On the bright side, we were dressed well. I wore a suit so fine that it lacked canteen side pockets. My wife had on her best dune-slogging high heels and gown. Rescuers would find a couple of fabulously attired corpses.

All we wanted to do was go to a wedding. Some friends in Moab were finally getting married and we had promised to be there. It couldn't have been simpler.

When the invitation arrived, it announced that Mike and Rachel would be getting married at Red Cliffs Lodge. I know where that is. I've been there a lot. It's a nice place on Highway 128 and the river northeast of town.

The confusion began when my wife wasn't sure that I was sure, so she downloaded directions from Google Maps, a Web site specializing in death marches.

According to Google, there is a different Red Cliffs Lodge with the exact same address located in the middle of the desert west of La Sal. A satellite view showed what appeared to be the surface of Mars or the top of Dick Cheney's head.

Our first stupid mistake was asking the Internet what it thought. Peter Jennings was right when he said, "The Internet is a great research tool, but when it comes right down to it, the thing that bothers me is I'm never sure if I'm talking to a goat."

(NOTE: I got this quote from the Internet, so it's entirely possible that it should actually be attributed to Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, or Junior from "Hee Haw").

Our second stupid mistake was in believing the Internet. Part of that problem was Mike. He's an outdoor guy. It seemed logical that he convinced Rachel to get married in some abandoned Indian ruin in the middle of [deleted] nowhere.

With an extra 75 miles to go to the wedding (or our deaths) we left straightaway without sunscreen, 40 gallons of water or an emergency beacon.

Several hours later we were swimming through a sand-drifted cow track in my wife's Accord somewhere in Egypt. When I tried to turn around, we got stuck.

There's a moment when you realize that you have screwed up so badly your name is going to be used for all time as a term for contemptible foolishness.

Mercifully, we got unstuck, tore the Google instructions to bits, and drove back to Moab and the actual Red Cliffs Lodge in time to help clean up the reception.

If you're going to ask directions, make sure that you aren't talking to a goat.

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ROBERT KIRBY can be contacted a rkirby@sltrib.com.