I’m working on a project that aims to answer the question: Why do people visit hot springs resorts?

Taking the Waters is centered on resorts in the American Mountain West.

These places have been visited by cultures preceding European colonization for many generations. They are often aging, family-run gathering places that have endured boom, bust, and quiet resurgences. 

I’m exploring themes of history, science, and how humans shape experiences around these places. My research involves visiting the resorts as a customer first. I’ll be writing dispatches like this one to capture notes and observations as I build the body of work.

History

To understand Quinn’s resort today, we have to go back to the late 1800s.

You’re Martin Quinn. The crossing from Ireland to America takes you 6–10 days on a passenger liner across the Atlantic.¹

You’ve come to the new world in pursuit of wealth in the Montana territory. It’s an abundant period for the mining industry that carries the promise of riches to those willing to work for them.

You’re eventually employed in the mining industry. It’s brutal work, but you know how to work hard. You’re often transporting materials up and down the Clark Fork river.

How I got here

Quinn’s was already on my list of Montana and Idaho resorts to visit. I’m here now because my partner surprised me with a stay for our anniversary.

I had spent the long drive from Bozeman picking her brain about this project—asking her opinions, running ideas by her. She gave nothing away, only teased that she wasn’t going to do my project for me.

Now that I’m here, I understand its popularity. The place is quaint and beautiful—tucked in a foggy canyon, surrounded by the vibrant yellow foliage of larches.

First Impressions

Checking in, we were issued wristbands and told a swipe would open doors, activate locks, and charge purchases to our room.

The wristband technology suggests this is an upscale resort, but the place has managed to retain the charm of a smaller one.

Boulders act as design amongst the seven outdoor pools, nestled against tree-lined cliffs. As we get settled into our first pools we’re enveloped by the fog and light rain in the canyon.

There’s the steam vent hissing near the pool I’m in, gentle patters of rain and splashes. But my focus is on the voices of other guests. I hear varying generations —families, friends, strangers—conversing. About boating the Baja peninsula, possible shared genealogical roots to Minnesota, and turkeys.

I can’t wrap my head around the dichotomy of this diverse group of people choosing this hot springs. Their conversations sound like the mundane kind you’d hear anywhere. We’re all talking about the same shit, the same ailments. Staking claim—maybe the same way Martin did—to our favorite spot in the best pool with the best temperature.

We’re all ostensibly here to soak in a place alone. Being here seems to invite connection with others. Like there’s a loosely held social contract that goes along with sitting together.

What’s that about?

Open Questions

• How do I reconcile that most—if not all—hot springs resorts exist on land taken from indigenous people? The history is inseparable from dispossession.
• • How do I tell a story factually, respectfully, and without appropriating it or speaking for others?
  • How do I research histories that predate colonial record keeping in the area?
• What’s the fascination we have for places like this? Is it as simple as the human connections? Or is it something else?
• What types of people come here and are there generalizable traits that are consistent?
• How do I capture what’s happening here? What about other resorts?

1. The Geography of Transport Systems
2. Quinn’s Hot Springs Resort: A Brief History