June 5, 2014

I have not updated this journal in some time, and I fear that this entry will be a difficult one.

I am somewhere in the dizzying heights of the Nepalese Himalaya—I cannot pinpoint my exact location, as my GPS tracking equipment was shattered three days ago. The oxygen supply is running dangerously low, and Gyatsho Sherpa is lost in the fog of altitude sickness. My own hands are so frostbitten that I can barely grip my pen. I know that I must maintain a positive outlook even in the face of crushing adversity, but I cannot delude myself any longer: it looks as if this will be my last Coors Light run.

It would be an understatement to say that I am frightened and bitterly enraged at the prospect of death. After 25 years in the field, however, I cannot pretend that I didn’t somehow see this coming.

As most people know from watching television commercials, retrieving individual bottles and cans of Coors Light is an incredibly difficult task, requiring hyper-specialized tactical knowledge and state-of-the-art equipment. And, as bar managers across America persist in their seeming refusal to stock enough of an extremely popular beer to last for even one night, my services are as much in demand as they have ever been. It was only a matter of time before my luck ran out.

But even so, I could not have anticipated that this mission would go so drastically wrong. It began almost as simply as could be imagined: I received a panicked call from a rooftop bar in Manhattan’s trendy SoHo neighborhood. Their Coors Light tap had run dry, the fridge was bare, and the night’s revelry could not possibly continue unless more Rocky Mountain refreshment was obtained.

Mere hours later, I assembled my team of ex-Navy SEALS and Army Rangers at the foot of at a mighty icefall, halfway up a jagged peak that does not appear on any map. The Coors Light, as is often the case, was trapped within a massive sheet of ice by some unknown yet malevolently powerful force. For what seemed like an eternity, we hacked away at the frozen mass to no avail. Finally, we realized that we would have to make use of an incredibly powerful explosive obtained through secret military channels that I cannot discuss here. The ice was blasted clean away, and its Cold-Certified payload was ours for the taking.

But as we attempted a descent to base camp, a howling storm blew in from the east with shocking speed and ferocity. The mountain was battered for a full six hours, and as night fell our situation became truly desperate. Much of my mission team was swept into the whiteout, never to be seen again.

When the blizzard finally passed, what was left of my crew and I staggered back to base camp, insane with grief but pressing on in the hope that the mission could somehow be salvaged. But it wasn’t long before we checked our packs to discover our worst fears realized: all of the Coors Light was lost.

Four days have passed. I have made some feeble attempts to repair our satellite phone and radio communications equipment, but I know it is pointless. We cannot reasonably expect to survive another night on this mountain.

But though I must reconcile myself to the fact that my thirst for adventure and frost-brewed lager has led me into Death’s waiting arms, I cannot say that I regret even one second spent in my quest to retrieve beer for nightclubs, parties, and other events attended by non-threateningly hip young people.

And what a journey it has been! To this day I remember the inky, eerie blackness on the bottom of the Marianas Trench, with only the light from my headlamp to guide me as I drilled deep into the ocean floor and unearthed a 24-pack for an all-night bachelor party/backyard cookout in Timonium, Maryland.

Then too, I recall the wind whipping furrows into my face as I BASE-jumped from the tallest spire of the Burj Khalifah and into the cockpit of an airborne Gulfstream jet, the pilot softly whimpering as I passed my Bowie knife across his throat. I heard his death rattle as I unclasped the gleaming silver cans tucked within his flight jacket, and knew that the dudes at the Braintree, Massachusetts Dave & Buster’s were in for a truly epic bro-down.

But there is no time now for nostalgia. My soul’s light is dimming, and I must prepare to face oblivion. And so I leave you, dear friends, family, colleagues that I love as my own brothers. May you one day live in a world where cool, crisp Coors Light can easily be purchased at grocery stores and delis; a world where good men like me won’t have to face death to tap the Rockies.