Edge of the Gorge, Edge of Myself

My weekend was cold, clammy, wet. And I loved soaking it in.

On the edge of the Columbia River Gorge, deep in the woods at roughly 1,500 feet, I went glamping to escape. Mist hugged the mountains. Water hammered the canvas—jarring, insistent—as if pieces of waterlogged sky were splitting open just above my head. Cool bursts erupted across my skin, a counterspell to the lava roiling and boiling underneath the surface.

Rain thudded and my heart jumped. Why glamp under an atmospheric river? Menopausal heat had made the decision—an immersion in nature, albeit a comfortable one. At the storm’s peak, loud thumps hit the roof while I moved around the bed, organizing the tent. Food and supplies to one side. Clothes and books to the other.

Cool settled in. Rain washed my energy and anxiety down into the earth. I let it go. My breath turned visible and I sighed over and over just to watch it bloom—cool mist as opposed to the steam I emit these days. Hot flashes and endless, chopped-up nights have tortured me. I came here to cool off.

When the deluge paused, the trees spoke. Drops fell from the leaves in a patient metronome. I could hear engines in the distance, but with a long exhale I felt myself unwind from it. Words swirled, waiting for me to slow down enough to put them on the page. Clear them out.

“Are you ever afraid to travel and stay alone?” a friend once asked.
“Yes. Sometimes,” I said. “I have an active imagination and it runs wild. I learned to move through that fear when I was young, and I’m still doing it.”

I think about this now as I sit, wet and cold and blissfully at peace. I can do so much on my own and always have. I’m not afraid of bears, snakes, critters, or spiders. I’m afraid of burning up and burning out, and destroying everything in the process.

So I camp alone. In the woods where I can rage to myself and get so cold I shiver and freeze.

Last week I said yes to a photo shoot/retreat: Coven of the Divine—reiki, sound bathing, and a goddess-focused photo shoot, fantasy wear and headdresses included. I signed up in a moment when I needed to do something for myself. Most days I feel like an old mom—past my prime, out of my element, burning up in the worst way with hot flashes and rushes of menopausal rage.

I had no business going. I was coming off a week of high-intensity, high-emotion travel and needed down time desperately. But I rallied—like I do—and got myself into a diva mindset.

Reiki and sound set it all up for me. I unwound a little, still tentative, unsure about glamour photos at arguably the least glamorous time of my life. Then I relaxed and gave it my best, “What the hell…” energy.

Near the end of the shoot I realized I was fully in my element. Divine female energy, laughter, positive words of encouragement filled the space. I laughed and smiled. I ended the evening dancing around the fire and felt powerful. Feminine. Fierce. Free.

The next day, sneak peeks arrived. I saw the divine in my photos—a beauty not touched by age, hormones, or stress. I felt powerful, like this time of my life is full of a new kind of excitement I’ve never experienced. The friend who led the retreat posted about the energy and vibe as she shared our photos. Mine was in the first batch: a radiant ruby-red gown, alight on the screen. She texted me privately: “You, my queen, are the molten lava goddess I was talking about. I love this darker side. It’s so powerful. It is huge, taking up its right spot on your throne.”

I was humbled by her words. I felt them too. And then, in the busyness of the week that followed, my molten lava devoured stress and transmuted it to rage. Every night, I burned instead of slept. Warm, glowy bursts turned into sweaty, searing episodes that made me want to tear the flesh from my bones. I dreamt of running naked through a cool, dark night.

By week’s end, I threw off obligations and made space for myself, the trees, and a cool, wet weekend.

Back to the Gorge. Mist hugging mountains. Canvas taking the pounding like a drum. Sky splitting open inches above me. Cool bursts against skin while lava muttered below. Storm stakes were real: everything damp, coated in mist; small leaks beading along seams; the camp stove refusing to light until I fashioned a makeshift stick-and-tarp cover over the outdoor kitchen. Inside, the sound was a big, bold break overhead, and my brain kept offering images of branches smashing bone. The smells were damp earth and wet leaves; by day two, musty canvas; clean fall air; and the herbal steam of constant tea.

Cooling came suddenly: air on skin after an instinctive hot-flash wrap. One moment sherpa-wrapped to keep out the chill; the next, blanket thrown off. The response was immediate—an icy knife cleaving the lava river. Relief.

Silence from the world helped. No signal meant no phone—a sabbath enforced by weather and geography. I was unreachable and I liked it. No guests. No activities. Just the elements and the slow relearning of my edges.

The retreat kept echoing. “Do you know how lovely you are?” she’d asked in a way that didn’t feel like cuing, more like remembering. Layers upon layers of sheer fabric—trailing, floating, flowing. A gown that had to be carried. Luxurious. Queenly. Ruby light and a molten core.

By weekend’s end, fire and water met. The river above and the lava within ran simultaneously, equal forces moving toward one another. At the edges of me, a kiss—steam, hiss. Cooling into something different. Obsidian: solid, able to withstand the elements. Forged by them.

I am forged—and I am here.