Getting Hitched at Cold Camp Caldera

When Sooz and Sean began planning a camping wedding where our friends would cook for 100 guests, I was skeptical. 

I understand why the couple assumed our crew could handle the task. We regularly feed our Oregon group of 15 to 25 for one-off trips and annual traditions: we rent a house in Sun River every winter for Meg’s birthday; we float the Umpqua River and play disc golf at Whistler’s Bend every Memorial Day; and I host ROMA FEST, a midsummer celebration at Casa Roma Simone on the coast. 

All of these get-togethers take planning, coordination, and generosity with time and resources. Housing and feeding so many families takes immense effort. But with all our experiences over the years as a community—adults, small children, and about a dozen dogs—I’ve learned we have the skills of an elite wedding ambiance and catering team. 

In our ranks, we’ve got medical professionals, electricians, and various caretakers. Many are homeowners who have taken on ambitious renovation projects. We also have a disproportionate share of artistic hobbyists and talented chefs. Perhaps most importantly, the majority of us are hard workers, so communal labor—whether it’s setting up a camp living room, cooking, chopping wood, or taking care of children—happens organically and usually with joy. 

So again: it made perfect sense why Sooz and Sean thought our group could take care of all of their wedding guests at Paulina Lake. But our day-of responsibilities were only one part of the plan.

It started with the dress. Sooz decided to get a custom-made rainbow gown, which required our group to hand-dye, wash, dry, and iron 16 yards of fabric. Last March, a few of our friends gathered at the Frank family house for a weekend to lay the groundwork for her bespoke dress. 

I confess that I was as enthusiastic about a fabric-dyeing party as I am about a two-year-old’s birthday celebration: my main question was, will there be booze there? I was in Bacalar, Mexico at the time, but the generous crew who attended had fun by all accounts. 

Next was the decor: Sooz shared that she wanted handmade rainbow garlands to decorate the “chapel.” I offered to throw a crafting bachelorette party at Casa Roma Simone. So one weekend in June, I hosted SOOZAPALOOZA, where six of us spent many hours cutting and tying colorful strips of fabric onto 14 lengths of rope. With stiff backs and sore fingers, we smoked joints, ate incredible meals, and scouted the tide pools for dick-shaped driftwood and rocks. Even with all of the manual labor, it was a blast.

Meg even offered to hand-make a gorgeous rainbow piñata resembling a cake, filled with candy, glow sticks, beaded bracelets, stickers, and joints (for the adults).

A few weeks later for Fourth of July weekend, I hosted ROMA FEST. Luckily, Matt and Kyle decided to roast a pig as a trial run for the wedding feast. They used a charcoal oven box that took all day while we played lawn games and enjoyed the sunshine. It turned out perfectly.

As Labor Day weekend inched closer, we felt prepared. We’d already had so much communal participation with the dress, decor, and menu planning. 

One ongoing concern for the outdoor wedding was the possibility of smoke. People west of the Cascade Range (Portland, Salem, Eugene) had been luckier than folks to the east (Bend, Sisters, Redmond) where the venue was located—but every week seemed to bring red flag conditions across the state. By mid-August, it already was the worst wildfire year on record for Oregon, with 2.3 million acres lost. The couple had a backup venue in Eugene’s lush outskirts, but even that was looking iffy. 

Suddenly, we were faced with a very different problem: an unseasonable cold spell blew into the Cascades. At Paulina Lake for Labor Day weekend, temperatures were expected to fall 20 degrees below historic averages, bringing freezing rain and snow. How would we manage camping and cooking for 100 people in wet 33- to 47-degree temperatures, especially with a burn restriction in effect? 

The last time I’d camped in the snow, I was backpacking in Washington’s Enchantments, and Sooz suffered a near-panic attack over being too cold. (Fortunately, I’d brought an extra puffy jacket—a memory I recalled when I later walked her down the aisle, my free arm brandishing the bride’s coat and a rainbow umbrella.)

Of course, car camping is not the same as backpacking. We could absolutely haul in and create a magical lakeside retreat from the elements. Our group brought several tanks of propane with heating attachments, pop-up shelters, and plenty of bistro lights with power sources. The couple tucked in early that first night, and we rehearsed the secret song we’d perform during the ceremony. The weather wouldn’t stop us.

The next morning, we hung the rainbow garlands, wind chimes, and 100 prisms in the canopy of the lakeside pine trees. Another part of our crew was already busy setting up for the wedding feast. I spirited the bride away to the nearby lodge so she could do her hair and signature face paint—a skill she’s perfected over her years as the Oregon Country Fair’s iconic Chromatic Cat. 

A few hours later, we drove back to camp and hoped that all of the pieces had fallen into place for the ceremony. Everything proceeded according to plan. My husband Jon officiated in a bright green robe he quipped looked like it’d “been stolen from a small-town preacher.” After his story about the couple’s harrowing hike along Eula Ridge, Jeff and Ana (our musically talented friends) unleashed the surprise song, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” with near-full participation from the crowd! We all warmed ourselves by the glow of our collective spirits and moved into our camp for the reception.

We served smoked pork and braised jackfruit for tacos with an array of salsas, a deconstructed elote, a grilled peach salad, and kegs of cocktails and beer—all prepared by our crew. About 10 minutes after the speeches concluded, freezing rain poured down. Our timing could not have been better. The sweet mother of the groom (a preacher’s wife) pulled me aside and said that she’d never experienced such a strong, unique sense of community. That’s a high compliment from a church-going woman.  

And even as temperatures dipped into the 30s and wet snow piled high on our pop-up shelters, three of which were busted by Sunday morning, we stayed up late and enjoyed one another’s company by the fire. (The rangers smartly had lifted the burn restriction.) 

By the time I woke up, nearly all of the amenities and decorations were broken down and packed up, mostly by our same folks who made the garlands and cooked the food. 

At times, I felt overwhelmed by the planning and energy that went into this event, but like the “Ikea effect”—i.e., that we take unique pleasure in something we helped build—this wedding ultimately filled me with communal pride. We pulled off what hired teams of florists, decorators, bartenders, and caterers typically handle. It’s one thing to arrive somewhere, consume what’s laid out before you, and leave. It’s quite another to jointly create an experience for others with your friends, all while braving freezing rain and snow.

And the delight of remembering this time working together is sweeter than my many experiences as a pampered wedding guest. We built a cozy, vibrant venue and fed dozens of folks we were meeting for the first time.

Before that weekend, I knew I was lucky to be part of my friend crew, but Sooz and Sean’s wedding was a monumental accomplishment. It reminds me of what folks in olden days did for their kin, decades before American weddings became such expensive and commodified affairs. We strengthened our camaraderie rather than indulging in an easy, purely consumptive experience. 

You might even assume that after such a challenging (and memorable) wedding, we might need a breather from one another. But no: last weekend, we threw a surprise birthday party for Matt—one of the pig-roasting chefs. And as usual, nearly everyone responded, offering to bring something to the Franks’ house for yet another celebration, yet another evening spent with our chosen family. We made a tunnel with our arms for Matt, Emma, and their daughter Kal to walk through when they arrived.

I don’t know what the future holds for me and this group—it’s often tough to keep such a large crew intact for more than a few years. But I do know that I feel a stronger bond to all of them than ever before. Since a wedding is a celebration of kinship and love, what could be more meaningful than that?