Photographer Greta Rybus Travels The World’s Hot Springs

I grew up in Idaho, which (depending on how you count) has some of the most soakable hot springs in the United States. It was a part of our experience of the outdoors, taking time to let our fingers prune up after a day of hiking or skiing. Sometimes, if we saw steam on the side of the road, we’d stop and look for a human-made pool: stacking up or moving riverstones to make the right ratio of thermal and cool water. Hot springs in Idaho still retain a little touch of the Wild West, sometimes people bathe quietly—but often things get rowdy.

When I was a teenager, my parents got jobs teaching in Japan, and I learned about onsen and sento culture. How different it was from back home in Idaho! Bathing alongside neighbors or family members was routine, ritualized. People would soak before or after work, making sure to follow intricate rules of scrubbing and cleaning the body before quietly lowering into the heat. It was a quiet, reverential experience.

I studied cultural anthropology and photojournalism at the University of Montana, where I’d go with friends on weekends to wild hot springs. Afterwards, I moved to Maine where there are no natural hot springs for bathing. But, I found work as a freelance photojournalist, documenting people who live close to nature: farmers, fishermen, homesteaders, foragers, gardeners. They’ve shown me how the ways we interact with nature can shape our minds and determine how we understand the world and our place in it. I began to think about my time in hot springs and became curious about the varied ways people relate to thermal water: how we mix hot and cold water to find the right temperature for our bodies; how we build them into palaces or simple pools in the soil; how we’ve constructed culture and tradition around the feeling of warmth they provide. Hot springs can be a novel, once-in-a-lifetime experience for some, and a daily practice for others. I spent several years researching hot springs, eventually visiting dozens for my book, Hot Springs: Photos and Stories of How the World Soaks, Swims and Slows Down, published by Ten Speed Press, and released later this month on March 19.

While venturing to thermal places, I learned so much about the world. Locals taught me about Greenland’s unique approach to land ownership, where people can’t own land but can borrow it. I visited a hot spring in South Africa that is among the first instances of land reparations. I learned that Hungarian doctors often prescribe thermal treatments, noting the medical benefits of both mineral water and rest. I spent time in several of Tokyo’s municipal baths, observing how they create an important sense of community and ritual. I visited hot springs in Iceland and India and Turkey with stories of outlaws, queens, and gods.

At each bathing place, I met locals and visitors who felt similarly enthusiastic about the power of hot water. Like me, they seemed to feel that there was something deeply meaningful about the experience of being soaked in warmth. Hot springs are a clear demonstration of nature’s generosity and providence. We can simply sit in the water and do nothing but marvel at the phenomena of the planet and how it cares for us. But, most thermal springs emerge from the Earth too hot for the human body. They must be cared for, too: protected and mixed with cool, fresh water. They are a metaphor for reciprocity.