Las Vegas Weekly

August 27, 2008 · 1:34 PM

Of hot springs, heavy rain and a scenic dive

By John Katsilometes

Another shot of Mike, this one different for two of the canines in his life.

Photo: John Katsilometes

About a half-hour ago we left Grand Junction, the latest tree-shrouded stop on our way from Vegas to INVESCO. A few minutes ago we (ToddKats, me and the Witcher) drove side-saddle with the Colorado River. I wanted to stop to soak my feet, because I might not get a chance to experience Colorado River water at home. But we’re in a rush, again, moving along to Aspen.

Since I was last at the Blog Post, we swung into Mystic Hot Springs in Monroe, the proprietor of which is Mike Ginsburg, a who is certainly the missing character in Doonesbury. The more Mike warmed up to us, the more he revealed about himself – the peeling of the proverbial onion. Or is it the proverbial peeling of the onion? Whatever, there are many layers to this man – as Todd wrote in his most recent post. Mike is a techno geek, a reformed drinker and pot-smoker who stages jam-band shows at his 140-acre property that sits 10 miles from somewhere, in this case I-70. He’s so not like the gee-whiz Dell Hollingshead, the other small-business owner we’ve met on this journey who resides just a few miles southwest in Beaver. Or Beaver City.

Mike’s business hits home to me because my dad owns a place called Lava Hot Springs, near Pocatello, Idaho. Population of Lava Hot Springs is about 560. Unless Old Man Foster has finally passed … but something about soaking in water bubbling up, hot, from God’s Earth must consolidate the thought process. Like my dad, but lots younger, Mike has a finally honed point of view. When I called in advance and said I wanted to talk to him about the vibe of his region, he said, “Well, the vibe here is ‘left.’ ” And when we spoke with him, he talked of how the 2000 presidential election wasn’t an election at all, that it was essentially fixed, and that in 2004 – “I don’t know what happened there, but the people who are already in power somehow stay in power, no matter what type of change we want.” Is this year going to be different? He says, “I hope so.”

But Mike likes being part of a conservative community. “Not a lotta crime. The drug laws can be ridiculous, but I now despise drugs and alcohol. That part of my life is in the past. This is a clean, safe place to live.”

Up behind the hot springs, on a small bluff, water bubbles over a copper-tone rock formation. Mike sits with one of his dogs weather-beaten dogs, Chance, and says, “This is my office.” And it is a good day at work, for sure.

After we left Monroe, we headed for Richfield City. This is where I must invoke the subplot, subtext, sub-plot-text, of our adventure: This is the first time I’ve been on such a multimedia assignment, handling a video camera, digital point-and-shoot, digital audio recorder, and a writing implement I clutch in my … digits. But the video camera stopped working after I shot Mike at the hot springs. We don’t know what is the matter, as I continue to work with our crack videographer, Scott Den Herder, to rectify the problem. So at the moment – no video. But we did have a chance to meet Richfield City Mayor Brad C. Ramsay, whom we made late for a City Council meeting. About 12 people in attendance; nothing on the agenda for the local press to cover in person.

We ran into a rocking thunderstorm on our way to Green River, but caught some fantastic vantage points of the terrain as the sun set. I will remember that from this particular stretch, and also how we planned to drop in on some locals in a tavern called Ray’s. We pulled up in the pouring rain, hoping that the pub would be playing Hillary Clinton’s convention speech. But through the rain-streaked front window, we saw Major League baseball highlights on SportsCenter. I walked in as Todd manned the wheel of the getaway Mazda 6, and asked for a Diet Coke to go. I looked across the bar, and there were six men seated, drinking and kibbutzing, and four were in hats. Two were cowboy hats. I asked the bartender, a pretty young woman whose nametag was concealed by her shirt collar, if they were going to show Hillary’s speech from the convention. “The convention in Denver?” she asked, certainly knowing the answer. “Yeah.” I said, knowing from my days in dive bars that you don’t turn any sporting event off for an appearance by a politician unless that politician is throwing out the first pitch at the Major League Baseball All-Star Game. “No,” she said. So we listed to Hillary ring the bell on gravely AM radio, which on this night is the way God intended it.

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