The Full-Moon Girls’ Getaway

I recently heard a comedian ask why women need so many girls’ weekends and getaways. “What are you getting away from?” he asked. “What is so terrible that you have to leave all the time?” Honestly, it’s a fair question.

We are not escaping terrible lives. The real reason women love a girls’ getaway is that spending time with your friends gives you permission to be completely silly. Yes, you may travel somewhere interesting. You may eat good food and participate in wholesome outdoor activities. But the true purpose is to laugh until your stomach hurts over something that would not be remotely funny if you tried to explain it later.

My latest getaway was with my yoga girlfriends—the Omies—to West Jefferson, North Carolina. We stayed at the River House Inn, a bed-and-breakfast along the New River that my friend Tammy has been visiting for years. She told us it was magical, and she was right.

We arrived during a full moon weekend, which led to some debate about whether a full moon guarantees good weather. I had never heard this particular meteorological theory, but I am always willing to embrace science when it supports my vacation plans.

Based on this one weekend and absolutely no additional research, I can confirm that full moons guarantee perfect weather. We could not have asked for a more beautiful weekend at the end of August.

We spent Friday exploring West Jefferson, a quaint North Carolina mountain town with everything you hope to find in a quaint North Carolina mountain town. There is a dairy that makes cheese right in town, complete with storage tanks painted to look like cows. There are outfitters filled with delightful people willing to help you try on clothes. Best of all, it was the end of summer, which meant everything was 40 percent off—a discount large enough to turn browsing into a financial responsibility.

There are also a couple of breweries and a trolley that takes visitors out to Old Barn Winery. The winery was created by a local Christmas tree farmer who apparently decided that growing Christmas trees was not quite charming enough, so he added wine, live music, a beautiful venue and a butterfly garden. Some people simply refuse to be out-charmed.

Our trolley driver, John, told us all about the area, took our picture and seemed genuinely happy to have us along for the ride. In fact, nearly everyone we encountered was friendly, talkative and personally invested in our having a good time. It was as if the entire town had been warned that seven middle-aged women were coming and instructed to keep us entertained.

One of the stores had barrels of candy where you could fill a basket with all your favorites. Tali got us started, and soon we were digging through the barrels in search of candy from our childhoods. We found gummy bears and gummy butterflies, which I insisted we buy in honor of Dolly Parton. I cannot explain exactly why gummy butterflies honor Dolly, but in the moment, it felt both obvious and important.

Before long, we were back on the trolley, passing bags of candy around like schoolchildren whose parents had made the mistake of leaving them unsupervised. The biggest laugh came when B bit into a piece of chocolate that everyone else loved—and discovered, quite dramatically, that she did not. 

Again, not especially funny when written down. Absolutely hilarious on a trolley filled with women and gummy butterflies.

We stayed at the River House Inn, a beautiful and wonderfully quirky property made up of old country buildings scattered along the river. Each room and building has its own personality. These are historic buildings in the humid South, so I am not going to lie: there was a hint of mustiness in the air.

But it was a comforting sort of mustiness. The whole place felt warm and welcoming—like a hug from an elderly relative who owns a lot of antiques.

Barb and I shared the Carriage House, which was perfect for us. It had an entire wall of bookshelves filled with books on nearly every subject imaginable. Naturally, we admired them and then spent most of our time talking instead of reading any of them.

On Saturday, we headed to the New River for our main outdoor adventure. We rented kayaks, and the outfitter drove us about eight miles upriver so we could float back to where we started.

Tammy explained that this section of the New River flows north, which meant we were technically going “up” the river while traveling downstream. I nodded as if I completely understood this. I did not. I decided it was best to trust Tammy and gravity.

The water was a little low, so we had to keep an eye out for the larger rocks hiding just below the surface. Occasionally, one of us would glide directly onto a boulder and come to a complete stop. We would then rock back and forth in the kayak, trying to free ourselves while pretending this was an intentional abdominal exercise.

Nothing makes you feel more outdoorsy than being stranded on a rock in ten inches of water.

The eight-mile trip took us about four hours, and it was absolutely beautiful. We floated under blue skies, laughed at one another’s questionable steering and occasionally worked our core muscles against our will.

The other bit of River House magic is the food.

Food is my love language, and after one dinner, the River House and I were in a fully committed relationship.

Before dinner, you can order a cocktail from the bar and sit on the front porch until it is time to go inside. Niki ordered a dirty martini, which naturally made the rest of us decide that we, too, were sophisticated women who regularly drank martinis on the porches of country inns. Soon, we were all ordering them and feeling extremely fancy.

We then sat down to one of the best meals of the weekend—but not before nature decided I was getting a little too comfortable. While we were on the porch, something bit me directly in the middle of my forehead. This has been happening to me a lot lately, so apparently my forehead has received excellent reviews in the insect community.

Once we sat down, I could feel the bite getting bigger.
“I think this bug bite is swelling,” I said.
B looked at me reassuringly. “Oh no, it’s okay.”
Then Amy, sitting across the table with a much better view, studied my forehead and said, “Oh no. It’s huge.”

Nothing builds confidence quite like receiving two completely different medical opinions from the same dinner table. Within seconds, the entire group sprang into action. Tammy went searching for anti-itch cream. Barb offered lavender oil. Everyone else tried very hard not to laugh whenever they looked at me. They were not successful.

So there I sat, sipping a dirty martini and eating an incredible meal with a golf-ball-sized lump growing out of the center of my forehead. I had wanted to feel sophisticated that evening. Instead, I looked like I was slowly turning into a unicorn.

Fortunately, dirty martinis, good food and friends can make almost anything feel magical—even becoming a mythical creature before dessert.

That is the magic of a girls’ weekend. You can visit a charming mountain town, ride a trolley, drink wine, buy candy, stay beside a river and kayak for miles. But what you remember most is the laughter—the kind that comes from being with people who make even getting stuck on a rock feel like part of the fun.

So, what are women always getting away from? Nothing terrible. We just know that sometimes the best version of ourselves is the one riding a trolley, eating gummy butterflies and laughing so hard that no one can remember what was funny in the first place.