Hobble Creek Review
| Lisa Anderson |
Home, Sulphur, Home
Making the acquaintance of the Diamond Fork hot springs was the
first step I took down the path of accepting Utah as a place worthy of
the name “home.” It has taken many years to completely push out
the hate I once held with determined fingers, but I have, and
Diamond Fork continues to be top on my list of what feels like home
about Utah.
Having been raised in the Mormon faith, leaving my home in one
of Maine’s fishing villages to attend Brigham Young University after
high school was the only logical move. I would, however, spend years
battling this decision. It seemed as though everything in Utah was
the exact opposite of everything in Maine, so my life became a
constant struggle to find my bearings—up was down, in was out. I
also felt suffocated by the culture of one religious group pervading
all of society around me, and even though I had been one of them, I
never quite fit in; I never knew where I could fit in. So over the
years I recreated myself—first shedding my religion, then donning a
tattoo, and folding swearing and drinking into the mix in generous
quantities. This stripped-down, authentic version of myself came
vibrantly to life, and she could have been born in the Diamond Fork
hot springs, or at least baptized there.
My first visit was nearly ten years ago, as an adventure-thirsty
twenty year old. I can’t remember the drive south on I-15, or turning
off at the Price/Manti exit. The adventure began as we wound down
the dangerous canyon road, Route 6/Highway 89, and looked for the
then-unmarked dirt road to the trail head. We drove too fast over
that bumpy road through the warm night of early fall—windows
down, music up. We had one flashlight with us, batteries weak, beam
short. We drowned the darkness instead with laughter and the
crunching of gravel under eager feet.
Jasmine was the leader of our expedition, my best friend and
adventure guru to this day. She had done the hike only one other
time, and in the murky night air she led us past the turnoff. We
went up instead of down, and a two mile hike turned into ten, but
somehow this made the destination even more satisfying. Ragged and
dusty, we sank into the steaming water and felt the quiet, glittery
thrill of finding a treasure buried in the mountains.
The invigorating hike is as restorative as the water itself, and
provides additional motivation for my frequent visits. Walking the
narrow path, I relish the sounds of the forest—it feels like home, like
Maine. Leaves brush across each other high overhead and give me
the sense of being held close by strong arms. Velvety moss creeping
across tree roots, ferns uncurling against the shade of a tall trunk,
and pine needles slippery under foot work in concert to drag my
conscious mind to the conclusion that I am home.
Just as I lose myself in this reverie, the sulfur from the springs
hits me—my mouth before my nose (possibly because I’m a
Neanderthalic mouth-breather) and the taste makes me inhale
deeply—which I immediately regret. This, in turn, makes me smile
because it means I’m almost there. Almost time to sink, once again,
into the soft, thick water, to lean back and close my eyes as the
water bubbles and sighs around me.
I remember, then, my first visit. I remember that the comfortable,
entirely unabashed nudity of middle-aged men made us giggle. There
were hippies and yuppies and smokers and vegans. There were
nudists and Mormons, but most of all there were smiles. The overall
mood of acceptance and camaraderie flooded us with hope and joy. It
was a fully refreshing encounter for two Mainers, lost in the
homogeny of Happy Valley. And that is what it has remained, for me:
a place to recharge, a place to reflect, and mostly, a place to escape
an unfamiliar culture.
Making the acquaintance of the Diamond Fork hot springs was the
first step I took down the path of accepting Utah as a place worthy of
the name “home.” It has taken many years to completely push out
the hate I once held with determined fingers, but I have, and
Diamond Fork continues to be top on my list of what feels like home
about Utah.
Having been raised in the Mormon faith, leaving my home in one
of Maine’s fishing villages to attend Brigham Young University after
high school was the only logical move. I would, however, spend years
battling this decision. It seemed as though everything in Utah was
the exact opposite of everything in Maine, so my life became a
constant struggle to find my bearings—up was down, in was out. I
also felt suffocated by the culture of one religious group pervading
all of society around me, and even though I had been one of them, I
never quite fit in; I never knew where I could fit in. So over the
years I recreated myself—first shedding my religion, then donning a
tattoo, and folding swearing and drinking into the mix in generous
quantities. This stripped-down, authentic version of myself came
vibrantly to life, and she could have been born in the Diamond Fork
hot springs, or at least baptized there.
My first visit was nearly ten years ago, as an adventure-thirsty
twenty year old. I can’t remember the drive south on I-15, or turning
off at the Price/Manti exit. The adventure began as we wound down
the dangerous canyon road, Route 6/Highway 89, and looked for the
then-unmarked dirt road to the trail head. We drove too fast over
that bumpy road through the warm night of early fall—windows
down, music up. We had one flashlight with us, batteries weak, beam
short. We drowned the darkness instead with laughter and the
crunching of gravel under eager feet.
Jasmine was the leader of our expedition, my best friend and
adventure guru to this day. She had done the hike only one other
time, and in the murky night air she led us past the turnoff. We
went up instead of down, and a two mile hike turned into ten, but
somehow this made the destination even more satisfying. Ragged and
dusty, we sank into the steaming water and felt the quiet, glittery
thrill of finding a treasure buried in the mountains.
The invigorating hike is as restorative as the water itself, and
provides additional motivation for my frequent visits. Walking the
narrow path, I relish the sounds of the forest—it feels like home, like
Maine. Leaves brush across each other high overhead and give me
the sense of being held close by strong arms. Velvety moss creeping
across tree roots, ferns uncurling against the shade of a tall trunk,
and pine needles slippery under foot work in concert to drag my
conscious mind to the conclusion that I am home.
Just as I lose myself in this reverie, the sulfur from the springs
hits me—my mouth before my nose (possibly because I’m a
Neanderthalic mouth-breather) and the taste makes me inhale
deeply—which I immediately regret. This, in turn, makes me smile
because it means I’m almost there. Almost time to sink, once again,
into the soft, thick water, to lean back and close my eyes as the
water bubbles and sighs around me.
I remember, then, my first visit. I remember that the comfortable,
entirely unabashed nudity of middle-aged men made us giggle. There
were hippies and yuppies and smokers and vegans. There were
nudists and Mormons, but most of all there were smiles. The overall
mood of acceptance and camaraderie flooded us with hope and joy. It
was a fully refreshing encounter for two Mainers, lost in the
homogeny of Happy Valley. And that is what it has remained, for me:
a place to recharge, a place to reflect, and mostly, a place to escape
an unfamiliar culture.
Lisa Anderson is working toward a B.A. in English at the University
of Utah, a reluctant transplant from coastal Maine. She writes theatre
reviews and previews for the Daily Utah Chronicle, and will continue
to write as she continues to breathe.
of Utah, a reluctant transplant from coastal Maine. She writes theatre
reviews and previews for the Daily Utah Chronicle, and will continue
to write as she continues to breathe.
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