Vapor Trails or Vapor Tales

With visibility about 400 feet, we drove north on Louisiana Route #3 toward Arkansas, the only one of the 50 states we had never visited.
"Since this is our final state, you need to stop at the entry sign. Rain or no rain, we need to get a picture of this one," I insisted, as we left Bossiers, Louisiana. The difference, apparent from the moment we crossed the state line, lowered Arkansas in my estimation. Culverts full of garbage lined both sides of the road and tumbledown shacks still housed people.
"I certainly wouldn't want to pull over here," said Andy. The roadside clay, red mush rutted with tire tracks, had no shoulder. "Little Red would be stuck for sure," he added.
Farther north rolling farmland supported herds of cows. "This is the economic recovery project," said Andy. "There was a sign." One side of Route #29 had a paved shoulder.
Both weather and economic condition improved as we drove north. Around Hope, Arkansas, at 39 degrees, black Angus bulls grazed peacefully at farms near the road. "They look like breeding bulls," said Andy. A school bus marked Community Punishment Detail parked by an intersection near Route #278. Several men in orange jump suits, vests and wool caps ran across to the bus before the light changed. They left orange bags by the road.
"There must have been an awful lot of garbage here, judging by the number of bags," said Andy. Trash bags dotted both sides every couple hundred feet for the next two miles.
"From the looks of the garbage they missed, I think they had better get a few more work gangs out at a few more locations," I said.
The sun popped through thick grey clouds around Prescott. We headed north and blue breaks opened up. "It's going to be colder here," said Andy, "but at least it's trying to clear." Pines and hardwoods lined the right-of-way on Interstate #30. We could see replanted pine forest beyond on one side and pasture on the other. Clouds moved back in around Arkadelphia, and Hot Springs, still socked in, recorded 43 degrees.
In spite of the early afternoon threat of rain or maybe because of it, we toured the Fordyce Bathhouse, now part of Hot Springs National Park. Renovated to look like it did in its heyday, the early 1900's, the Fordyce reopened in 1989 as the Visitor Center and museum. It tells the story of "The American Spa," when Hot Springs rivaled spas in Europe and local facilities modeled themselves after those of Greece and Rome. In 1915, reviews proclaimed the Fordyce Bathhouse the best in Hot Springs. The others on Bathhouse Row included Superior, Hale, Maurice, Quapaw, Ozark, Lanar and Buckstaff. Only Buckstaff, in continuous operation since 1912, still provides traditional therapeutic bathing.
The history of Hot Springs extends back to prehistoric times. Pottery and tools dated at 10,000 years old have been found in the region, and documents show American Indians, particularly Caddo and Quapaw, bathed in the Hot Springs in the 1700's. The records of Hernando DeSoto in 1541, indicate he came here to the "hot lakes," and in 1804, then President Thomas Jefferson sent an expedition led by George Hunter and William Dunbar to explore the newly acquired springs, purchased as part of the Louisiana Purchase from France.

In 1832, the federal government took an unprecedented step of setting aside four sections of land here, the first U.S. reservation to preserve a natural resource. The first bath houses were crude canvas and lumber tents stretched over individual springs or reservoirs, but by 1875, with the railroad, people came by the thousands to private bath houses ranging from simple to luxurious. The clientele was cosmopolitan, from Al Capone to baseball players Dizzy and Daffy Dean. Majestic Bathhouse attendant Jim Lemons said, "Al Capone was a good tipper." Even Jesse James came to Hot Springs in 1874, but he came to rob the customers. "I'm trying to imagine my parents or your parents coming here to bathe for a vacation," said Andy. "It wouldn't have happened, but I guess a spa vacation was the in thing for years."

We walked through the three floors of Fordyce Bathhouse, now part of the national park: the men's and women's dressing rooms; the men's and women's courtyards; the rooms for steam baths and sitz baths, chiropody, hydrotherapy, massage and Zander mechano-therapy; separated bathing rooms and cooling rooms with marble statues and benches; roof gardens and lounges and state rooms; the massage room and beauty parlor; the gymnasium, billiards room and a music room with a baby grand piano; and the Hubbard Tub area for therapy and healing.

Then we headed outside, where at least 47 hot springs surfaced. The Grand Promenade stretched half a mile in both directions above Central Avenue, and Hot Springs Creek flowed underneath.

"Did you read the display about the age of the water?" asked Andy, as we stopped to test the temperature. "It's 143 degrees all right." He pulled his hand out quickly.

"4,000 years old and underground all that time," I answered, testing it out for myself. "I'll just never understand how carbon dating can test the age of water."

From our reading, we learned that water coming to the surface fell as precipitation 4,000 years ago at the top of Hot Springs Mountain. It percolated down about a foot a year, heated as it descended deep into the earth, maybe 8,000 feet down, over thousands of years. Then, because of the pressure of more water coming down, it rose rapidly at the base of Hot Springs Mountain as Hot Springs Creek, about 700,000 gallons a day at 143 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Scientifically, that's fascinating," I said. "I wonder if science motivated the government involvement back in 1832, or if the lure was all economic and financial."

A few tourists milled about in the early evening. "If I were homeless, I'd choose this as a place to stay," I said. Temperatures had dropped into the high 30's, but steam rose from the springs.
"Why?" asked Andy. "You can't go into the water, because it's too hot."

"But the mist nearby is warm. Didn't you feel it?"
"Sue, the park closes at 10 p.m., and probably so no one can sleep at the springs."

"But it's right on Central Avenue--or under Central Avenue--as the folder said. It reminds me of the subway grates in New York City," I babbled.

"And police probably patrol this beat after 10 p.m."

"Oh, so I guess I don't want to be homeless in the Valley of the Vapors. It must have been something to come here with tons of money in the spa heyday."