Booty Beach

Thirty minutes east of Portland, there’s a spot called Booty Beach. (Not to be confused with Poon Lagoon, along the Willamette.) Can’t tell you where, even if I could remember, because it’s our secret paradise. Sierra, Teresa and I made our way blindly, led by Elissa, who seemed to hone in on the place via sixth sense. We tried every road in the Bull Run area until one struck her as most familiar.

We parked where an ambiguous dirt path led into the woods. Sandy River was down there, although you wouldn’t know it from where we stood. It was quiet, not even the faintest sound of running water, nothing except bugs, birds and the funky dance tunes bumping out of Elissa’s music box.

She warned, it’s a thirty minute hike. We’d already ruled out bringing any guys to haul our stuff. Took turns, one schlepping the music box, while two more toddled along with the enormous ice chest. Pain in the ass but we kept cheering each other on, reminding ourselves that once we got to the beach, we’d eat like queens. (Thus making the ice chest much lighter for the trip back up.) Four women on a mission to beat the heat, clamored our way down the rocky path. After two pee stops and several breaks to switch places, the hike was closer to an hour. But then we had a picnic on the beach, a couple joints and a half-gallon of vodka to cheer us up! Best was floating in the cool river on my back, staring at the clouds, blissed-out and free. This is what life’s all about. Wanted to savor that moment forever.

Once the sun sank behind the wall of trees, Teresa threw the giant ice chest on top of her head and said she’d meet us at the car. Even though we were marching to some fast beats, the rest of us never caught up with her. When we reached the car, she was in the driver seat, looking refreshed. Time to crash the concert at Edgefield…

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