I laid, silent and still, as Liliana quickly, wordlessly, heaped mounds of mud onto my body, from my shoulders to my fingertips, my stomach to my toes. Instead of sinking into it, I floated on top. It was grainy, and so dense that it supported the weight of my body. Instead, it was closer to the consistency of wet concrete. I’d pictured this mud as a silky, slippery clay-like slurry. Then, taking a breath and diligently following Liliana’s instructions, I gripped a metal railing and slid onto a hot bed of volcanic ash and mineral-laden water. It seemed like a rite of passage.Īs I sat naked on the cool lip of the tub, staring over my shoulder, the biggest surprise was the mud itself. For good or ill, Brannan was the earliest of influencers, instrumental in feeding the two-century-long frenzy that made the state what it is.įor me, born and raised in Northern California, the Calistoga mud baths were always in the back of my mind - a messy run-in with my state’s “healing” history that I would someday experience for myself. Some credit him with having created, via a pre-internet hype machine known as the “California Star,” the Gold Rush that transformed the state. He’s a complicated character, but it’s hard not to admire his hustle. The volcanic ash for which Indian Springs has been known for over a century began seducing “California’s rich and famous” when Samuel Brannan, the publisher of the state’s first English-language newspaper, bought 2000 acres of Napa Valley property in the late 1800s. Wilkinson's Hot Springs at Calistoga, California, 1945. I was, after all, about to be buried alive. Half the room, painted a sooty gray, was dedicated to mud: four large, rectangular concrete tubs that were fittingly coffin-like. It was also more exposed, with undressed people soaking alongside each other, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. The bathhouse itself was smaller than I’d expected. “Whew,” I thought, “at least I’m not the only one who is terrible at spa-ing.” The Saratoga of California But they became more obvious when the woman in the next tub over retrieved hers, in the middle of our brief-but-memorable mud baths, to watch Tiktok-style videos on what sounded like maximum volume. The many reasons the phone was a bad idea are obvious in retrospect. My contraband was gracefully confiscated by one spa attendant while another, Liliana, guided me to my tub. Fortunately, Indian Springs, which has attracted visitors to its “iconic treatment” for over a century, is seasoned at managing ignorance. As if allergic to mental down time, I brought a magazine and iPhone into the bathing area. Then, I made another, even more embarrassing, mistake. I was unsure if nudity was appropriate for this swanky Napa Valley hotel, where rooms cost upwards of $500 per night. The room that sounded like the bowels of a fountain - a constant rush of water backed by a soundtrack of innocuous relaxation music: reeds and pings and chimes.
When my name was called, I shuffled in wearing underwear beneath my robe. Somehow, despite being a lifelong Northern Californian, I didn’t know what to expect from this quintessential Silverado Trail experience. As a cold rain fell outside, I’d traded wool socks for a pair of brown rubber shower shoes that reminded me of my grandpa.Ī wide shot of "Old Faithful of California" erupting a tall jet of hot water and steam with mountains, grasses, and a palm tree in the background, in Calistoga, California, 2005. Moments before, I’d hurried into an outbuilding at Indian Springs, a Bay Area institution that dates to 1862, shed my boots and layers, and wrapped myself in an embroidered waffle robe.