Bio: Emily Moon

For 20 years I lived in the small town of Estacada in the Cascades foothills. I worked as a field service engineer. My territory was central and western Washington and Oregon. 

Estacada is an old logging community that embraced art. If you drive through the town, you will see shop walls covered in murals painted by a friendship of artists from the town and surrounding hills. Each year, they paint a scene that may by whimsical or historical. All are expressions of the soul of that wonderfully quirky town.

My travels took me to every city and town with an airport from Crescent City to Bellingham, from Klamath Falls to Wenatchee and many places in between. It was one of the great fortunes of my life to drive the backroads through forest and high desert, over mountain passes, along the Columbia Gorge, down highway on the sea side to Coos Bay. Those travels allowed me plenty of time to think and write.

I lived in an old house built by hippies in the 70s. It held all the beauty and problems you might anticipate from such builders. It sits on five wooded acres that slope down to Wade Creek, a small stream that's home to tiny fish. On the wooded slope above the creek was an old outbuilding in disrepair. It was either tear it down or fix it up. 

One of my favorite drives was to follow US 26 east through the rainy western woodlands, over the south flank of Mount Hood with its mantle of mixed fir and pine. Hood always had snow on its shoulders even at the height of summer. From there, with the Cascades on the west, it drops into airy Ponderosa pine forest, levels through high desert juniper and sage scrub, then dips into the canyon that holds Warm Springs in its arms.

I fashioned the derelict building into a charming cabin, with all the beauties and problems you might expect from an old hippie. I installed two huge windows on the south-western and west-northern faces of the building to afford a wide view of the woods. I built a covered deck that met the hill that sloped to the front door. I put another door on the back side of the building facing downhill to the creek. I meant to put a deck outside the backdoor but never got around to it. 

From Warm Springs, the highway crosses over the Deschutes River and rises to the drier and dustier town of Madras. And from there, it passes irrigated fields of crops that change from year to year. What I love about that drive is the journey through several climate zones in just a couple of hours. 

I intermittently experimented with gender starting in elementary school, always in private. The cabin I fashioned became my womb. It allowed privacy for me explore my gender identity over a period of 7 or 8 years. Toward the end of that period, I did a series of internet searches to try and figure out what was going on with me. Cross dressing? No, that wasn't it. Drag? Nope, not that either. Gender fluid? Well, not exactly. Transgender? Yes, transgender. I was 61 at the time and wanted to begin my transition as soon as possible. It's about 8 years later. I've taken the steps you might expect and am pleased with the results. Although I feel I'll always be in some state of transition, I'm so happy to be me.