ON DAY THREE we struck out on our own, rounding the volcano through fields of sugarcane, arriving late in the day at Teuchitlán, the last stop on La Ruta. It turned out not to have a single distillery.

We checked in to what a woman at a corner shop told us was the only lodging in town, a single-story fleabag called, simply, Hotel. Outside, by a row of parked cars beside the plaza, a dozen local dudes were bartending "tequila tequila" drinks off the hood of a white sidestep pickup. They ranged from fat to muscular, with bald heads and soul patches. "Amigos," they hollered, "you want some tequila?"

Tim and I approached with a certain amount of gringo timidity, but it turned out the guys were dentists, lawyers, and scientists. They handed us plastic cups half filled with Squirt and El Jimador, Mexico's best-selling tequila. We knocked back big slugs of the mixed drink, called a paloma ("dove"), and the night started taking on a logic of its own.

I was dubbed Shaggy, from Scooby-Doo, the hipness of my tousled hair apparently lost on them. Sip, gulp.

A four-wheeler sputtered down the quiet street, piled high with a dozen or so kids, all waving at us. Gulp.

"Ranas del diablo!" yelled one of our cabróns. It was nine-ish, we were starved, and they insisted we try spicy frogs. The woman at the grill nearby took pity on us and offered us hamburgers. Gulp.

At 10:30 P.M., the tequila bottles were drained and the party was about to dissolve. Then, up rode a cowboy: spurs, serape, the whole bit. He swung a leg off his horse, reached under the saddle to produce two bottles of lesser "tequila tequila," and handed the reins to Tim without a word, as if Tim were some kind of equine parking valet. The bar was open again! Gulp.

"Go for a ride, Shaggy," someone yelled. Caballeros Shaggy and Tim took turns riding around the plaza, after which we all roamed the town, crashing wedding parties.

Around 1 A.M., Tim and I staggered back to the hotel. It was an unforgettable night that I mostly remember.