An accounting of the final ride of Sir Duncan, set against the Grand Tetons. Witnesses include one fast car, one slow hike, a great deal of beer, and the men who saw it through.
Charged with the unrepentant act of falling in love, the indulgence of fine whiskey, and the willing surrender of the unbachelored life. Last seen heading toward matrimony at full gallop.
An order of events, recorded as it happened — and as we intend it to.
In which the Legend arrives in the territory, and the night is mellow.
The posse collects Sir Duncan from the airport at dusk. The road is open, the cooler is stocked, and the weekend is officially underway.
A casual frontier supper at the foot of the Tetons. No suits, no silverware required — only cheese, cold beer, and conversation that ages well.
Returned to the homestead. Texas hold 'em at the table, a brief plunge in the pool, philosophizing in the hot tub. Mellow drinks for the men of substance — tomorrow we run.
In which the posse is made whole, and the mountain is properly addressed.
The morning belongs to the disciplined. A trail run through Teton Village while the world still smells of pine and pre-coffee resolve.
Pig candy, skillets, and coffee strong enough to fortify a man for the hike of his life. Peter, fear not — provisions will be smuggled out on your behalf.
The second eagle lands. Collected from the airport in Thomas's incredible chariot. The posse is now whole. Straight to the trailhead — no time to dawdle.
Seven and a half miles round-trip to glacial blue water beneath granite spires. We move fast. Slight chance of slow — entirely dependent on Peter's lungs.
Bison, elk, and filet the size of a fist. Whiskey by the rocks glass, antlers on every wall. The place where men become legends — and where the legend is fed.
The rules are sacred, the shots are stiff, and we'll probably get him drunk. We'll see. The truth will out, the laughter will echo, the photographs will be gloriously incriminating.
In which we soak, we drink, and the cowboy bar earns its name.
The alarm sounds. Someone groans. Someone else is already pouring coffee. The Bechler region awaits — two hours of road and silence.
The "super chill, not long at all" eight-mile hike to waterfalls and natural hot springs. We earn the soak. There, we discuss the great questions of our time: to bomb, or not to bomb?
Windows down, aux cord disputed, snacks plentiful. Time enough to nap before the night grows loud.
Local pours, hearty plates, loud talk. A pre-game in the truest sense. We rehydrate with the only sacred liquid: cold IPA.
Duncan dances. The saddles are real, the line dancing is sincere, the boots come out and the hats stay on. The band plays loud. Yeehaw is no longer ironic.
For Duncan. For marriage. For the men who showed up. Drink one million beers. Plus or minus 999,990.
In which we recover, fire a great many rounds, and ride south.
Pain is information. Hydrate. Stretch. Survive. Today we end this thing the right way.
Sticky buns, eggs, bacon, and coffee strong enough to wake the dead. A meal designed to undo the previous twelve hours, and largely succeeding.
Safety glasses on. Ears protected. Targets perforated. The smell of gunpowder, the thrill of a good shot, the patriotism of a properly-handled lever-action.
Drop Peter at the airport. The remaining posse points the truck toward Salt Lake City. The Tetons recede in the rearview. The legend, however, rides on.
The principals — assembled, briefly, beneath a single roof.
"I do."
"Get in. I'll drive."
"Did you save me breakfast?"
"Do it pussy."
An open ledger of beverages consumed. Click to adjust. Stays put on this device.
A short list of governing principles. Memorize them. They will be enforced.
Stays in the Tetons. No exceptions, regardless of how good the story becomes.
Drinks, meals, transport — all on the house, where the house is us.
And no man drinks alone. We move as a posse, in both effort and indulgence.
Boots on, hats on, eyes up. The table is for stories, not screens.
The groom shall be celebrated and gently humiliated in proper measure.
One more beer for Duncan. The ledger keeps itself, but our hands keep it honest.