Hot Springs and Tattoos in Bozeman and Santa Fe
An amazing coincidence brings two couples together.
This is a story of two hot springs and two tattooed men in two states. The story ends in New Mexico and begins in Montana at the Bozeman Hot Springs.
Bozeman Hot Springs is run by members of the Seventh Day Adventist Church. They close the pools down on Friday at sundown and keep them closed until Saturday at sundown, in accordance with their faith. Saturday is their holy day, their day of worship.
The pools are run according to the guidelines of their faith as well. No alcohol is allowed on the premises. Families are welcome. The facility is kept clean and orderly. It has multiple pools of hot and cold water, indoors and out, and a wet sauna, dry sauna, and cool, refreshing showers.
We went there on a Sunday in late May and it being the first open day after the Saturday break, lots of other people had the same idea. It is a spot favored by local Bozeman-ites as well as out-of-towners. After an hour or two of luxuriating in the pools, Jennifer said she had had enough and got out to get dressed.
I said I’d meet her in the lobby but first wanted to take one last dip in the big indoor pool where the temperature is set at a level that can only be described as “just right.” I sunk deliciously into its waters and this was when I saw the first tattooed man. He was in the pool not far from me, in his swim trunks.
Tattoos are tattoos; lots of people have them, you see them everywhere you go. This was a particularly eye-catching set, however. The man was of Mexican descent, early forties, thick black mustache. Solid shoulders and a solid frame but not overly muscular. Down one side of his chest ran these letters in a vertical line:
C
A
S
H
All in caps, in an unusual typeface that had an Old West, Tex-Mex vibe to it. Even more striking were the tats on his back. Across the top of his back below his neck was the name of GARCIA, also in caps.
Presumably this was his last name. Below it was an example of body art at its best: a large, exquisitely crafted image of two pistols, pointing downward. They were six-shooters, like what an outlaw in a Western movie might use to rob up a bank.
Impressed as I was, I floated away in the pool, got dressed, and met Jennifer in the lobby. She had bought a Bozeman Hot Springs “In A Good Place” hoodie that she still wears. I might have mentioned the tattooed man to her but thought no more about it.
The next spring, having enjoyed Montana and Wyoming so much, we decided to sample the pleasures of New Mexico and its exotic desert landscape.
Seeking a refuge from the heat and dust of the road, we found ourselves lolling around in another spa, Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs. There are two Ojo Hot Springs locations. One is in the city of Santa Fe and the other is farther out in the desert, between Santa Fe and Taos. We chose the latter, and it was fabulous.
We were both in a large outdoor pool. Jennifer was on the other side while I was flopping around on my own, happy as a baby seal. That was when the man named Garcia appeared in the same pool. How could I miss him? Cash spelled out on his chest and six-shooters ready to blaze.
I waded over to him. “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “But were you at the Bozeman Hot Springs about this time last year? Because I was, and I think I recognize you.”
At first he appeared suspicious, like I was some weird guy stalking him across states. Then his expression softened and he broke into a grin. “Yeah, we were there. You were there too?”
I shook my head excitedly up and down. His girlfriend, who was standing in the water next to him, cried out exuberantly, “That’s amazing!”
We called Jennifer over and the four of us were in full agreement: Amazing! All of us at the Bozeman Hot Springs on the same day last year, and now the same thing in New Mexico the year after.
Their names were Justin and Annette. We were on vacation; their story was much more dramatic. With wildfires sweeping across the state that May, they had evacuated their home in Las Vegas, New Mexico. Now they were renting a place in Santa Fe until they could get back into their house. Needing a break from all the fire drama, they had decided to chill at the hot springs for the day.
Eventually my conversation with Justin turned to the subject of tattoos. He explained that having your last name tattooed across your upper back was a tradition for young men in Northern New Mexico. He did not explain about the pistols, which are not a Northern New Mexico tradition. He did say that he had done his share of running around as a teenager but now he had gone back to school and was studying to become a social worker.
I confessed that when I first saw him, the word “cash” paired with those pistols made my imagination take a leap. Guns are one way for a wild child on the streets to get cash, right?
His look was full of tolerance and understanding, suggesting to me that when the time came he was going to make a very good social worker. “It’s a tribute to Johnny Cash,” he said. “He’s a hero of mine.” He added that Annette hated his tattoos.
Later that afternoon, after saying goodbye to the two of them, I journeyed over to the dry sauna for a sweat. As I sat down I noticed that another representative of Northern New Mexico tattoo culture was there with me. But his shoulders were turned and so I could not make out the full name stamped on his back. Corridos, I believe, or Cordoba.
“I bet you live in Northern New Mexico and grew up here,” I said to him.
He said yeah, that’s right, how do you know? I told him about how I came to meet Justin, who had filled me in on the tattoo tradition. We introduced ourselves. His first name was Augustine. His wife—she never mentioned her name—was sitting next to him. They both got a kick out of the story, and Augustine told me a few more details about it:
“It’s a Northern New Mexico tradition to get your family name stamped on your back. It’s done by teenagers of a certain ‘set,’ let’s say. But it’s not a gang thing. I didn’t do crimes or mess up like that. I was sixteen. All my friends did it. It was something we did.”
“A guy thing, right?”
“Definitely,” his wife chimed in. She scrunched her nose as if smelling a bad odor. “Girls never did it.”
They were both in their late twenties, child guidance counselors at schools. Later we met again at the mud pool and I introduced them to Jennifer. The fires had forced their parents to leave their homes temporarily, but they lived in Albuquerque and had not been inconvenienced much. We told them we were ending our trip in Albuquerque and they gave us tips on where to eat and some fun things to do.
One of the favorite activities of locals, they said, is to go out to the airport and watch the planes land. The desert winds really buffet the wings of the planes around, and it makes for entertaining viewing for those on the ground. It is such a popular pastime that a parking area at the airport has been set aside for the watchers.
Jennifer had flown into Albuquerque Saturday morning. She did indeed have a wild ride at the end, the plane rocking and rolling in the winds before it safely landed. It turned out that Augustine and his wife had been watching the planes at the airport that very morning and had probably seen her Southwest flight on its way down.
If you haven’t been to a mineral hot springs lately, it may be time to treat yourself again. You never know what people you’ll meet and the coincidences you may discover.
