It’s thirsty work climbing Liquor Mountain, but the view from the top is worth it. Below lies a rugged terrain incorporating every haggard niche and crevice carved across the rocky backside of country music. Down there, where the rippling waves of 12-string chords crest against the twang of a telecaster, you can see roughshod Stetson outlaws riding high in the saddle alongside long-haired cosmic cowboys, as the dusk of Nashville Opry mingles with the washed-out psychedelic rays of the jingle-jangle morning after. Some call it Country Rock Heaven, and some just call it home on the range. At the peak stand four or five brave mountaineers, pilgrim troubadours who have toiled to the top, there to distill the sacred nectar of the golden country sunrise and bring it back for the eager masses. Liquor Mountain is those dudes. As well as the name of the figurative mountain they just climbed.