Meadow Hot Springs is on an expansive private acreage about two hours south of Salt Lake City. Its owner allows people to soak and accepts donations from those who wish to show their appreciation. Now that it’s been seen on various blogs, the springs are still wonderful but sometimes trashed by unconscious party-types.
This was an easy segue from the city back into a more natural environment. Driving on Highway 15 brought back memories of the LA Freeway! It had been widened to 5 lanes each direction to accommodate the 2012 Olympics. Yikes! 70mph just wasn’t enough for these people. I had cars, trucks, and motorcycles passing me on each side.
I purposely arrived at Meadow Hot Spring on a weekday at 9 a.m. to avoid heat, crowds, kids, and nighttime party animals. There was a friendly couple in the first pool that gave me some reasons for changing today’s travel plan along with a few hints for camping in Yosemite once I get there. This pool was beautiful, and a perfect temperature. After a nice soak with casual conversation I decided to check out pool number two. The second pool was trashed with beer cans, charred wood, and an overflowing garbage can, so I walked on to pool number three.
This last of the three pools felt wonderful and had no obvious remnants of party animals or floating garbage, probably because it was full of fish! I had read that they would nibble my skin like the Japanese skin cleaning fish at spas, so took a chance. The combination of perfect temperature water, friendly fish tickling my legs, giant dragonflies lazily buzzing by, and the crickets singing a background lullaby was relaxing enough to make me think it might be time for “the girls” to come out and see the sun.
Pool three was a bit of a distance from the others. Nobody was around – just me and the wild things. I relaxed into a nook in the rocks and softly paddled my feet. The calm peacefulness here dropped me into a distant memory: It was 1987, in the South of France, near Aix-en-Provence. My husband was singing the opera Der Rosenkavalier at the Aix Festival and we were staying with Anna. Isabelle’s brother Peter drove a bunch of us, me and a gaggle of Parisian friends—all piled into his too-fast and tiny sports convertible—to a rugged cliff where we lost our clothing and dove into the glistening azure water, naked and happy.
Not since then had I bared my breasts in the light of day, and in public. Today was my chance to let “the girls” out for a while, silently asking the fish to stick to my legs and feet. I moved to the wooden dock to dry in the sun, but when I heard a group of young scouts arrive at pool number two, I had to abort the sunbath early, tuck the girls in, and hike back to Sparky for a lunch of radish, snap peas, carrots, cheese, and smoked salmon. It was time to head for my next stop, and I wasn’t sure where that would be.
All-in-all, I give Meadow a thumbs-up. I’ll stop in again if I’m in the area for sure.
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