Emily T. Troscianko

On 7 October 2023, James and I turned a hike into a wedding, or made a wedding into a hike.

Five months earlier, I had tried to propose to him on the same mountain and failed. 

It was a warm May weekend down in Los Angeles, but up at Crystal Lake the snow was still deep enough to make even finding the start of the trail tricky.

Still, picturesque things were happening with the snow.

And for a while, things were looking good, with clouds clearing and Windy Gap in sight.

But soon the cloud descended again and the snow deepened.

We persevered until 1) we met a far better equipped man coming down saying he’d had to turn back and 2) it looked like even if we got to the pass, or indeed the summit, we wouldn’t be able to see anything for cloud.

Here’s the turning-back spot:

The number of graceful moments on the way back down suggested we’d made the right call!

We stopped for some crisps and a drink halfway down. James had no idea I was plotting anything, so he kept putting in boring votes for just wandering round to the lake (now with actual water in it for once) lower down.

But I very much wanted a summit for my ulterior motive, so I suggested Smith Mountain. You can read what happened next on the Smith post update (to follow!).

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So, fastforward 5 months, and we were successfully engaged and ready for take two: getting hitched.

This time we were worried about heat (especially for my intrepid 72-year-old mother Sue) not snow. That encouraged us to get everyone eating scrambled eggs by a respectable time in the morning despite our indulgent rehearsal dinner the night before.

Sue put the finishing touches to our wedding boots, and we set off for the 210 and Crystal Lake. (We again ruled out starting from Islip Saddle because the 2 was still closed at Red Box, which would’ve made for a very long drive.)

We left the campground soon after 10, Sue and I going on ahead so we could set a nice gentle pace, enjoying some wildflower IDing along the path.

After the others caught us up, all nine of us walked together: James and me, Sue, my brother Jolyon, and our friends Simon, Sybilla, Nik, Matthias, and Franca. I’d never been in a big group on these mountains before. It felt jolly. And also a little solemn.

We had a pit stop under some pines a little over halfway to Windy Gap.

As we climbed, the great blue views opened up. What a perfect day for this.

I love how the pretty trees give way to wild scree.

At our second stop, I attempted to offload trail mix onto James. (Why does anyone think it’s their best option for hiking food?)

We made it to Windy Gap and did some more view-savouring.

Small boys in blue outfits with walkie-talkies and the occasional grown-up became more prevalent. We hoped they weren’t heading for Islip too!

We regrouped again a little above the saddle, with the summit now nicely in view.

Striking off west, it felt lovely to have LA views to our left rather than behind us.

Sybilla and I hung back for a discreet piss break.

The trail has a more secluded feel to it now, with lovely lookouts over Crystal Lake—which still had water in it!

Rather late in the day, I took a turn at camera-carrying.

Very near the top, the views open out onto the western half of the Angeles National Forest. I realized at some point that I didn’t quite believe that we were here, about to do this—already doing it.

As we approached the top, a large group passed us coming down, and the blue boys were nowhere to be seen. Both facts seemed promising!

Even nearer the top, Sue suddenly felt jelly in her legs and needed to sit down for a short while. This gave another group time to come past. It must have been heaving up there!

James was carrying my wedding dress in a plastic bag tied onto his rucksack. We didn’t walk together much, but a few times we found each other for some quiet practice of the only section of the vows that we would have to say from memory.

James and I went ahead for the last stretch, and it felt magic to come round the bend and see the little ruined house that we’d loved so much to drink Coke in on previous visits. The last time I was there was 18 months earlier, on my own during the time when James and I were separated and I spent 6 emotion-laden weeks in LA.

That time there was a lot more marine layer about.

And I took a slightly mournful selfie and didn’t send it to him.

And now here we were, on the verge of marrying each other.

Sue was the next to come round the corner and join us there.

And then she was the first to celebrate making it to the real summit—and the foundations of the old fire lookout that would soon become our altar.

Sue and Sybilla (and briefly Franca) and I then claimed the hut as our changing room. A friend remarked later, looking at the pictures, on what a sharp contrast there was between what we did and the ways in which a more traditional wedding progressively immobilizes the bride. We did find ourselves naturally splitting up into boys and girls, but getting changed from hiking dress into wedding dress and sorting out my fascinator (and Sue’s) took me about ten minutes.

This was as feminine-cliché as it got.

Sybilla’s dress was the free gift that came with the second iteration of the dress I ordered, hoping that second time round they would send the colour I’d asked for. (They didn’t, but it was a bloody good free gift.)

The men had their own versions of getting ready, without changing room.

They got the ceremonial space and the altar decorated… (Read Modern Hiker for a tiny bit of history of the ruins.)

…while we did the house.

When everything was done, I suddenly got extremely nervous. I had to do some breathing, looking out through the hut’s little window onto the desert, to slow things down. I was grateful to have had the whole walk up the mountain to have made the reality more real—but somehow reality seemed to need even more time to catch up with me, or I with it.

We hadn’t planned anything specific for the walk from the hut to the summit, but it turned out to be the perfect distance for a bridal procession. Our officiant Simon rang the little brass bell that I’ve used for so many writing events over the years, marking the boundary between not-writing and writing, now between not-ceremony and ceremony. Sybilla held my skirts, and now it was really beginning.

First Simon welcomed us all. Then Sybilla led us in some movement that some of the men later said they could have done with a few minutes less of but that was absolutely what I needed for losing the rest of my nerves. We have no pictures of this part!

Then Simon told the story of how we ended up here.

Then we did the mixing of the earths: everyone brought a little earth from the place they were coming from, and poured it into a decanter (fortuitously found at Target two days before) saying a few words about what it was. I brought some soil from under my tamarisk tree in the marina in Oxford where my boat lives.

I also brought some of my father Tom’s ashes—the latest in many adventures that his ample amount of burnt-up body has been on so far.

Then we listened to some readings from those who couldn’t be there, including James’s parents Michael and Joyce, read by Sue and Joly.

Then we had the warming of the rings: passing both rings around the circle, ending with Sue and Jolyon telling us where they came from—from my father, given to my stepfather on that wedding day, and from my grandmother, given to her by her mother—and handing them to James and me, still holding the warmth of everyone’s hands, and the sun.

Then we slightly messed up the part where we had to take hold of each other’s hands while still holding the rings, but it felt lovely once we got there!

And then we had a reading from my stepfather Adam: an adaption of a blessing by Daniel Harris.

These are the hands of your partner, strong and full of love, holding your hands as you promise to love each other today, tomorrow, and forever. These are the hands that will work alongside yours as together you build your future. These are the hands that will hold you and comfort you in grief and uncertainty. These are the hands that will give you strength. And these are the hands that, even when wrinkled and aged, will still be reaching for yours, still giving you the same unspoken tenderness with just a touch.

And I think I cried.

And then we had the vows.

And then we had the exchanging of the rings.

And then we had the kissing.

And then we had the swigging from the hip flask (Lagavulin)—a tradition of many of our hikes around here, whatever the heat.

(including Franca’s first ever taste of single malt; she doesn’t drink, and I was touched that she made an exception for this)

And then Simon frantically rang the bell again to mark the boundary between ceremony and not-ceremony.

And then we had the opening of the champagne (my favourite: The Wine Society’s, aged in oak casks) and the toasting with it.

And then we had our bagel lunch. 

And then we did some photos.

And then photographer Sybilla got confused by her equipment.

And then my brother did some fly-bys with his drone. (This peak is just outside the wilderness area where they’re not permitted.)

Then it was time to pack up all the ceremonial props and drink in the surroundings one last time: the city of Los Angeles to the south with the Pacific beyond, yellow flowers I should know the name of everywhere, and lizards here and there.

And then it was time to begin the descent.

We all wore our wedding clothes, and we sang some marching songs as the light grew golden.

The mother of the bride got tired but made it back in one piece.

We got back to the car before six, sunsoaked and sweaty and happy.

And then back to our glamorously eccentric Glendale Airbnb, for hot tub negronis and barbecued meats and red velvet cake—and a relatively early night.

What a feeling and a view to wake up to the morning after.

And here are some of our mementoes of the expedition.

What an adventure. Six months later, it still feels both unreal and the solidest kind of reality imaginable. Thank you to all our companions, and especially our officiant Simon, for making this part of the journey what it was.