“You’re such a redneck navigator,” Lizzy tells me. I’m in charge of getting us to a place in the South Platte where neither of us had been, and it’s dark, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat with a crooked map in one hand and a yuppie-Nalgene in the other – one of those steel water bottles, because it’s healthier – filled with margarita. Oops. I missed our turnoff. By 50 miles.
“But it’s not my fault,” I swear, as she flips the car around. Since we’re close friends and haven’t seen each other in awhile I think she cuts me some slack. Of course it was my fault. We’re going a hundred miles out of the way.
Lizzy glances toward me and turns away, shaking her head and half-laughing, the other half disgust. “I can’t take you seriously with that hideous mustache.”
The next morning, just as we’re ready to wander off, sans direcciones, to try to find our other friends somewhere among a sea of rocks, we luck-out and another friend, Lisa, pulls in to the trailhead. Turns out she knows where to go and now I’m the lucky guy hiking with two chicks. Gotta be the ‘stache.
[He doesn’t just have a mustache, he wears this mustache. Photo: Cordes collection]