Mike Rysavy first visited Bagby Hot Springs in the early ’90s, as a teenager growing up in Milwaukie. He’d read an Oregonian story about the spot, which is tucked into the Mount Hood National Forest between Estacada and Detroit. Rysavy says he’d “never even contemplated the idea of hot water coming out of the earth,” and thought it sounded “pretty neat,” so he and a few friends set out. After a winding drive to the trailhead, and a 1.5-mile hike through lush and mossy old-growth forest, Bagby’s rustic wooden bathhouses appeared.

“These bathhouses, hand-crafted out of timbers, just out in the forest, very remote, with steam rising, and people laughing—I’d never seen anything like that,” Rysavy recalls. “I was enamored.”

Rysavy became a regular, joining a volunteer group and eventually its board. When that group imploded due to infighting, he started a new one. It’s been a bumpy few decades. While beloved by many, Bagby has also been known for vandalism, trailhead break-ins, and drunken carousing. “The setting can vary day to day from serene to sketchy,” wrote The Oregonian in 2011. As management of the site has shifted, maintenance has been spotty. In 2018, one of the bathhouses—where hollowed-out cedar logs served as soaking tubs, each in their own room—was condemned due to extensive rotting.

Now Rysavy hopes Bagby has entered a new chapter. In 2023, he and his wife, Tamarah (the two met at Bagby in 2001), began a 20-year contract from the US Forest Service to manage the hot springs. Since then, they’ve cleared hazardous trees, replaced handrails, scrubbed graffiti, and fixed the Rube Goldberg-esque plumbing system that keeps the 136-degree, mineral-rich water flowing to the tubs. They’ve hired a year-round host to oversee the trailhead’s 18-site campground, greet and educate visitors, collect fees, make repairs, and generally keep tabs on day-to-operations.

The Rysavys also own and operate Grande Hot Springs RV Resort and Hot Lake Springs, both in La Grande. At Bagby, they hope to hire more staff and rehab damaged buildings, including the condemned bathhouse. They plan to add all-season lodging options at the campground and have so far purchased two yurts, currently sitting on a trailer at the Ripplebrook Camp Store, 14 miles up the road. As part of their contract, the Rysavys took on operation of this spot, too, where the Bagby-bound can pick up snacks, use the free Wi-Fi to double-check directions before leaving cell service, and pay the $5 soaking fee by credit card. (The trailhead is cash-only.)

People have soaked at Bagby since at least 1880, when a prospector named Robert Bagby stumbled upon the site. The first bathhouses went up in the 1920s, and the three standing today were built in the 1980s by Friends of Bagby Hot Springs, the volunteer group Mike Rysavy joined as a teenager. They’re the definition of rustic—simple wood frames, half-roofs for an indoor-outdoor experience, cedar shingles shimmering with lichen. Bathhouse no. 1 holds a big round tub and three smaller tubs, while Bathhouse no. 3 holds a communal tub large enough for up to eight and a stock tank cold plunge. (Bathhouse no. 2 is condemned.) Signs encourage visitors to soak communally, and to keep their dips to 30 minutes if others are waiting. While clothing is optional, on a recent Sunday morning everyone opted for a swimsuit.

Rysavy wants to keep the Bagby character that captured him as a 16-year-old: rustic, remote, a little ramshackle. He hopes, for instance, to bring back hollowed-out logs for use as soaking tubs, which he says he’s seen at only two or three other spots. His first trip to Bagby sparked a lifelong obsession with hot springs; he’s since visited hundreds more. And, he says, “There’s still nothing like Bagby.”