‘‘Sulphur Springs’ was undoubtedly founded based on the relatively simple and familiar formula:
UNPLEASANT + NATURAL = HEALTHY
Well known among the locals and around websites that offer the local experience, ‘Sulfur Springs’ is only really advertised by its distinct smell, which wafts through the forested surroundings and should, by all accounts, turn any intelligent creature on its heels. An unexpecting hiker might arrive at the trailhead thinking they misplaced a boiled egg in their pack but, nearer the springs, would be forced to assume the egg had swelled, rotted, and burst.
Still, there is a strong belief among some that ‘Sulphur Springs’ is a hidden tonic, that the wretched waters can strengthen the weak and cure the sickly. Tucked into a scenic alcove and bubbling at a mild 81 degrees Fahrenheit, it is nevertheless an acquired taste. Those who acquire it are evangelical and very, very few.’
A dip in ‘Sulphur Springs’ is the act of a desperate man, a man searching for a vitality he once, but no longer has. Even in town, where the smell of it lingers like thick but distant flatulence, I realize that, if there was any truth to the miracle of spring water, we’d all already smell like shit. The woman at the store, the woman who hands me a receipt for the swim trunks I purchase, the woman who may have lived near ‘Sulphur Springs’ all her life- she turns her nose up at me.
The smell of desperation repulses her.
-traveler
