River Getaway

Taking a break from a usual routine may be one of the best things you can do for mental and spiritual health. This weekend, my witchy coven was holding a Mabon planning meeting, along with a "Stitch n' Bitch", but I already had plans . . . and I needed a change of scene, in more than one sense.

Every year, a buddy of mine named Martin hosts a camping outing on one of the Columbia River islands north of Portland, specifically McGuire Island. It's a beautiful spot, in a shallow waylay of a passage between McGuire and the larger neighboring island. So shallow, in fact, that you'll run aground even in a light motorboat if you approach the beach from the wrong angle.

These river islands are different than the Puget Sound islands I grew up on: Instead of conglomerate bedrock, the soft sandy river buildup of ages supports only the growth of tall cottonwoods and blackberry brambles, no conifer trees. The beach sports some slimy weed, but no barnacles to tear the feet. Part of me always feels odd without the presence of salt water, but for a weekend getaway? Paradise.

I went out for my second time, after a hiatus of a year or two, along with my friend Justine on her first of these trips. I brought only a crocheted halter-top to finish, along with a notebook, because the powerful sexual energy of Aliria was still so strong in me and I knew this easily produces episodes of art and writing. My own racy song "Piston Service" looped repeatedly in my head, and of course, a fun journey by motorboat does nothing to diminish my grateful love affair with the goddess of petroleum and power! Into the varnished boat, Justine and I loaded all our junk. A zippy ride over the water, past a row of old broken pilings like a string of standing rocks or necklace of bones, and we hopped out in the shallows and portaged everything out again.

still got it, bitches

Martin is big on "glamping", with a retro-chic maritime style. There was a canvas canopy he'd made himself, and a kitchen with wooden utensil drawers beneath, not to mention a flushing ship's commode with a tank he'd buried. Posh! Someone else had brought archery equipment. We strung our tents down the beach in the other direction.

The food was far from lacking. Like my friend Wanda the kitchen witch, Martin is a kind of "kitchen wizard" and enjoys cooking for folks. We had a chicken veggie pan dish, and next morning, sourdough pancakes with all, and I mean all, the fixin's: For maybe the second time in my life, I had caviar! We paired the deep blue fish eggs with basil, dill, and feta. For a sweet option, there was creamy yoghurt, sliced peaches, and if you were everyone else, maple syrup; I dug my blackstrap molasses out of my purse and slathered it on religiously.

I spent much of Saturday after getting out to the island completing my little crocheted top. We had a lot of downtime, and the sky was grey, precluding one of my goals for being out there --- get some sun on my skin! Celebrate my body and its beauty. That night, we stoked up the campfire, my friend Anna played live folk tunes on her mandolin, and I became more merry after a few glasses of wine, joining in the singing before breaking out the marshmallows for s'mores, using Trader Joes chocolate-dipped dunker cookies.

I was the last one to bed, reluctant to leave the magnetic, primal draw of the campfire. But before I did, I wrote intentions on a slip of paper and burned them beneath the still-almost-full moon. Something about being full of gratitude and experiencing every moment as sacred. Only my goddesses and my own subconscious remember for sure!

Next morning we had those fantastic pancakes, I finished my halter top --- and the sun came out. I changed into my little bikini, which I'd also made using crochet, and we ate delicious BLTs with pickles for lunch. At one point, we noticed that a cheap oil lamp of Martin's --- chiefly a retro atmosphere piece --- had leaked, soaking the sand with oil. We lit it on fire, and I stirred and played with the sand as it burned. The little flames seemed to come right out of the earth, and I indulged in a bit of fire magic, wondering what it felt like for ancient peoples of places like Azerbaijan, where fire emerges from the rocks to this day. Not knowing its precise connection to petroleum, small wonder they worshipped fire!

Then I went far down the beach in search of hot rays and soft sand. The river has tides here, like the ocean, and the water went way out, leaving vast ripply sandbars, wonderful feeling on the feet. I basked in the sun for awhile out on a bar, changing sides to get an even tan, relishing the soft sand.

But it wasn't enough! Further on, where Justine had been taking some of her professional hobby photos, I found a peninsula or tombolo, where a small grove of cottonwoods sheltered a sandy patch from the sight of the river. I snuck back in there . . . and took off my bikini. How delicious! How freeing! It felt so good, having the sand and sun all against me and nothing on. I felt luscious and wealthy and beautiful. I didn't fall asleep, though, and part of me stayed on alert constantly, a mark of both being a woman and being in America: What if a man came upon me, and tried to attack? But I refuse to live in fear, only in readiness. My bitch-brain said, "Honey, you got all the weapons you need. The first and best one? Sand. Double handfuls, aim at the eyes."

So too was I cognizant of the sun's great power: There is an art to stopping right before you get a wretched sunburn, but heatstroke --- the nausea and barfing --- is just as lousy. After awhile, I rose, poked about exploring the grove, noting its ample community of silica-rich rushes (a cousin of horsetail), making the most of my topless time, and then padded back along the bright beach to camp, splashing in between the sandbars.

First thing was to dose up on a drink of water, and rest a moment in the shade. I also took down my tent, and consolidated. But before we left, I wanted to get in a little swimming. The water was pleasantly cool.

As I dipped and kicked, I saw a honeybee floating on her back in the river, kicking frantically but unable to escape the surface tension of the water. Knowing she wouldn't sting, I lifted her out on the back of my hand, then walked back to shore. It's, what, a few minutes of my time? I had seen --- and smelled, when we stepped on it --- wild mint blooming purple, everywhere along the beach near our tents. I placed the bee on one of the blossom spires, thinking, "I'm not sure this is your favorite flower, but I know a lot of bees like mint, and it's better than being back there! Rest awhile, and maybe you'll find some fuel for the return trip." Best I could do. I watched as, sitting on the purple mint flower, the bee used her forelegs to repeatedly comb her long strawlike red tongue. Had she been human, she might have sounded like, "Pthah! Euapth! Kack! Nearly drowned there, ugh."
Saving small beneficial creatures is, I think, one of those things a good witch does. We see the bigger picture, even as we see each tiny but still crucial role in it. With a bee colony housing 10K - 50K worker bees, and 1000 - 2000 more born daily, an individual bee's life is basically disposable in service to the greater colony. Able to live several months in theory, they only live about six weeks average, literally working themselves into the ground. All that a bee has is a tiny robotic brain, yet it was still beautiful to watch her crawl and then groom her face, this little life who still knew what was good for her and how to take care of her body . . . and I thought, well it made a moment's difference to that one!
Good luck honey, and thanks for keeping the Great Hum going. ♡

Afterward, I swam a bit more, washing off the persistent mica-rich sand, then rested by the fire with more wine. Finally I decided to try the archery while I had time: I got one an inch from the center, and I called it good when all three shots from one round hit the target.

Pretty soon, all too soon, it was time for Martin to ferry Justine and me back to the Chinook Landing. A magnificent purplish dusk was coming on. With the remnants of a slight buzz, I reveled in the boat ride back, skin aching with a budding tan and skin feeling freshly clean from swimming, and enjoyed feeling a goodly more affluent than I am: Until I go on tour or get a yacht, this will have to do! We sped by the pilings under the gold and pink sky, and silhouettes of the nests of eagles and ospreys built on top of the channel markers.

Fire in tha hole!

I'll be moving into Justine's home come late September, or such is the plan. Another move. But I look forward to it, us both being creative. Despite the fact that I keep having to roll around, this ol' rock is proving to have a damn solid constitution throughout it all . . . and a good thing, too, moving being so disruptive! All I can do is trust in the Divine and the higher plan of my subconscious --- that with each move, I am learning everything I need to learn. This past year has been all about getting my magic back in gear, and not merely that, but my fire hotter than it's ever been!

What will the next phase bring?