The mountain doesn’t care who you are, not really. You come up the winding road from Tannersville, past the diners with faded awnings, past the antique shops with creaky front steps and cats in the window,

past the blinking light at Main and Railroad where the only traffic is memory and fog. And you climb—up, up, switchback and pine-scent, breath thinning with altitude and awe—until you reach Hunter Mountain, its shoulder broad and patient, and the sky hangs low like it wants to listen. That’s where it happened, that’s where I became a husband—twice.

Alive on the Mountain: A Groom’s Heartbeat in Tannersville, NY

The first time, I was young. Not just in years, but in marrow, in dream. The Catskills had always been a postcard to me, something from my parents’ stories—Jewish resorts, summer camps, ghost towns with wooden porches and raccoons in the rafters. But that day, it was alive. September light slicing through maple leaves, the wind a restless guest playing the trees like chimes, and I stood there in a borrowed suit, tie crooked, palms sweating, heart like a snare drum in a jazz club basement.

She came toward me down the aisle—no, not an aisle, more like a trail carved into the mountain clearing, lined with folding chairs and field flowers, friends fanning themselves in the high sun, everyone a little too warm but glowing anyway. The officiant’s voice wavered in the wind, the mic crackling like a campfire, and I heard only her voice, saying words I barely understood but knew I’d remember forever.

We kissed, and the mountain roared. Or maybe it was just the applause, or the blood in my ears. We danced on the lodge deck to fiddles and banjos, drank craft beer from mason jars, signed the marriage license with a borrowed pen. Someone lit sparklers. Someone cried. Someone said, “This is it, you guys. This is forever.”

And I believed them.

Between the Mountains: Time, Divorce, and the Valley

But mountains aren’t meant to be lived on. You come down, eventually. You return to the valley, to the daily weather—bills, work, dishes, arguments over the thermostat. And sometimes, you don’t make it. Sometimes, the map you drew on the mountain doesn’t match the roads below.

The divorce was quiet. Not tragic, not cinematic. Just the slow undoing of something that had once felt eternal. We signed papers. We divided books and coffee mugs. We hugged in the driveway. I watched her taillights disappear down the road and felt the world shift under my feet.

I didn’t go back to the mountain for years. I couldn’t. It was too much like looking at an old photo of yourself—someone you recognize but don’t quite know anymore.

The Second Time: A Steady Flame

Then, one autumn, I met someone new. Not fireworks this time. More like a candle flame catching on a windowsill, steady and surprising. She had laugh lines, not just dimples. She asked about my past, really listened, didn’t flinch.

When we talked about marriage, I said, “Not on the mountain.” Too many ghosts.

But she smiled, and said, “Maybe that’s exactly where we should go.”

So we did.

This time, I wore my own suit. I tied my tie with hands that didn’t shake. We hiked to the overlook the day before, just the two of us, and I told her about the first wedding. She held my hand and said, “This will be different.”

It was.

The sky was softer, the wind less wild. We spoke our vows in voices that had weathered storms. Friends cried, but in a way that felt more like release than ache.

We danced under string lights again, but slower. The band played jazz this time, saxophone curling through the pines. We drank wine from real glasses. We lit a fire and told stories until the stars came out.

And I thought: this is what it means to marry on a mountain. Not just to climb once, breathless and wild, but to return, knowing the terrain, choosing it again, with your eyes open and your heart steady.