I’m treading through the wash that leads to the Arizona Hot Springs with a couple of my hiking buddies, when one of them says: “My friend said this hike is boring.”
“Huh,” I say, looking up at the cliffs of lavender-hued rock that tower on either side of us, their peaks bathed in dusty-yellow sunlight. “This is my favorite hike.”
Every fall, I make a pilgrimage to the Arizona Hot Springs to celebrate the end of summer and de-stress ahead of the hectic holiday season.
The hike is less challenging than others in the Las Vegas area, which I suppose may lead some to label it as “boring,” but that’s one of the reasons I love it. This is the type of hike you can do if you’re hungover or out of shape, or, like me today, still recovering from a Thanksgiving feast the night before that included three slices of pie and too much apple spice bundt cake.
It’s the type of hike where the normal rules of mountaineering are relaxed a little. No one will look at you weird if you go in sandals or pull out a PBR to sip while you soak or, like the gentlemen we’ll encounter later, sink into the steaming hot water completely naked. At the springs, “nudity is tolerated,” or so says the message someone has scrawled in pale blue chalk at several points along the trail.
Plus, the trailhead is close enough to town — just a 14-minute drive outside of Boulder City — that you can trek the entire six miles and be home with enough daylight left to squeeze in a Costco run or movie matinee.
And while the springs themselves are nice — three cozy pools of thermal mineral water carved into a narrow slot canyon — my favorite part of the experience is what I usually do after our soak: picnic by the river.
I’ve probably done this hike a dozen times now, but I’m still awed each time we emerge from the shadows of the canyon and catch our first glimpse of the Colorado River, a ribbon of green that winds through a sloping valley of sun-bleached shrubs and volcanic rock shaded magenta. If we’re lucky, no one is there, and we can perch on the chalky river rocks and enjoy the enveloping silence, which is interrupted only by the crinkle of a plastic bag or the splash of a lone duck as he adjusts his wings against the water.
Now, as we thread our way along the wash back to our cars, our bathing suits damp against our skin, my mind wanders to the shopping list and work emails that await me when I get back home. But I don’t feel as burdened by it all as I did when I first hit the trailhead that morning.
“This was so nice!” I say, smiling, as I hug my friends goodbye in the parking lot. “Exactly what I needed.”
