosa Springs, I sat with my book, floating my toes up out of the water, watching the hot stream trickle over the rocks. Over the course of an hour, a few folks attempted to get in but barely made it 10 minutes before saying the water was too cold and waddling over to warmer pools. By then, my face was dewy with sweat and my cheeks were flushed. I was perfectly content with my decision, thankful for my patience. I ended up with the pool entirely to myself.
Somewhere in the parking lot, Ursula — the camper — sat waiting, ready to take back my sulfur-crusted body and hum the heater on and off, again and again, until I warmed the whole way through.
Looks very relaxing. I don’t think I’ve been in a hot tub since our last trip to Deep Creek, MD.
Sounds like you are adapting. Good to know.