DAMN, THIS MUSTACHE feels right. After a month of patient hair farming, it has really come into its own. Bushy like a caterpillar, the blond chevron stretches from my nose to just below the corners of my mouth, leaving a little peekaboo of rosy upper lip. It tingles in the downy warmth of a Colorado summer night. I pinch my thumb and index finger together and spread them across its ample length.

Redford would be proud, I'm thinking. For that matter, so would Steve Prefontaine, Burt Reynolds, and "magic man" Doug Henning.

It's 2:30 a.m., and I'm on my way up a dark forest path toward the 14,255-foot summit of Longs Peak, in Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, when I happen to fall in with a thirty-something guy from Denver who's outfitted head to toe in REI's finest. As far as my impromptu hiking partner knows, we're nothing more than two disembodied voices looking for black bears in the night (not as easy as it sounds). But, actually, he's the first test subject in a study of sorts, my investigation into the enduring appeal—if that's the right word—of 1970s outdoor style. Dressed in period-perfect attire that only John Denver would call "far out," I'm hoping to see if he (or anybody, really) will sing the retro spirit electric.

As we walk along, I mentally review my ensemble, starting with the leaping-trout belt buckle that holds up my butt-hugger jeans and moving to my red-check flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a gut-stretched polyester-blend T-shirt with a cartoon iron-on of a drunk logger. A large desert canteen and a bota bag hang around my bandana'd neck. My feet are shod in red-laced Italian-leather waffle-stompers. Best of all, the Stars 'n' Stripes are flying proudly, thanks to my super-bitchin' American-flag backpack.

"Look-ing good," I say to myself, and it's true. I am the avatar of the Bicentennial-era outdoors, embodiment of all that is joyous and unbridled!

My partner turns and, with the light of his headlamp, beholds the full glory of That '70s Guy for the first time. He shrinks back, not unlike a cheerleader recoiling from a zombie. He continues on for a couple of paces and then stops, ostensibly to retie his lightweight day hikers, which are already tied.

"Your walking stick reminds me that I forgot my trekking poles," he says hesitantly. "Did you make that?"

"Well, I painted on the vines and flowers." His face wrinkles into an awkward smile. "What's that hanging out of your pocket?" "My flask of Yukon Jack. Want a nip?" "Ahhh, no thanks."

"I'll have a little," I say, knocking back a hit. With the light from my billy-club flashlight, I can see that he's genuinely freaked. "Camel straight?" I offer quietly.

"No, thanks," he says, striding into the woods alone. "I think I'm gonna motor on." All riiight! Catch you on the rebound, my man.