Indulging in back-to-basics relaxation in Berkeley Springs, W.Va., where a nation's obsession with well-being began

By Willa Reinhard

Berkeley Springs, W.Va., the nation's first spa town (Steve Shaluta/WV Tourism)

To restore personal equilibrium, some sensualists jet to the South Pacific paradise of Morea for a plunge into a pool of fuchsia-infused fig juice. Others seek solace at an uptown hotel retreat where strategically placed pink crystals unblock their chakras before a caviar body wrap tenderizes their skin. I have simpler tastes. Just give me a good soak in overheated water naturally rich in minerals and a pair of powerful hands eager to have their way with my muscles, the no-nonsense Swedish way. For that, I head to the West Virginia mountain hamlet of Berkeley Springs, the nation's first spa town.

Located near the border of the interlocking panhandles of West Virginia and Maryland, Berkeley Springs is no secret. It was a place of healing for Native Americans, and colonists followed their lead. Today, two hours northwest of—and hundreds of feet higher than—workaholic Washington, D.C., where I live, the waters still flow, and there's plenty of history to soak up as well. I leave home on a Friday evening in early spring, and life already feels lighter by the time U.S. 522, an 18-wheeler shortcut between Interstates 81 and 68, narrows to Washington Street. The two-lane, six-block-long corridor lined with brick buildings trimmed in white and pastel clapboard shops leads straight through the wrought-iron arch entrance to Berkeley Springs State Park. On the park's four grassy acres at the base of Warm Springs Ridge, 74.3-degree water flows from underground at the rate of 2,000 gallons every minute. To the east and west of Washington Street rise forested foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, home to many of the town's 700 residents and lots and lots of deer.

Berkeley Springs is a bit of a contradiction. On Washington Street I browse through trapping supplies, Remington firearms, and ammunition at Hunter's Hardware; down the block, the Community Garden Market is selling "Go Solar" bumper stickers and A People's History of the United States, by lefty historian Howard Zinn. I order a latte and blueberry pancakes at Inspirations, a café in a restored 1924 white clapboard house, decorated floor to ceiling in the rainbow scheme of gay pride.

The resort town brings together both native West Virginians and urban refugees from Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh—people like Jeanne Mozier, a writer and an astrologer who with her husband, Jack Soronen, owns the Star Theatre, a 1916 former auto garage, where I meet her. They moved here from Washington nearly 30 years ago, after traveling the country in search of the perfect place to live. They refurbished the Star, complete now with an old popcorn machine, cash register, and red leather theater seats.

Mozier speaks proudly of the interesting balance among the town's various communities. "For example, on the first Friday of every month," she says, "all the stores and restaurants stay open late. On one side of the street people are drumming in front of a new-age shop, and on the other end the Mountain State Cruisers—local guys—are grilling and showing off their antique cars. Everyone's just happy that downtown is lively."

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