California was experiencing an uncharacteristic February heat wave, so I jumped at the chance for a cool desert escape to Castle Hot Springs in Arizona. I packed my car and headed east for an eight-hour solo road trip into the 20-million-year-old Bradshaw Mountains. Though guests are advised to rent a high-profile vehicle, I was assured that my little sedan could handle the final stretch: seven miles of primitive road.
There’s something transformative about being forced to move slowly — five miles per hour — to avoid dust clouds and potholes. With no cell service and only the occasional donkey, desert bloom, or glimpse of Lake Pleasant to keep me company, my mind began to quiet. By the time I approached the gates of the historic property, I felt recalibrated.
As someone who lived in Las Vegas, I’m no stranger to desert landscapes: towering cacti, lone mules, endless sky. But when the gates to Castle Hot Springs opened, and I drove down the palm-lined path, it felt cinematic, like the opening scene of a film where something important is about to unfold.




