The western edge of the outside hot
spring is formed from the natural stone of the mountain. The rest of
the tub is bordered by concrete slab poured generations ago and
overlooking the Verde River. On the mountain side, there is an
undercut beneath the stone going back about three feet.
I used to dive down into this hollow
space and come up with Kaolin clay. Kaolin is a high quality
ceramic clay that's used to make china and also in the cosmetic
industry. I've been unable to find these deposits since the major
floods of '04-'05.
Below the sand, gravel, silt, and rich
black organic matter, the clay began. The first layer was gray from
the humus that rested above it. The second layer had yellow streaks,
and I used to make pipes from it in the coals of my fire. After
several dives, digging with my hands, I would come to the third layer
of pure, white, kaolin.
I used to sculpt the clay into little
figures and sit them in the sun on the rocks above. I remember one
day, meeting two hippie girls from Tennessee and we played with the
clay, afterward smearing it all over each other before hiking back to
camp. On hot days I would thin it with water and cover my nose to
prevent sunburn.
One Friday in April, I went to the
tubs early (as I liked to do on weekends). I had a new book I wanted
to read while I soaked. Springer had stolen some magic mushroom
chocolate from me and, by way of restitution, was providing me with
beers and buds. I was well stocked when I reached the spring.
The sun was just coming up over Ike's
Backbone when I got there. I had the place to myself. The morning
proved to be too groovy for my book. Wildflowers were blooming yellow
all along the mountains to the north and east. It was going to be
another perfect day. I lit a joint and floated around on my back for
a while, enjoying the sun.
I had a crew cut, and my head was
sunburned and peeling. I applied my mixture of clay and water, but it
kept flaking off so I put a LOT of clay on, covering my entire face
and head. I made a long hooked nose and pointed ears and topped it
all off with a large horn that shot up nearly a foot.
During this process, Rusty had come up
from the trail to the south and Pat and Springer appeared from the
direction of the ranch road a little later. Springer announced that
he had prayed to God, asking that he send us thirty single women.
Rusty aptly remarked that thirty might not be enough of a pool for
Springer to find one that could tolerate him.
We spent the next hour or so drinking
cheap beer, smoking cheap grass, and comparing notes on the summer
camps we would soon be leaving for when the temperature rose. From
the Spring, you can see traffic on portions of the road leading down
to the Verde Valley. That morning, there was an endless line of
trucks bouncing down the road. I was glad to have gotten there while
it was still comfortably underpopulated. Looky-loos and weekend
warriors were about to descend on our paradise.
The first to make the journey from
camp to the springs were an unlikely coupl of city slickers from
Chicago who called themselves Dan and Marge. They were easily in
their late sixties. Dan didn't say much. He just sat on a concrete
pillar and sipped from a flask. Marge was more gregarious. She
stripped down to a one piece and joined us in the water. She was what
we call a “Peter Gazer”. She couldn't stop staring at our
Johnsons.
Finally, Rusty told her “Hey sis, my
eyes are up here”. He also told her we were expecting a mule train
with tobacco, ammo, and liquor. She believed him and pleaded with Dan
to stay and see the mules. Later, back at camp, Dan went from camp to
camp asking if anybody had any Viagra for sale. I told him that I
could find grass and mushrooms, but knew noting of pharmaceuticals.
He later scored some from a source I won't name and drove his mini
van to a secluded spot.
They only stayed at the tubs for about
an hour. Shortly after they left, Springer's prayers came true.
Thirty single women came marching down the path. It was unbelievable.
Remaining clothed, they lowered themselves into the outside tub with
us, retired to the hotter, inside pool, or lounged around the patio.
Seeing my clay mask, one of them asked if I was a Chupacabra. “No”
replied as I got out to fetch another beer. “I am Pan! Lord of the
Forest”!
One of the women gasped and three
looked away with enough speed to cause whiplash. The gasper told the
woman beside her they should warn the new people. Wanting to make her
more comfortable, I offered her a beer. That's when I found out they
were a lesbian Alcoholics Anonymous group.
I told Springer the next time he
prayed for women he should be more specific and maybe not so greedy.
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