A previous existence or two back, when we moved from Los Angeles to the Ventura County beach, we had no lack of company. It seemed like everyone we'd been friends with -- and some with whom we were barely acquainted -- was more than willing to come stay with us. Overnight visits turned into extended stays. We like having friends as much as anyone does, but we soon learned to discourage many visitors, out of sheer self-preservation. There's only so much barbecue one can eat, after all (there was a time I didn't believe this either, until strangers on the street started to wrinkle their noses and ask if we'd lost everything in the fire).

Since moving here, we're out of "pop up for the weekend" reach of our old friends. What was intended to be our guest bedroom became the Rodent Viewing Room -- there was no furniture in it anyway, so we taught our cats that this was the place to deposit whatever varmints they removed from the yard. The barbecue mitts took up a new purpose: they kept Marsha from getting chewed on as she caught this or that panicked shrew or vole (or whatever) for return to the outside and another loop around the Big Spin of Life.

My mother flew out from Georgia last May when we least needed company. The weather was unseasonably dreary (even for here) and we were incredibly busy getting our print edition launched. It didn't really count as a visit, as we'd been able to do very little visiting during her stay in the RVR. The first "real" out-of-town visit we had, therefore, was when Brooks Townes and his wife Judy passed through in early October.

I'd been reading Brooks' stories with great enjoyment for years and, having been introduced via E-mail by our mutual friend Mark Hershoren, Brooks and I had engaged in much correspondence. I was very curious to see what he was like in person -- sure I'd like him, but curious. Maybe Brooks felt a little the same way, because he arranged for our first meeting to be on neutral territory: the Carson Hot Springs Resort.

Carson is a little town about 40 miles east of Vancouver on Highway 14. It's a scenic drive on a fun road, with assorted points of historical interest along the way. Marsha and I had explored almost that far on our own, but we knew nothing of the resort.

Turns out the hot springs themselves had been discovered way back when (by Lewis and/or Clark, for all I know) and someone had set up a tourist trap there by 1908. It's still there, and -- except for the addition of more guest cabins in the '20s -- looks to be unchanged. I'm dubious about the therapeutic qualities of soaking in mineral baths, but hot water is one of my favorite things in life. On the appointed afternoon, Marsha and I hopped into the 1800S and arrived early, having focused on the fun aspect of Highway 14 while ignoring the scenic side of the drive.

After wandering around for a bit stretching our legs, we returned to the parking lot and I poked around under the 1800's hood, where there remained a few Unresolved Issues, for a few minutes. We heard Brooks for some time before we saw him -- a fine, croony snarl snaking through the forest, a brisk downshift into the last turn on the road -- and a gleaming Cypress Green ES shot out from the trees, turned into the lot and parked next to us.

First out was Judy, a delightful, petite woman who's impossible not to like immediately. Next emerged The Man Himself: average height, barrel-chested (not overweight), the kind of red-blonde hair that goes gray early (and had), beard, bright blue eyes, ballcap, and fairly bristling with energy. A clipped way of speaking that's nothing like the Nawth Cowlina drawl he switches on for effect now and then. There are people I've met after extended correspondence who've been nothing like the picture I'd formed from their writing -- Brooks isn't one of those. He can be subtle, but he's not timid. His ES fits him as well as his stories do.

The car itself was interesting, above just being an ES in perfect condition. Volvo 400,000 mile badge on an oval Euro license plate where lesser people from Brooks' neck of the woods might sport a Confederate flag. It sounds like it means business and this was confirmed by the length of the streaks behind various bug strikes on the nose of the car. I asked Brooks about the string tied to the tip of one of several antennas festooning the rear bumper.

"That's just to hold it up. At 100 mph, that antenna wants to lie down flat behind the car and doesn't do any good." Except for fending off tailgaters, I supposed. No wait -- that wouldn't often be one of Brooks' problems on the open road.

This was fun. We wandered up to the resort's restaurant and chatted some more over coffee while waiting for room in the baths to open up. I was in no hurry.

The bath thing struck me as a just slightly odd, probably because I'm not descended from ancient Romans (far as I can tell, I'm mixed Barbarian and Basque), but this was Brooks' show and I'm game to try most things once. Although the basic idea is similar, the Carson Hot Springs Resort bears little resemblence to those "hot tubs under the redwoods" deals that eased the Hippie to Yuppie transition for so many Californians in the late '70s. The inside decor is more like 1920s Locker Room, dimly lit by a few overhead light bulbs, plastic-covered cots and thin, small, gym-class cotton towels.

The tubs are just exactly that: big, iron, claw-footed and rust-stained, although perfectly sanitary. You put in a regular old stopper, turn on a regular old faucet and sulferous 126-degree mineral water fills the tub. Then you get in and soak in it. Not a bad thing to do, actually.

After stewing for a while, you get up and climb into another tub across the room. This one is filled with icy stream water. I didn't spend much time in it -- it only took five seconds for most of my autonomic nervous system to go into arrest, but I managed to stagger back to hot water before incurring permanent damage. Then again, I always imagined the sauna part was more fun than the jumping through a hole in the ice part. This did nothing to change my mind.

When you're finally parboiled, you go lie on a cot and an attendent wraps you up in towels and wool blankets like a mummy, with just your nose sticking out. You make your own steam bath inside this personal cocoon.

If you manage to call the attendent before passing out, he comes and unwraps you. You go take a shower (you'll need a shower!), get dressed and go on your way. You won't go fast, though -- it takes a few hours before your bones feel like they'll hold you up reliably again.

Following this ritual, Brooks and Judy treated us to dinner in the restaurant -- passable food, but not the place's claim to fame, either. The company was just fine, though.

After that, we played "1800 tag" all the way back to Vancouver. Brooks would pass us enthusiastically, then slow down to let us pass in turn, less enthusiastically. I could sense something not quite right happening under the hood (see this issue's Tech Tips) and wasn't too interested in dealing with it in the dark. Particularly not with melted bones.

Following a twenty-minute stop at our house, Brooks, Judy and the green ES roared back off into the night, headed for Seattle and other engagements. Brooks gathers no moss.

It had been a fine time, overall. Well met, my friend!