In early April of 2008, my wife and I decided to flee the lingering inland Northwest winter weather in a mad rush and head south on an adventure. We were aiming for the sun and the warmth that is supposed to come with spring. Since at that time we were both saturated with our jobs and were feeling semi-rabidly anti-social as well, we chose to road trip to the least visited national park in the lower forty-eight—Nevada’s Great Basin National Park. Less than 80,000 people a year visit this park, a relative empty quadrant in the American National Park system. (Compare that to nearby Yosemite’s 3.5 million visitors.) What the heck, we figured, that’s gotta be enough degrees of latitude to provide the sun-drenched sand and rock that we envisioned. What we didn’t really think about was the fact that the park lies between the Wasatch and the Sierra Nevada mountain ranges and that the elevation ranges from just under 7,000 feet to the 13,036 foot peak of Mt. Wheeler.
We packed our car tightly and headed out onto the highway. Roughly seventeen hours later, we pulled into a campsite in Great Basin, and it was indeed hot and bright. Our camp spot was exceptional and we spent a fantastic night rivaling each other in Boggle amidst the bristlecone pine, awakening the next morning to the sound of wild turkeys gobbling and foraging.
Lehman Caves are the main attraction at Great Basin and we decided to take them in. This is a walk I highly recommend for its exceptional combination of nature and history. Afterwards, we were browsing in the attached gift/book shop when we overheard a conversation about a weather front which was moving into the area the next day. It was expected to bring a 40 degree temperature drop, and… snow. Uh-oh. This was not our plan. After a more detailed description of the same weather phenomenon from a park employee working the register, we came to understand that the park’s elevation and the lack of moisture in the desert air combine to provide lots of exciting (read predictably unpredictable) meteorological events!
While knocking heads and cursing our luck, we stumbled upon the Falcon Guide Touring Hot Springs of Nevada and California (Matt C. Bischoff, 2006) on a nearby shelf. To this day, I believe that my desperate and reeling subconscious mind searched out the word “hot” on the shelf and that it’s really not any great coincidence that we connected with that providential tome. Perusing the provided maps, we calculated that there were pools of 90-110 degree water 3-4,000 feet of elevation lower than the park within a four hour drive of Great Basin. We immediately decided to test the waters.
The predictions were right: the temperature was dropping, the sky overcast and rather hostile looking as we drove back down off of the plateau, through the town of Baker, and towards our selected spring. Nevada is largely a series of sage- and scrub-covered valleys stretching northwest to southeast. Our route now took us due west on “Nevada’s Loneliest Road,” U.S. Interstate Highway 50. The moniker, we decided, was apt; spotting a car moving in either direction on the two-lane, straight-as-an-arrow blacktop was rare indeed. Plus, an area largely settled by miners, Nevada is spattered with ghost towns today. These are hardscrabble communities like Berlin and Belmont, places once scratched into the rock and now scenic artifacts of late nineteenth century life on the American frontier. By late afternoon, we had made our mark.
We chose Spencer Hot Springs for a few reasons. It was relatively close to a major road, and we knew the weather was sketchy, hence providing easier access to aid if nature really decided to come down on us. Camping was allowed at the site. Most important, we could get there and set-up camp before dark. Spencer didn’t let us down.
As is the case with many of the springs in the deserts east of the Sierra Nevadas, you can’t see the spring until you’re almost in it. As we approached the area where the maps and description had told us we’d find the springs, we saw steam drifting up from the sagebrush. Driving up a small hill, we arrived at the main spring, spotting a small deck with a bench along the edge of the small, eight foot by five foot pool. That a kind person not seeking even graffiti recognition had constructed a platform for our clothes and our chilling champagne gave a thrill like mysterious elves were working for our pleasure alone. From the small hill where we parked, twenty or thirty feet from the pool, we could look west across the Monitor Valley to the ochre brown mountains of the Toiyabe Range, and behind and above that the magnificent, snow-frosted Sierras. Our backyard was as ideal as could be.
Upon disembarking, we stuck our fingers in the water. Perfect. Clear, steaming hot, inviting. The pool is lined around the edges with flat rocks to sit on and lean back against as well. As eager as we were to hop in, we knew that we needed to set up our camp and provide for ourselves a small home to shelter in against the elements. Looking up at the sky, we decided it best to hurry. Small snowflakes began descending and the wind took a bit of a bitter turn as the afternoon light began to wane.
Parking the car upwind, we set our tent at the front of it, making an L-shape. We drew a tarp over the triangle shape between the car and the tent, securing it with lines to the bumpers, to the sage that surrounded us, and to some rocks that we scoured from the moonscape of ash-like dust around us. Lining up our stuff sacks, clothes bags, etc., along the crack between the bottom of the low Honda and the ground, we succeeded in sealing off most of the wind’s persistent entry into our new home. A tarp on the ground, bedding in the tent, a light dangling from a line inside the tarp, and we had our hovel for the night. Really, not a moment too soon. We cracked a couple of beers, said cheers, and watched the pallid early-spring light ebb from the flat valley floor around us. We also watched the white flakes become larger and closer together, gaining fortitude with the increasing wind speed and the decreasing temperature.
Grabbing a bottle of champagne, we stepped out of our clothes and into the hot spring. It was my first time getting into a primitive hot spring, and I won’t ever forget it. The water was hot enough to feel shocking at first touch. Yet after a few minutes of acclimating, the water was divine as it came up over my shoulders. The steam kept my head warm, despite hail melting on my scalp. It dissolved the frigid air into a tropical paradise. There with my glass of bubbly on the deck beside me, the now heavy snow blowing across the valley and melting before it touched the surface of the water, the deep purple of desert’s last light, my best friend sharing in this delicacy with me, I experienced one of life’s perfect moments.
We spent a grand night at Spencer Hot Springs. A late dinner, hot cocoa, long underwear and fluffy, zipped together sleeping bags kept our moods cozy even as the cold of the desert night deepened. Despite the wind buffeting our tarp and tent all night with gusts in the neighborhood of thirty plus knots, we slept like babes.
The morning came soon enough and we made coffee on our camp stove there on the grayed wood of the hot spring deck as we sat in the 105 degree pool. We breathed in the crisp air, surveying the small white snow pebbles scattered on the vista around us. Breakfast and warm clothes wrapped up our grand adventure at Spencer, as we broke camp by early noon, headed for yet another hot spring in the central Nevada area. The only disappointment of our warmth-seeking trip was discovered upon our return: the weather back home had risen to a record high of 72 degrees while we were away!
In the eighteen months since we first discovered the hot springs of Nevada and California we have returned to Nevada five times to soak and smile.
To find Spencer Hot Springs, take Hwy. 50 east from Austin, NV for 12 miles. Turn south onto NV Hwy. 376 and then left after about 100 yards onto a gravel road leading to Toquime Cave. After 5 ½ miles, turn left at the Y and up the hill another mile and a half to the springs.
About the author: Pedro Bicchieri has had a passion for reading and writing. With the distinctive fame of being pulled over for reading while driving, he switched to reading, writing, and developing poetry while walking around his hometown of Ellensburg, Washington. Read more from this author
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