The road to Hot Springs, NC
Last weekend a friend and I went to Hot Springs, NC, about 45 minutes west of Asheville, close to the Tennessee border. Hot Springs has an actual hot springs spa, and when my friend made us a reservation weeks ago we thought the weather would have turned but Indian Summer made a roaring comeback; the temperature outside was almost as toasty as it was in the hot tub.
I suppose at this point I should confess that my friend is more than just a friend. We met last May, and we were just hiking buddies for awhile, and then at some point in between Montreat’s Elizabeth’s Path and Brevard’s Looking Glass Rock, the friend morphed into The Boyfriend. At first I wasn’t sure I could see us together because he is a next-level athlete, someone who spent years doing adventure racing, like in the snow, whereas my idea of an adventure is taking a 10 a.m. yoga flow class. But somehow our relationship seems to work. Rather well, I might add.
Anyway, en route to Hot Springs, we stopped to walk a trail along Laurel Creek. We passed two railroad cars that had been tricked out into a home. If you look to the right, you can spot a deck built out from the second car.
It was a transcendently gorgeous late October afternoon. The fall foliage season was at its peak, the leaves clinging to their most iridescent red and gold as they simultaneously fell in droves from the trees. The day was so splendid, in fact, with its balmy echo of Indian Summer and panoply of autumn hues, that any care I had drifted off me, only to be smashed under my sneakers along with the fallen leaves.
We saw several couples hanging out on large flat rocks in the creek, including one middle-aged couple who hadn’t quite finished putting their pants back on as we passed by.
After our walk, we meandered through Hot Springs’ downtown, which is comprised of two whole streets. The Appalachian Trail actually cuts through Main Street, and you can see diamond-shaped trail markings pressed into the concrete.
For those of you thinking culture hasn’t found its way to the south, may I present to you evidence to the contrary: we have bodegas here.
The Hot Springs Resort and Spa sits on a verdant 100 acres, formerly the site of an internment camp for German merchant sailors. In the parking lot, we saw license plates from Tennessee, South Carolina, Virginia, even New Jersey. We didn’t hear anybody though, because the guests were dutiful enough to obey the “quiet zone” heedings.
Our mineral bath was in a rustic cabin-y kind of structure, at the edge of the property along Spring Creek. It was 6 pm when we arrived, and the sun was starting to disappear behind the mountains.
As we bobbed around in the mineral bath, sipping wine and eating just enough that we didn’t pass out, I gazed out at the creek with the same sense of peace that has washed over me every day since I moved to Asheville. If you grew up feeling at home in the world, in the place where you lived, then you may take that ease for granted. But I never felt it, and had shrugged my shoulders and accepted that I’d remain a restless wanderer, never quite fixed or content anywhere.
Until I moved to Western North Carolina. My friend Whitney says there’s some sort of spiritual reading you can get that tells you where you’re supposed to live for your life to really work. But I don’t think I need that reading to tell me what I already know.
After 60 years of wandering, it feels so good to be home.
Wonderful. ❤️
so happy for you!