Louisiana writer takes Colorado cold plunge to find hope | Entertainment/Life

More than a thousand miles from Louisiana, I felt completely at home in the steam sauna at Iron Mountain Hot Springs in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. The small room felt like a July afternoon in New Orleans after a rain.

Our daughter Piper lives in Denver. Two days after I arrived for a visit, she and I drove farther west to spend time in springs that run hot overlooking the Colorado River that runs cold.

We made the same trip at the same time last year — just weeks before our house fire in August. Since then, my days have been filled with work and my nights with insurance adjusters, tile samples, paint colors, delayed sinks, doors that open out when they ought to open in and the wrong-sized windows.

Piper and I arrived early and loved sitting in the hot pools watching the mist rise and fall across the surrounding mountaintops. A full day in and out of mineral water was just what I needed.

Iron Mountain has 35 pools that range from 45 to 107 degrees, with minerals from potassium to sodium, calcium and more. This year it also has five new saunas — steam, salt, red light, aromatherapy and a traditional Finnish one.

I’ve been fascinated by saunas since studying the role they play in life in Finland. I was eager to try them all.

Finland has been named the world’s happiest country for nine years running — a ranking that measures life satisfaction rather than passing joy. Researchers sometimes credit sauna culture as one contributor.

For all those reasons, I started the day in the saunas.

I skipped the cold plunge pools. I skipped them again after a while, and again after that. Last year, I tried a cold plunge once, got partway in, and decided it was not for me.

Drew Brees may swear by them, but I had made my peace.

In the early evening, a woman who lives in Glenwood Springs started talking with us as we relaxed in a magnesium pool. The lady makes almost daily use of her annual pass and spoke about the cold plunge the way some people talk about a miracle drug. She explained how it had genuinely changed the way she felt.

Her confidence made me reconsider, and I mustered the courage to once again try the cold plunge.

I got one foot in, up to the calf.

“Let’s do the steam sauna,” she said, “then try again.”

So we sat in the heat that reminded me of home, and then we went back out. The second time I got in up to my waist.

I counted that as a victory and retreated to the steam where a talkative group had gathered.

They started discussing the cold plunge. One by one, they decided to try it.

One by one, they came back into the steam sauna. They had all gone in, all the way under.

Then this group of strangers began to encourage me to give it one more try.

When I stood up to try the cold plunge for a third time, people I had known for 20 minutes cheered me on.

I walked outside, walked right into the 45-degree water, lowered myself all the way in, even dunking my head.

I did not tarry.

When I walked to the steam sauna with my hair dripping, they cheered again.

That sounds small.

It was small.

It was also something I had been sure I would never do, and I did it because a roomful of strangers encouraged me.

I smiled despite myself and had to admit: I felt fantastic. Maybe the moment wasn’t as much about the cold water as being reminded how quickly strangers can become allies.

For the past few weeks, the World Cup has been everywhere, with North America hosting visitors arriving from all over the world. That story keeps surfacing in interviews and clips — guests amazed by how welcoming Americans have been, how warm, how generous with directions, seats, time and breakfast.

For the first time, I have been glued to the World Cup this summer, mostly for that strangers-turning-allies feeling. (As a side benefit, I’ve even begun to understand offsides.)

Lately, I’ve felt as if our country is constantly being reminded of what separates us. The World Cup has shown that we can still be the people I grew up believing we are.

I don’t know exactly what a cold plunge in Colorado says about a country turning 250. Maybe nothing. Maybe this: People who will never see one another again stood up and cheered for a stranger over something that did not matter at all and mattered completely.

We do not have to agree, but we can still be kind. We can still talk someone into the cold and cheer when she goes under — and welcome her back into the warmth.

A country turning 250 is a lot to hold in the mind at once. A roomful of strangers cheering someone in and out of cold water is not.

I will take this small thing — and be ready to celebrate the next one.