Foiled Again!

 September 25-26, 2025

When we arrived at Antelope Resorvoir late the night before, it was too dark to see. So imagine our surprise when we woke up and found… no water. Just cracked mud flats with a puddle to one side. We thought we were camping beside a big reservoir. At least, that’s what Google Maps claimed with its nice blue blob on the screen.  

We took a morning walk to investigate and appreciate the dry resorvoir's unique beauty. Our walk ended down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about the history of the now-vanished reservoir. Then we settled into work where I found myself smiling as I typed—because I was working surrounded by nature, albeit beautiful dehydrated nature.

That peace lasted right up until the front window fell out of the camper. One second, gentle breeze; the next, crash. We managed to secure it back in place, but now our rig looks slightly like the Beverly Hillbillies’ vacation mobile. I briefly worried if it was an omen that we should just go home. (Because yes, I’m that kind of person.) To make matters worse, the flies and mosquitoes staged a hostile takeover in late afternoon adding to my worries about whether we should pack it up and go home. Thankfully, our end of day bike ride soothed my troubled soul, as we swatted and pedaled in equal measure.

 

The next morning, we decided to settle unfinished business from 2023: finding Three Forks Hot Springs. Our failed attempt in 2023, thanks to our city-slicker summer tires, made us all the more determined. This year, we came prepared—or so we thought. The hot spring sits deep in a canyon, down a narrow, steep, rocky road that looks like it was designed by someone who hates cars. The description online warns that once you commit, there's no turning back. 

 

George took one look and said, “We shouldn’t drive this.” It looked to me like all the rocks were at the beginning and it smoothed out shortly down the way, so I told George I would drive it if he didn't want to. At that proclamation, George decided to drive the road despite his misgivings because he figured the only thing worse was me driving the road. Spoiler: apparently, my eyes aren't what they used to be because the rocks never ended and the road never smoothed out.  About a quarter mile in, we hit a hairpin curve with just enough room on the side for a three-point turn. We took the hint, turned around, and lived to tell the tale. 

Back at the top, after our hearts stopped pounding, George said, “Let’s bike it.” Of course, we’d forgotten our helmets. And of course, he said he was going anyway. If I was a fool to think we could drive it, he was a fool to think we could bike it. I told him to be careful and not do anything stupider than usual. He said I had no right to talk after almost killing us by insisting we drive down. Fair point.

We started down—George riding, me walking. When I looked down at the switchback below and saw him walking too, I yelled down, “Did you fall?” He had. Luckily, he'd escaped with just a scraped elbow, some wounded pride, and a strong incentive to be more cautious.

We finally made it to the bottom but never did find those mythical hot springs, though we had fun biking around the canyon. Maybe the third time will be the charm.

At the end of the day, we pushed our bikes back up the long, steep road, sweaty and thirsty, but weirdly happy. Because sometimes adventure isn’t about finding the hot springs—it’s about the journey (and surviving your own bad decisions).

                                                    

Every Story has a soundtrack: This one fits in a "wierd" way: