Cowboy Coffee
Gulls calling in the distance. A heavy breeze entering the room through rattling screen windows. The smell of the sea. A slight rind of salt covering everything. Argue about whether there is a better way to wake up and you’ll find me stone deaf.
Our family beach house sold well before I reached double digits in age, but I remember those mornings distinctly. The front porch faced east toward the shoreline. The bedroom my cousin and I shared was knotted pine, floor to ceiling. It glowed in the mornings as the sun tried to push past the blinds, yet there was enough darkness to keep me snoozing past sunrise. That was back when I could sleep through the night.
Always the last one to wake up, I’d reluctantly peel my eyes open and yawn. Toes curling under the sheets, I’d notice the grit of Carolina sand spread everywhere in the bed. I’d sit up and realize that I was missing out. Daniel had woken up long before and joined the adults in the kitchen. I could hear faint murmurs and laughing spells as my dad, my aunts and uncles, grandparents, and a family friend of two welcomed the day at the kitchen table.
I’d slink out of bed hoping I wasn’t too late. The table, already cleared of plates and food, would be littered with half drunk cups of coffee, most smeared with lipstick. There may be a few sequined cigarette cases laying next to a half eaten piece of pie. I wasn’t worried about food, though. Granny always saved me a plate or cooked up something special. No, it was the brown stuff I was after.
They’d say, “Gu’mornin’! D’ja sleep good?” Then a hair tussle and a kiss on the cheek. And I’d say, “Yes, ma’am! Can I have some cowboy coffee?” They’d’ sneak a glance over to my dad. He’d give a half smile and a nod. Someone would grab a cup and start filling.
You might be asking yourself, who in their right mind would give a six-year-old coffee? Well, it wasn’t really coffee, per say. It was 95% milk, enough sugar to put a Starbucks concoction to shame, and just a splash of the brown stuff. Enough to give it a light toffee hue. It was an affirmation that I was loved; that I was family. It was a model to think on--that adulthood was hard but had it’s rewards.
As I entered the room each morning I could tell a conversation ended upon my appearance. Something heavier preceded me. The stories of the Bob So-And-So’s that had recently died. The stories of my grandfather’s father paving the first road out to this beach house using leftover shingles, back before there were any other rooftops visible from the porch. A recounting of life and reconciliation of what it all means.The sea will do that to a heart. A little fart like me walking into the kitchen and asking for a cup of cowboy coffee will put an end to that sort of talk. There’s only so much explaining one wants to do before lunch.
Every now and then I’d sneak a sip of the full strength. My aunts drank it black. Adulthood tasted bad.
Cowboy coffee was the preface to a life narrative; a sort of preamble that says there are a mix of flavors to be had. It can be sweet, but the bitter core of existence is quite shocking unless you learn to ease into it. Cowboy coffee came and went throughout the years. I can only remember it being allowed twice when I was back home in Georgia; once in a cup with a heart shaped handle, and once in a muted moss green cup covered in stenciled elephants. Years later I glanced down at that same green cup and realized all those piles of pachyderms and tangles of curious trunks were more than artistic expression. The elephants were having an orgy. Same cup, different story. That’s growing up, I guess.
My transition out of cowboy coffee was to camp coffee, in the hills of Tennessee next to North River. I was still the last one to rise. I hadn’t learned to appreciate the chill of a mountain morning yet. I’d lay in my sleeping bag listening to the crunching gravel sound of men moving about camp; to the early hiss and poof of the lantern being lit and the scorching drone of a Coleman stove doing it’s work to heat up the percolator. As the water roils and eventually boils, the percolator dances back and forth on the uneven steel grates. It creates a metallic melody to beckon in the morning. This sound is one of the great comforts of my life.
There isn’t much talking done at this time of day. Each knows their job and duty in getting the camp moving. Eventually the clattering of wood and utensils dies down. The stove is turned off. All that’s left are more steps on gravel and the crackle of morning fire. I can hear someone settle into a chair and lean over to warm their hands. I can hear someone walk down toward the stream. Someone farts. I giggle and go back to sleep.
Hours later…“Jonathan, come on out, son. Breakfast is ready.”
I’m sweating in my sleeping bag. The day has gotten on. The sun is out and it’s burning a hole through the tent. I emerge and see that the fire is almost out. There are a few charred scraps of paper plates and a tangle of wilted plastic fork tips on the edge of the pit. I grab the last of the bacon and eggs, maybe a biscuit.
“There’s some coffee left if you want some.”
I could be 9 or 11. Age is blurry when you’re in the woods. As a child, you think you’re a man. As a man, you revel in simplicities and memories of childhood. They merge as one.
I am holding a small styrofoam cup in my left and a nearly empty percolator in my right.
“How much should I put in?”
My dad looks over and shrugs, “However much you want.”
And this is where I have to start making choices. I know how the men take it--mostly coffee, a splash of cream and a little sugar. It’s terrible, but if I pour too little of the brown stuff then I’m still a child sipping his cowboy coffee by the fire. I gamble and try some blend in the middle. It’s terrible. I take a few sips off the top and frown. The cup doesn’t fit in my chair’s cup holder, so I stare at it and swirl slowly until the drink goes cold. The men are standing around stoically now, not impatient, but with that very specific countenance that says, alright, we’re done here, it’s time to go fishing.
My dad walks over to the firepit and snuffs out the last flame. He glances over to my cup, then up at me.
“No good, huh?”
I sneer and shrug my shoulders.
“Dump it out. Let’s go catch some trout.”
So I do. No judgement. I close the door to his Cherokee and he cranks the engine. He hands me an ice cold Dr. Pepper and gives me a wink. We go fishing.
Proportions are important in life. Ultimate satisfaction is that moment when you have a piping cup of perfectly balanced coffee in your hand, but you’re not sure how it got there. You know you made it. You know you poured it. You didn’t consciously make an effort.
But I had barely begun that journey. I didn’t know how a percolator worked yet. I didn’t know the curious little device circulated water up a spout and continuously cycled it through the grounds. I didn’t know coffee grounds came in different sizes or qualities. Most importantly, I didn’t know that by waking up as late as I did I was only left with the dregs, the muddy stew at the bottom of the pot caused by grounds slipping through the porous basket above countless times while I slept the day away. No matter what blend of coffee, cream, and sugar I chose, my coffee would still taste like an old boot. I didn’t know yet that a man can learn to appreciate the taste of an old boot.
Caffeine addiction didn’t come until much later, when a teenage version of myself tried their best to look thoughtful journaling at coffee shops. Five dollars a day on gourmet coffee was a substantial chunk of my net income, but I experimented as frequently as possible with things like double shots of syrup and zebra striped mochaccinos. I’m not necessarily proud of that. I’m not ashamed, either.
Somewhere in the middle of all that self-discovery I found myself sitting indian style in a little glade about a hundred yards upstream of Jack’s River Falls, in the north Georgia mountains. It was my first backpacking trip. We picked the dead of winter when reports said the temps would drop into the negative digits. They did, and I spent the night debating the value of adventure over death. As the mercury rose to roughly five degrees on that first morning, I sat by our fledgling fire with my blue coffee cup and sipped my first taste of luxurious, silky, sweet black coffee. To save weight I had left the accoutrements at home. It was the first time I’d ever enjoyed coffee in its basic form. It was a good cup. It was good to be alive.
To be honest, it was just piping hot Folgers instant coffee that tasted like an old boot, but it was what my soul needed to usher in the day. I’d found space to appreciate the utility of the drink rather than just the taste. Nearly freezing to death will do that to a heart.
I surveyed the array of miniature titanium this-and-that’s I had acquired to do all my cooking and eating with. It was comforting to know I had spent three to four hundred dollars on lightweight cookware to heat up my oatmeal. That’s before I realized the Quakers Oatmeal single packs were wax-lined and held water on their own. No dish ware necessary.
To my right, Joe had mounted a full-size stole-from-his-mamas-kitchen frying pan atop a Coleman burner. He was frying eggs, mountain bread, and stirring some grits on the side. He brought butter. After finishing my oatmeal I still had a half cup of coffee left.
“Do you want some cream and sugar?,” Joe asked.
I nodded. He tossed me a stuff sack filled with spices, sweet-n-low, sugar in the raw, and pure cane sugar. There was a mini bottle of flavored creamer. I picked my proportions and fixed up my coffee. It was better. Then he grabbed my small titanium bowl and dumped in some grits, eggs, and topped it with a slice of buttered bread.
The day before, as we hiked in, I watched that frying pan swing back and forth on his backpack thinking, This guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. I had done all the research. I had a working memory of all the weights and specs of that season’s primo backpacking gear. This guy is carrying 20lbs more than he needs to. But as I sat there with my coffee rejoicing in the simplicities of survival, I couldn’t help but think that my own methodology might need some tweaking.
In my late 20s I did have a spurt where I convinced myself I liked my coffee black. That lasted until the moment a friend topped off my cup and added creamer unknowingly. I took a sip and thought, this is better. That’s how it is now; straight coffee and a splash of cream. Sugar is a luxury I save for the woods.
Today I sit here in my robe with a lukewarm cup watching a Colorado sunrise. Snow is on the ground. It’s the end of February, technically still high winter in the Rockies, but with spring only a month away I know alpine camping season is right around the corner. It can’t come soon enough, and I am noodling out a few ideas on how I can make my coffee more efficiently. Percolators don’t work as well at elevation.
Just a year ago when Joe still lived with me, we’d wake up early on the weekends and wordlessly shuffle around the kitchen attending to our own coffee production methods. He uses an old electric percolator, I, an overly complicated pour-over method. I buy small batch local stuff. He loves his Folgers. When the two aromas mix it smells like a barnyard. After the brews finish we’d bundle up in down jackets and fingerless wool gloves, shuffle to the back door, and step out into the sub-freezing air to enjoy the morning. There’s something about numb fingers and hot breath over a steaming cup of coffee that draws an instant connection to the mountains, the woods, a crackling fire. Each sip induces a reverie. The memories of mornings spent atop cliffs or under the bows of rustling trees are always accompanied by something hot clenched between my gloved fingers. The coffee cools quickly in that kind of weather, but I can never wait long enough. I always burn my tongue. I will suffer the cold for that connection any day.
Mountain pursuits change. Gear is upgraded. Sleeping on the ground gets more difficult each year. I’ve spent a lot of mornings now convincing myself to unzip the sleeping bag and stick that first leg out into the cold. Often I think the whole reason I camp is to chase the surge of dopamine I get when I flick a lighter and induce a small explosion under the percolator. A whole lifestyle can be boiled down to a single brief moment of joy. The first sip of coffee on a cold mountain morning will do that to a heart.
