We went down to the Verde Hot Springs a couple of months back. I thought that I’d first review a bit of history to warm up to that tale.
In the mid-nineteen seventies, we used to head up to Flagstaff on the weekends to party with Tucsonans at Northern Arizona University. You’d find me in a pearl snap stomper shirt, Levis and custom Stewart Boots. I might be accessorized in a fun western hat and a buckle belt. I identified as something we referred to as a “cow-pee,” or “cow-pie,” a laughable contraction and pretty much a cross of a cowboy and a hippie. Please, refer to the “Outlaw” crew of Waylon, Willy and the boys. It was, I suppose, a thing in the day, even without associations with horses and cows.
Back in the Day
Skirts would fling high, as we spun with young women in the intricate entanglements dancing to the electrified local country swing music.
We were not being “naturists” per se. We were college aged. Our antics could be a tradition of a group shower with sometimes 6, or more, making a coordinated dance in a tub meant for one soaker. It was better than packing phone booths could ever be. It took a genuine team effort, a trust with a level of intimacy to make it work. Friends were having fun.
View from the Verde Hot Springs
One sleepless morning sunrise, we found ourselves at a friend’s place in Telluride, in a rotund bathtub big enough for three wild-eyed people, actually four. We looked out a huge window to a field of snow, watching a pair of dogs play in the white meadow. We had driven through the night at high speeds through Indian sheep country in Larry’s brand new BMW 530I, …