Into the mystic

For almost a quarter of a century (as long as I have been wandering the North American continent) Mystic Hot Springs in Monroe, Utah has been on my list of places to experience.

Pictures of fantastic copper colored travertine formations wrapping geothermal mineral spring water filled bathtubs set against a Utah hillside landscape entranced me, beckoned me.

Research (of course I researched - what do you think I was doing all those long hours at the reference desk, in front of a computer and not an engaging reference query in sight, during my first decade working as a reference librarian in a public library system in the USA) told me that before it became Mystic Hotsprings and Deadhead infused in the mid 1990s, the geothermal mineral springs at this site were known, by settlers, as Cooper Hotsprings, and then Monroe Hotsprings and were a gathering place for dancing, music and taking the water.

Since 1995 when the forementioned Deadhead, fresh from Las Vegas (Nevada) claimed title and naming rights presumably through a very unmystical exchange of such material substance as capitalism approves, a reputation evolved as a hippie hangout, a magic carpet ride of a place, hosting music events and offering accommodation in old busses.

There are dozens of old busses, arranged in mostly neat, and rather unmystical, rows.

The sheer number of ancient busses is astounding.

I found myself questioning at what point a collection becomes a hoard.

If they are arranged in neat rows, punctuated by beautiful, but screech-voiced peacocks, can it still be called hoarding?

Only a handful of these relics are available to rent for accommodation, while the rest age and decay with varying degrees of grace and beauty.

At 100 US$ a night to stay in a decrepit old bus which might or might not be hippie trail clean, I chose the budget option of camping in a tree surrounded grassy area (do not drive on the grass) where the ubiquitous Southwest goats head thorns (Tribulus terrestris) made it a tad uncomfortable to be bare foot but it was otherwise salubrious in spite of a couple of rain showers in the night.

A serious downside I discovered with this hot springs “resort” is that one reserves and pays for a soak in the magic water separately from accommodation. Most hot springs places include unlimited soaking in the accommodation package. Not Mystic. I guess it is a way to manage overcrowding, but I was arriving after a 4am start over 700 miles south in the northern Chihauhauan desert, which necessitated a 13 hour solo drive in high summer heat through the arid but exquisitely beautiful leaflessness of Utah’s elementally sculpted canyonlands. It was hard to speculate on arrival time. I took a chance and booked my allotted 2 hours soak from 8-10 pm, later than I would have liked, but allowing for delays en route. No exchanges, refunds or substitutions allowed.

Oh did I mention they like rules here and seem especially enamored with the word NO. As an aside: Utah state law forbids public nudity, no exceptions. These are definitely not clothing optional waters, hippie trail reputation notwithstanding.

When I was finally able to access the water, I gave the bigger, communal pools a miss, and chose to scramble up a rocky slope to the furthest tub, beautifully moulded into a sensuously curvy geological marvel by 28 years of travertine deposits.

The view from the tub of rain falling in the far mountains as day turned to night, was spectacular and worth the wait, worth a lifetime of anticipation.

About an hour into my allotted two hour soak the peaceful atmosphere was ruined by a couple who took the tub nearest to me and proceeded to play country music (and not Cowboy Carter neither) a tad too loud. There I was line dancing with possums. Again. Sigh. No rocking my gypsy soul on this night. At least they were enjoying the ride. Apparently.

Though I found the facilities a bit shabby, especially considering the prices charged, the whole place aging and a bit run down (well I am too, I guess) with a gasping not-quite-enough-oxygen to maintain the dream atmosphere, and thus not a transformative mystical experience as my expectations had promised, (when am I going to learn to live without expectations?) I am glad I finally got to experience Mystic Hot Springs.

The hot mineral water left my skin feeling like satin, like the softest velvet. All the road weariness left my body so that in the morning I was restored for another punishing 13 hour day of solo driving to explore another hot springs resort, in eastern Oregon. (Next post, I promise)

Would I go back to Mystic Hotsprings? Probably not.

Would I recommend anyone else go? Yes, if you go with eyes wide open and take cognizance of all the caveats above. Their not-as-shabby-as-reality website is here. Those mineral water bathtubs disappearing into curvaceous landscape forms, that travertine geology is definitely something to experience at least once in a lifetime.

Be prepared for the magic carpet to be threadbare and worn, peacocks ripping the air apart at all hours, a phenomenally large hoard of disintegrating, rusted old busses, communal area bathrooms which might or might not have water, other soakers who impose their musical choices loudly on one at 9 pm at night, all of which might or might not allow one’s soul and spirit to fly into the mystic.

For me, achieving Nirvana will have to keep for another day. Van Morrison, nonetheless, still provided the soundtrack for this interlude, giving glimpses even if through a glass darkly and in peripheral vision.

We were born before the wind

Also, younger than the sun

'Ere the bonnie boat was won

As we sailed into the mystic

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic

Yeah, when that fog horn blows

I will be coming home

Yeah, when that fog horn blows

I wanna hear it

I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

Then magnificently we will float

Into the mystic

When that fog horn blows

You know I will be coming home

Yeah, when that fog horn whistle blows

I gotta hear it

I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

And together we will float

Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now