The first thing that hit us was the eggy smell. We’d been traveling across Wyoming all day and pulled into the Fountain of Youth RV Park without a reservation. The sun was dropping fast, and we didn’t like towing the rig along a curvy two-lane highway in the dark.
The campground’s signs were all homemade, stencil-sprayed on splintered plywood. The skull of a long-horned steer hung over the office door. The man who emerged from underneath was shirtless, deeply tanned and seemingly oblivious that his neck and bare chest were covered in mosquitoes. He said something nonsensical but somehow got us checked in.
The campground was laid out like a tightrope lying next to train tracks for high-speed freight. On the way to our site at the far eastern end we circled around a mustard-colored “volcano” at the park’s center, where hot springs – the town’s only draw – emerged and sulfur had accumulated around its crater. There were a few other RVs, mostly white vinyl boxes with rust-stains dripping from fasteners and bolts. Three large hot spring pools called out to us from the western end of the park.
Asher and I donned our suits and set out for the pools. Dumping our towels on the aluminum picnic tables inside the gate, we slowly submerged into the first, but it wasn’t hot enough – more like tepid bathwater. We decided to go big and try the hottest. No way, scorching. Like Goldilocks, Asher thought the final one was just right, and we settled in for a good soak.
There was a stage next to the furthest pool with a 3-piece band playing bluegrass to one other couple and us. We listened and soaked in the solitude beneath a violet sky while a chilly desert breeze hissed through the yucca and sage. Asher was still young enough to be happily held in my arms. We floated and told silly jokes, reluctant to leave even after the band stopped playing and we were alone.
The hustle back from the hot springs was cold, with Asher pausing every fifty feet to shake gravel from his flip-flops. Mark and Ronan were playing Uno and listening to The Pixies when we returned. We showered quickly, dimmed the lights and I made a simple meal of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup while everyone got into pajamas. As we were drifting off to sleep in our narrow bunks, a freight train thundered past – the first of many, but the only one we heard. Our sleep that night was deep, filled with dreams and the smell of sulfur in our noses and in our beds.
