Stories from the Road – Thermopolis, Wyoming
The first thing that hits us is the eggy smell. We’d been traveling across Wyoming all day, and now we’ve pulled into the Fountain of Youth RV Park without a reservation. The sun is dropping fast, and we don’t like towing the rig along a curvy two-lane highway in the dark.
The campground’s signs are all homemade, stencil sprayed on splintered plywood. The skull of a long-horned steer hangs over the door of the office. The man who emerges from underneath it is shirtless, deeply tanned, and seemingly oblivious that his neck and bare chest are covered in mosquitoes. He mumbles something nonsensical but somehow gets us checked in.
The campground is unusually long and narrow, stretched alongside train tracks for high-speed freight. On the way to our site at the far eastern end, we circle around a mustard-colored “volcano” at the park’s center, where hot springs—the town’s main draw—emerge and sulfur accumulates around its crater. There are a few other RVs, mostly white vinyl boxes with rust stains spreading from fasteners and bolts. Three large spring-fed pools call out to us from the western end of the grid.
Asher and I don our swimsuits and set out for the pools. After dumping our towels on the aluminum picnic tables inside the gate, we slowly submerge into the first pool, but it isn’t hot enough—more like tepid bathwater. We decide to go big and try the hottest. No way: scorching. Like Goldilocks, Asher thinks the final one is just right, and we settle in for a good soak.
Next to our pool is a stage with a three-piece band playing bluegrass to one other couple and us. We listen and lounge beneath a violet sky while a chilly desert breeze hisses through yucca and sage. Asher is still young enough to be happily held in my arms. We float and tell silly jokes, reluctant to leave even after the band has stopped playing and we are alone.
The hustle back from the hot springs is cold, with Asher pausing every fifty feet to shake gravel from his flip-flops. Mark and Ronan are playing Uno and listening to the Pixies when we return to our rig. Showering quickly, I dim the lights and make a simple meal of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup while everyone gets into pajamas. As we drift off to sleep in our narrow bunks, a freight train thunders past—the first of many, but the only one we hear. Our sleep that night is deep, filled with dreams and the smell of sulfur in our noses and in our beds.
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