108 Degrees of Bliss

I moved to Las Vegas, New Mexico, from a frantic coastal town north of San Diego. I moved to be closer to the gifts of nature, to escape the endless highway crawl where cars roast in the road, sit and oscillate against a backdrop of perpetual construction. I choose Las Vegas over the internet, chose it over a thousand other small Southwest towns when I saw photographs of the tree-lined Plaza, of Hermit's Peak, of Bridge Street, of the Montezuma Hot Springs. A good place to raise a family, I thought. A good place to settle.

The hot springs called my name as I hauled kids and pets and my household goods in a rental truck through the arid plains of the Mojave. I recalled the online stories of Spanish explorers who believed they found the Fountain of Youth, or at least a cure for syphilis. Native Americans knew of the springs for centuries before them, knew the waters held healing properties.

The first time I visited the springs, I hesitated before stepping into the water. Montezuma Castle loomed large across the Rio Gallinas, a statement of stark architectural beauty and elegance, framed by a hillside of cultivated foliage. The springs, by comparison, were homely, rock-lined pits coated with slick green algae, a hundred thousand weeds between them and the fading river. These weren't the blue-watered miracle pools of my California dreams. But I dipped my toes into the heat, let the liquid rise to meet my ankle, then my shin, my thigh, my waist. I understood what others have known for hundreds of years. The aching heat, the scrape of my back against uneven rock, the rush of water from one pool to the next caressed my body into a state of hyperawareness, of pain mixed with relaxation.

The last two weeks brought monsoons to Las Vegas. The Rio Gallinas now runs stronger than a man's will to live, sprints like an Olympic champion past the castle, past the springs, through a town now as lush and fragrant as the Midwest. And though the sun casts August fire most early afternoons, I found myself on the edge of the springs once more, to soak thermal under the sparse shadow of the simple branch fence.

Two boys rested in the lower pool. The younger child swept his arm across the water, let it ripple and fade into his chest. Their mother sat in the middle pool, across from me, her dark hair melting into heat-sealed ringlets. She didn't speak a word. The water spoke for us, gave our muscles ancient mineral messages. Three old men yelled to us from the river. They jumped into the rushing current, their bellies soft and colorless, let the Gallinas carry them fast, far, into a pool of muddy reeds. I laughed out loud, at the sheer joy of watching old men play, of watching young boys rest, the world upside-down, insane.

I drove home, my body saturated, content. I didn't see another commuting car. The street lined a town filled with history, with quiet passion. I belong here, I thought. I'm a Las Vegan now. The waters called me home.