The following is based on a true story*; the names weren't changed since the characters involved are long beyond any claim to innocence being the least bit relevant, let alone credible.

Flashback: the summer of 1983. Three guys from suburbia -- Murf, Brock, myself -- are backpacking in the wilderness of northwestern Wyoming. Thanks to higher and later spring run-off than expected, a planned-for river crossing at the base of Lower Long Lake is rendered out of the question. An alternate crossing -- a foot bridge, about a third of a mile downstream -- is opted for, without knowing what lurked on the other side.

Mountain goat country.

As the undeterred trio shinnied across a log over raging white water, followed by struggling up grades approaching 40 and 50%, the over-packing they indulged in comes home to haunt them. One of them -- Murf -- does the totally unexpected as a result: he dumps a brand new, unopened fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila in the bushes, seeking a lighter pack.

In the end, the formerly intrepid trio were unable to return to the exact location where the bottle was dropped off when time came to depart. The next summer -- recounted in the Poseidumb Adventure (a future entry hyar) -- we didn't even contemplate a rescue mission, not eager to tackle the terrain where the bottle resided. Thus, there we theorized it would remain, in virtual perpetuity. Unless a bear or a mountain lion found it and wound up on a serious bender.

Over the intervening years, that long-lost bottle of Jose Cuervo came up in amused, regretful conversation ("Murf threw away WHAT??" was the astonished, disbeliefing comments from friends and acquaintances), and gradually we half-heartedly discussed one final, epic return to the Bridger Wilderness Area with but one objective in mind: to rescue Jose Cuervo.

Came the spring of 2003 -- and the 20th anniversary of the storied event -- it was discussed with greater enthusiasm with an eye toward a summer expedition. This is the rest of that story*.

After an eight hour drive across Wyoming -- where men are men and sheep have a rape crisis center to prove it -- the 'rescue' team passed quickly through the idyllic burg of Pinedale, and onto the Elkhart trail head of the Wind River Range. Upon arrival, we were awash in nostalgia, mosquitoes, and an almost unspoken dread of the climb back out of there at mission's end. It had sucked twenty years before, when we were relative spring chickens; now sprung chickens, it caused a moment of sobering reflection amongst us (which Murf's wife had sarcastically tried pointing out to three unhearing hardheads days and hours leading up to our departure).

But that moment of reflection quickly passed, as we knew ourselves to be at the most, three miles short of our objective: saving Jose Cuervo. Tom Hanks had been invited to join us, but wisely ignored the invitation letter I'd sent.

Set up with small packs bearing provisions for but a day -- food, water, braces and pain ointment -- we began the descent down the trail. It was about 1500 feet down over roughly two miles of winding trail. Back in '83, this was nothing; 20 years later, the aging process and the aches and pains of injuries since were pretty in evidence. Nonetheless, we were motivated and determined, gray hairs and achy joints aside. We had a mission: to find and bring back Jose Cuervo.

After about an hour and a half, with time out for liberal applications of Off! and Icy Hot, we reached our first goal: the river. As usual, the water was running high, swift, and ice-melt cold. With no intentions of repeating the Poseidumb Adventure, we turned left and tramped down to the old foot bridge, all the while glancing across the raging white water, looking hopefully (desperately) for a first view of our cherished objective. None of us could recall exactly where Murf dumped the bottle; we just knew it was somewhere over there. Brock commented that he thought he'd spotted some of our lost equipment from the 1984 Poseidumb debacle, but we just chalked it up to sun exposure on his three widows' peaks, and trudged on.

As we crossed the foot bridge -- and the raging white water beneath -- we passed amongst us a glance that said silently what we all knew to be true: the easy part is now over. We were entering formidable terrain that had born the last 20 years better than we had.

After a brief rest and shots of Geritol, we started to search for the log that in 1983 we used to cross back over a tributary stream, to get us onto the ground between the two swift-running rivulets that had served as a 'castle moat' for Jose. When Murf exclaimed that he'd found it, we all stared at it in horror: it'd shrunk. Or maybe not: Brock wasn't an ounce bigger than he'd been in 1983, but that was not the least bit true of Murf or I. To us, the log looked like a frail toothpick. While Murf and I debated the laws of Nature and supersizing at Wendy's, Brock shinnied across the log like he was a precocious 6 year old on a playground jungle gym. Prodded by his "nyah nyah" taunts, Murf gingerly followed suit, laughing in that maniacal way of his, masking the terror of the moment. When the inevitable came -- my turn -- they just stood there on the opposite side, grinning (I'll leave out the colorful metaphor that came to mind just then). Thus, without a wing but with an improv prayer, I went for it:

Hail Mary, don't think me crass; just have this log hold up my ass.

To the accompaniment of hoots and mock applause, I shinnied across the log on my backside, leaving cheek imprints from the pressure exerted. Once across, we stood there in quiet anticipation: for if our memories were worth a damn, Jose couldn't have been more than 200 or 300 yards or so away now.

But now came some rather nasty climbing: up one 40-50% grade, and down another. Without our heavy packs of 20 years ago, this should have been easy. 20 years later explained why it wasn't. At the bottom of each incline, we probed and searched the weeds and bushes for any sign of Jose, trying all the while to forget the admonition that Murf's wife had sent us on our way with: "is this trip worth it? Noooooooooooooooooo...".

Reaching the bottom of the fourth, fifth, sixth or whatever it was incline, I was beginning to harbor doubts that our mission had any prayer of success, and that the bottle was, for whatever reasons, lost to the ages. It'd probably been found by hardier backpackers, Big Foot, space aliens or an alcoholic grizzly. We were going to have to face that horrendous climb out, eight hours of driving through the sheep-raped wastes of Wyoming, and then have to face Murf's wife as abject failures.

At that moment, my negative waves were doused by the closest thing to a rebel yell that I'll ever hear: Murf was some yards off, near the edge of the raging river, staring into thick grass and scrub brush. Brock and I eagerly limped over to see what had whistled Murf's Dixie.

It was Jose. Right there before us was an unopened fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold, just as it'd been left in July of 1983. Other than the badly weathered label, that is. But there it was. After 20 years and a whole lotta talk and wasted contemplation, we had found Jose Cuervo in the midst of the Wyoming wilderness. Better still, we didn't have to fight the whole friggin' German Army afterwards. Tom Hanks, eat your heart out.

Naturally, we couldn't just secure the bottle and return to wave it triumphantly in Murf's wife's face: first, we needed to toast the moment. We were sure that she and Jose would understand. Especially since we were gonna save her some.

It was a hot July day, and the bottle was almost as warm as the conditions. So Murf, ever prepared, dug out a length of thin rope, tied it to the bottle, and handed it to Brock to place into the icy river, to chill it.

*sound of glass breaking*

Needless to say, the hike out of there sucked. And the bottle we stopped and bought at a Pinedale liquor store didn't fool Lisa a nanosecond.

* up to a point...