[This was to have been posted in the Winter of 1917, but I didn't, for some reason. My new posts begin with the one previous to this, and then continue, as I write them.]
Having neglected this log for three years, I find that I now want to record the delights of a trip up the Rio Grande in search of hot springs.
Pagosa Springs
In the San Juan Mountains, along the eponymous river (a tributary of the Colorado, which joins it above the Grand Canyon) that is just as wide as the Rio Grande, a town grew up around a hot spring beside the river, named after the nearby Pagosa peak., When the spa was quite humble. Now there is more than one to choose from, and all are quite luxurious.
I remember the old one, which I visited yesterday, was just one indoor hot pool, with a tiny, long, rectangular room through which hot water was piped so as to produce a steam bath. After getting hot enough, it was possible to run across the parking lot and jump into the San Juan! You can do that anymore, but right across the street, there is a new spa with lots of outdoor pools and steps leading right down into the river. The hottest pool is 110° and the river must be below 40°. That makes for a nice and/or fun-rash and wonderful, skin-tingling sense of healthy well-being. I suppose some might question my doing this at 74, but if it kills me at least I will have died happy! The euphoria of lying, in my bathing suit, in the sun, at 7400 feet, having just climbed out of that river, inches away, is not to be forgotten.
With three people from Fort Worth. I told them all about truth or consequences. Then another, older man joined us and somehow the conversation turned to our halfwit President. I just listened for quite a while, but finally — as in one of the psalms — I could hold my tongue no longer. I asked them to listen what I told him what it was like in Minnesota. Our Somali people are fleeing to Canada. How immigrants are afraid to go to a parent-teacher conferences, because they might be disappeared. How the Halfwit stopped at our airport a week or so before the election just to threaten the Somali community.
This was my first — and so far my only — direct contact with Halfwit-supporters. What is really frightening about it was a personal confirmation of what we've been hearing on the news: people simply have contradictory views of reality — alternative realities. The major media are all liars — exactly, I have to observe, what I think of people like Rush Limbaugh and the Halfwit himself. The older man fears there may be a civil war. This conversation somewhat marred my euphoric reveries in this otherwise lovely place.
I did not remind them that Colorado was a blue state.
Having neglected this log for three years, I find that I now want to record the delights of a trip up the Rio Grande in search of hot springs.
Pagosa Springs
In the San Juan Mountains, along the eponymous river (a tributary of the Colorado, which joins it above the Grand Canyon) that is just as wide as the Rio Grande, a town grew up around a hot spring beside the river, named after the nearby Pagosa peak., When the spa was quite humble. Now there is more than one to choose from, and all are quite luxurious.
I remember the old one, which I visited yesterday, was just one indoor hot pool, with a tiny, long, rectangular room through which hot water was piped so as to produce a steam bath. After getting hot enough, it was possible to run across the parking lot and jump into the San Juan! You can do that anymore, but right across the street, there is a new spa with lots of outdoor pools and steps leading right down into the river. The hottest pool is 110° and the river must be below 40°. That makes for a nice and/or fun-rash and wonderful, skin-tingling sense of healthy well-being. I suppose some might question my doing this at 74, but if it kills me at least I will have died happy! The euphoria of lying, in my bathing suit, in the sun, at 7400 feet, having just climbed out of that river, inches away, is not to be forgotten.
With three people from Fort Worth. I told them all about truth or consequences. Then another, older man joined us and somehow the conversation turned to our halfwit President. I just listened for quite a while, but finally — as in one of the psalms — I could hold my tongue no longer. I asked them to listen what I told him what it was like in Minnesota. Our Somali people are fleeing to Canada. How immigrants are afraid to go to a parent-teacher conferences, because they might be disappeared. How the Halfwit stopped at our airport a week or so before the election just to threaten the Somali community.
This was my first — and so far my only — direct contact with Halfwit-supporters. What is really frightening about it was a personal confirmation of what we've been hearing on the news: people simply have contradictory views of reality — alternative realities. The major media are all liars — exactly, I have to observe, what I think of people like Rush Limbaugh and the Halfwit himself. The older man fears there may be a civil war. This conversation somewhat marred my euphoric reveries in this otherwise lovely place.
I did not remind them that Colorado was a blue state.
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