Twelve Mile Hotsprings, Wells, Nevada, or How to (Not) Cross A River

After a hearty breakfast – not in the old town centre where no restaurant could be found, but in a casino restaurant at the intersection of the two highways - we embarked on another hotspring adventure. Johann had found the ‘Twelve Mile’ or ‘Bishop Creek’ hotsprings when he looked for ‘natural hotsprings’ on the internet, and this one, too, sounded as if it would not be overrun by people, even though the hike was described as  a lot less strenuous than the last one. A good mile of walking along a flat road – that couldn’t be too bad. I had read a few reviews, and it sounded as if the place was busier in the summer months, but in the winter, when the hot water made it just as attractive, hardly anyone found their way here. 

The description was a bit sketchy, but one of the reviewers had posted a photo of the turnoff from the road. We were to go across the railway tracks, turn left, and basically follow the road for about ten miles until a gravel road turned off to the right. There was mention of potholes, which might make the last stretch difficult to traverse for small cars, probably much aggravated by the conditions in late winter, but we were looking forward to a walk anyway after all the hours spent in the car the day before. 

We followed the narrow paved road out of town, hills to our right, sage brush flats to our left, until we came to the turnoff. There was no chance that we could drive any further, even with our all-wheel drive vehicle, so we parked at the turnoff and started walking along the dirt road, covered with grainy, mushy snow, towards the hills where, supposedly, we would find the hot springs eventually. The sky was grey, low clouds almost touching the ground, it was windy and a thin drizzle fell intermittently. Not the greatest day, admittedly, but it felt good to walk. Soon the mushy snow gave way to mud, and we had difficulty finding places to step. Time to move up on the hillside a little and walk among the sage brush, as others had done before us, judging by the tracks – not many, but a few. Cows and coyotes also had chosen that route, while some mud-hungry pickup or ATV driver(s) had chosen to chew up the road. 

The hills closed in more and more on both sides, and the vegetation changed. It now included juniper and piñon pine, plus a few shrub oak, and rocks jutted out from the rugged hillside, some reminding me of the lava formations we had seen in yesterday’s video.

After about half an hour we reached the end of the road: the small river that had been to our right for much of the way barred the way, the ford impassable after yesterday’s rain that added to the runoff. The description had mentioned a broken down bridge, no longer in use, from where it would only be about a hundred metres or so to the basin. There it was, sturdy at one time, the iron frame still standing, but little left of the boards covering it. 

 One look at the decrepit structure was enough for me to know that I would never dare to go across that bridge, which, at the moment, seemed to be the only way to reach the other side of the river and thus the hotsprings.  ‘Come on’, Johann encouraged me, ‘just hold on to the iron railing, you can do it. You’ll be so proud of yourself.’ This time, however, my pride was no match for my fear of the cold rushing water beneath me. My mind was made up: I had had a nice hike and was perfectly happy to spend some time in these hills without reaching the basin of warm water. 

Johann had no such qualms. In no time at all he had crossed the bridge and was on his way, the warm water a strong propellant. I walked down to the ford and found that there was another way of crossing: a board laid across the river where it was not too wide, supported by a cement slab in the middle. For a moment I thought I could manage this more easily than the bridge, but right where I had to start the crossing water was running over the board. The thought that I could slip and fall in, the water just above freezing, the air temperature a mere +5, with no change of clothes before I reached the car in a half hour walk quickly convinced me that this was no alternative either. I watched the swirling water for a while, then climbed up on the hillside to have a good view from above and waited for Johann’s return, not regretting for a moment that I hadn’t been able to come along. 

After some time he rounded the corner and crossed the bridge back to my side. As expected nobody else had been there, and he had enjoyed the soak. Due to the strong runoff, however, the water was hot only in the top layer, and only close to where the hot spring flowed out of the rock wall. The cold water found its way underneath the hot water, so it was only warm enough when he floated. During other times of the year, Johann said, the water temperature would likely have been perfect. For me, too, a different time of year would have been better: with only a little less flow of the river I would have been fine to cross using the board, or wade through if it had been warm enough, for that matter.

Once we left the protection of the hills to both sides the wind had a go at us again, and the drizzle was still falling. We were happy to get back to the protection of our car and be on our way south again on highway 93.