Married and Moving Again
- Erin Quinn
- Apr 21
- 7 min read
The 2015 fire season was still going but I packed up our lives to move to Rhode Island. We were headed east to get married.
Through the grace of good friends, we secured a six-month rental ahead of time, which felt like a gift from the universe. There’s something grounding about having a place to land when everything around you feels constantly in motion. I drove our car while towing a U-Haul packed with the essentials across the country with my best friend Kat. We pulled into the driveway on a Friday. My bachelorette party immediately followed on Saturday. The wedding was the following weekend. That meant I had eight frantic days to finalize plans, visit the town hall for our marriage certificate, and wait for Josh to arrive.
He’d stayed back on assignment, working a fire of course, up until the last minute. Just seven days before we were set to tie the knot his boots finally hit pavement as he embarked on another solo cross-country drive that would’ve made most people crumble. He made it just three days before the wedding. THREE. Somehow, in that whirlwind, he managed to fit in a bachelor party and get himself presentable for the big day. When we finally held that marriage certificate in our hands we couldn't help but laugh. We had pulled it off, everything was ready to go. “Let’s do this thing!". And we did.
Planning a wedding when your life is constantly on the move meant every detail held a deeper meaning. We were married in the ivy-covered ruins of an old stable at a local museum, stone walls crumbling in the most romantic way, surrounded by the burnt oranges and golden reds of early fall. It reminded me of Ireland.
There had been talk of a tropical storm arriving that day, but we lucked out as the rains had swept through the evening prior. On our day the sun shined brightly warming the air to a beautiful 70 degrees. It was perfect.
I wore a lace-detailed gown with a long, scalloped train that reminded me of a peacock feather. Beneath it, a petticoat dyed in blues and purples, and on my feet, matching custom low-top Converse, naturally. My bouquet was adorned with hydrangeas, my favorite. The bridesmaids wore dresses in different shades of purples and blues, while my sister, as maid of honor, stood tall in deep emerald green.
Josh and his groomsmen looked sharp in gray suits, each tie coordinated with a bridesmaid’s color and a small peacock feather was pinned to Josh's lapel. My dog Ranger, accompanied the ladies side while Josh's dog, Toby the golden retriever, took the role of ring-bearer with the men.
We took our formal photos in front of the 'Aberdeen', an antique firehose that Josh’s dad, retired fire chief and proud father, had arranged to be delivered to the site. It was a sweet, unexpected reminder of our roots. Once a fire family, always a fire family.
Bringing a touch of the woodland, wildfire-y west to the reception, Josh had hollowed out aspen logs for candles. The seating cards were also neatly tucked into an aspen log that had grooves cut along it. Two bottles of wine per table were labeled with "Erin & Josh" stickers and our cake was decorated with mountains and pine trees. Our dear friend Christi baked over 200 cupcakes for the occasion. All gluten free!
And then there was the garter moment. True to his sense of humor, Josh pulled off a full-blown Mission Impossible themed performance. He donned a headlamp and belly-crawled across the dance floor to the iconic theme, reaching dramatically beneath my dress to “search” for the garter. He pulled out foot after foot of orange flagging tape and a dog bone. The crowd was howling. Finally, he found the actual garter, triumphantly holding it up like a prize. It was ridiculous and hilarious and so very us.
Getting married in Southern RI, the place where it all began was more than just a location. That day meant everything to us. It was a reminder that no matter how far we go, how many fires Josh would chase or forests we would wander, this place - our friends and families - will always be home.
Photo credits: Desiree Dugan Photography © 2015
Our honeymoon felt like something pulled from a dream. We landed in Athens, Greece, and immersed ourselves in the heartbeat of the city—wandering cobblestone streets that wove through centuries of history. We stood in awe beneath the towering columns of the Parthenon, and explored the Acropolis Museum, where ancient marble sculptures carried the stories of gods and warriors long gone.
Thanks to Josh’s dad, who had firefighting colleagues in Athens, we were welcomed with open arms by a community of Greek firefighters. They treated us not like visitors, but like long-lost family. They guided us beyond the tourist paths through olive groves and mountain towns, to tucked-away tavernas and coffee shops that overlooked the city. One evening, we sat around a spit-roasted lamb at a local restaurant playfully dubbed 'The Hillbillies of Athens'. Josh even worked up the nerve to try the eyeball, a moment that earned him an authentic Greek applause.
Conversations with our new friends often turned to fire. Greece, we learned, shares a deep and complicated relationship with wildfire. The combination of dry summers, mountainous terrain, and forests dense with pine, olive, and cypress trees makes it a tinderbox during fire season. It was fascinating and humbling to hear their stories, their challenges, their courage. They were just as eager to learn from Josh, peppering him with questions about U.S. wildland firefighting techniques, strategies, and gear. It was an incredible exchange of knowledge and camaraderie, a reminder that fire speaks a universal language, and so does brotherhood.
What an honor it was to sit among them—to share meals, stories, and a passion for a job that demands everything. For Josh I think it was in ways even more than a honeymoon, it was a chance to connect with a global fire family, and for both of us, it was a trip we’d carry in our hearts forever.
After soaking in the history of Athens, we boarded a short flight to Santorini and the moment we landed, it felt like we’d stepped into a postcard. The island was a dream painted in brilliant white and deep blue. Stark white stucco buildings clung to the steep mountainside like pearls, their vibrant blue domes glowing against the Aegean sky. The sunsets here weren’t just sunsets, they were events. Every evening, people gathered on terraces and rooftops, glasses of wine in hand, watching the sun dip below the horizon in a wash of gold and rose.
We stayed in a tiny cliffside hotel that required descending 99 winding steps carved into the rock just to reach the front door. Each time we made the climb, we’d pause and catch our breath, marveling at the sparkling sea stretching endlessly below. It was the kind of place that made you slow down, look around, and feel small in the best way.
We rented ATVs to explore the island, the wind in our hair as we zipped down narrow roads between vineyards and stone walls. We spent our days discovering black sand beaches, lounging under straw umbrellas, and feasting on fresh-caught seafood and grilled vegetables drizzled with olive oil. I must have eaten my body weight in tzatziki and thick, tangy Greek yogurt topped with honey and fresh fruit. It was heaven.
One afternoon, we joined a small boat tour that circled the island. We sipped ouzo as the boat bobbed gently over sapphire waves, then leapt into the warm, rust-colored waters of the natural hot springs near the caldera. We hiked the winding trails of the dormant volcano, dusty and surreal, the scent of sulfur still lingering in the air. Later, we rode donkeys back up the hillside, a tradition that was both charming and slightly terrifying as they trotted perilously close to the steep drop-offs with not a single guardrail in sight. I clung to the saddle and laughed nervously, while Josh kept telling his donkey to "take it easy, buddy."
What struck me most, beyond the stunning landscapes, was the warmth of the people. Every shopkeeper, server, and local we met greeted us like old friends. We wandered into little boutiques tucked into alleyways, chatted with artisans, and lingered over long meals on sun-drenched patios. There was a rhythm to life here that invited you to stay a little longer, breathe a little deeper, and slow down to enjoy your time—not just with the place, but with the people who made it feel like home.
We were so enchanted, so completely swept up in the magic of it all, that we purposefully missed our return flight to Athens just to stay one more night. One more sunset. One more breath of sea air. One more memory. We’d go back in a heartbeat.
When we rolled back into Rhode Island, reality set in quickly. Josh transitioned into unpaid off-season work and began studying for his EMT certification. It was strategic, meant to boost his odds of landing a more permanent position with a new fire crew. We had our sights set on two places: Montana or Idaho. But if we were being honest with ourselves, it was Idaho, specifically McCall, that lived in our hearts. A mountain town with a nearby helirappelling crew and the kind of community that called to us.
If you recall from a previous post, Fire Hire and advancement or simply trying to get a new job with the Feds in wildfire is a stressful process. We'd been through this charade before and knew that all we could do was wait after finishing the application process. We were so nervous that he wouldn't get anything, that we would have to return to Colorado, defeated again. Our lives always hanging on a thread, determined by the job. I had just married my soulmate, the love of my life, and he was a wildland firefighter. I had just married the job.
That spring, Josh finally got the call we had been anxiously waiting for. A job offer in Montana. We accepted, thankful for the opportunity, even if our dream spot hadn’t panned out. But just a week later, another call came. It was Idaho. The job near McCall. Josh accepted, and that was it—we were moving again. It would be our third, but certainly not the last, cross-country move together.
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