Up on the Mountain Top

—by Mary Ellen Holmes, Fort Collins, Colo.

This gig started like any other, with a call from a nice young man. “Our harpist canceled at the last moment. Could you play with the violinist I’ve hired? My Norwegian bride wants a harp!” I agreed.

I live in Colorado, so mountain venues are not an unusual wedding request, particularly in the summer when the wildflowers abound and the mountains are verdant with foliage. This wedding, however, was not only in the mountains, but also near a mountain top.

I arrived at the lodge, a log cabin structure on a mountainside scrubbed of vegetation by a recent flood and landslide. It was in shambles. The only road there was unpaved and deeply rutted from the rains and traffic. I pulled up next to an open, horse-drawn wagon. “Where’s the wedding?” I asked. “Oh, it’s up the hill. That’s what we’re here for, to take the guests up there!”

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It started to drizzle. The manager asked if a Norwegian guest transporting a basket of flowers could ride up with me. The rain started coming down. By the time the guest got into my car, the horse cart had started up the hill with the first load of guests—and their umbrellas—so it looked like brown clamshells lurching side to side up the rutted, muddy road. I had no choice but to follow behind at five miles per hour.

The rain fell. The umbrellas in the wagon hunkered down more. Fifteen minutes later we reached the wedding site: 10 short rows of sawed logs, a log triangle for the front and a small tent cover for the violinist and me. After the horse cart unloaded the guests onto the muddy hillside, it pulled away, I backed in, and the guests huddled under our tent. My Norwegian guest elected to sit in the car while I got out my umbrella and trudged up the muddy hill with my music and equipment. By this time it was pouring rain again. When the rain stopped after ten minutes, I brought up my harp. Dirt rimmed my flowing skirt, and my shoes were clotted with mud. The next cart of guests arrived, so I had to move my car again onto a mud hill outside the small turnaround; by then my start time was minutes away and the violinist was still nowhere to be seen.

It started hailing. Fifteen guests and I huddled under the l0-by-l0-foot tent. I started playing. The harp was monstrously out of tune.

The third cart-load of guests arrived, along with the violinist (whom I’d not met before). She came up the mud hill clutching her violin case under someone’s umbrella, and we shared a can-you-believe-this? look. Both she and I and most of the guests wore sleeveless tops. It was hailing at an elevation of about 10,000 feet. We shivered. The violinist played beautiful melodies to my out-of-tune accompaniments. I don’t know how she did it, since we were both freezing.

The hotel management arrived and dispensed towels to everyone. We grabbed a couple and draped them over our shoulders. I had my harp cover over my legs. It stopped hailing, and the fourth and final horse cart made it to the top.

The guests migrated out of our tent to the front to await the bride. Her chiffon dress and its clouds of ruffles dragged in the mud, but she trotted down to the front to our Canon in D.

The minister gave a little homily. The ceremony proceeded. It started raining again, lightly. The minister talked about happiness and tolerance “through rain and shine.” Laughter and shivers. The umbrellas came out. A guest rushed up to us and asked to borrow my umbrella; the bride’s mother was sitting, unsheltered in the rain. Someone stepped to the front and put umbrellas over the bride and groom. The minister gave another speech. We had prepared a Norwegian folk song for the bride’s brother to sing, “I can’t play it!” the violinist said, “My fingers are too cold.” Mine weren’t much better, but the real emergency was the drizzle turning into rain. The minister droned on. By now the ceremony had gone for 20 minutes, and the guests were getting drenched. Why they sat there, I don’t know—perhaps it was like Norway? We sat under our tent, dry but shivering.

At last the ceremony drew to a close. I suggested that the violinist put away her violin and I’d play the recessional. Except, the minister, the bride, and the groom came up to the back under the tent where they were to sign the marriage certificate, and the minister started chatting. The guests remained in the front in the rain. I kept playing until the violinist said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re done!” As I repositioned my harp to cover it, the bridal party kept talking; the guests kept sitting. Finally the horse cart driver arrived and began shepherding the first group into the cart. The violinist and I scuttled to the car. We finally got to the bottom—the bottom of a very bad day. Oh, and the groom didn’t even tip us. •