A hippie woman once told me that there are 13 electrical paths that cross in Hot Springs, not to mention the Appalachian Trail runs right through the middle of town intersecting the French Broad River, arguably the third oldest river system in the world. Or the fact that there are damn hot springs that come up out of the river that the Native Americans called “the healing waters.” Whatever it is, I believe it to be true that there is something special about this place. Seemed like the perfect first stop for our sabbatical.
We rolled into town around midnight staring at a full moon over the water. That week, we spent a lot of time looking at this view from our porch and thinking about what was ahead of us and what we’d left behind. Can’t lie. Woke up a couple of times sweating, truly terrified, wondering what the heck we’d done. But then the next day, you see something that makes you realize you’re headed in the right direction. Whether it’s your 12 year old Catahoula Leopard Dog that cheated death this Christmas convincing you to swim in a freezing-ass-cold, crystal-clear mountain stream at Paint Rock or finally getting up the nerve to enter the mystery photographer’s devastated mountain home along Paint Creek, Hot Springs was full of these moments. We hit all our normal haunts: The Bluff Mountain Outfitters, Mountain Magnolia Inn, Smoky Mountain Diner, and even toured the Biltmore after spending half a day at REI extending our storage space with a brilliant Swedish carrier rack for our brilliant Swedish car (Volvo: if you want to use the picture below, feel free. Neither of us have jobs right now, so I’m sure we can work something out). Before we knew it, we were on to the next stop.
summartime.blog 