Mia and James didn't want a wedding. They wanted an adventure. So on a warm September evening, they drove up to Crested Butte, hiked to a meadow they'd found on a backpacking trip two years earlier, and promised each other forever surrounded by nothing but wildflowers and the last light of the day.
There were no guests, no officiant, no plan beyond 'let's go up there and say what we mean.' They read letters they'd written to each other — not vows, they said, because vows felt too formal for two people standing in hiking boots. Mia laughed through most of hers. James couldn't get through his without stopping to breathe.
After, we chased the light across the ridge. The alpenglow turned everything gold and pink, and these two just existed in it — no direction from me, no poses. They danced without music in a field of lupine and Indian paintbrush while the sun dipped behind the Elk Mountains.
