Cowboy Coffee, Sodbusters and Life

A hiss-pop-crackle and a couple of orange sparks shot a foot into the air, signaling the death of the fire. Tiny flames flickered on the end of a spent log and danced away on wisps of smoke. Maybe the fire was tired of fighting the constant prairie wind and gave up. Maybe like me, the fire was lost under the sea of stars and wanted to be still. To be part of the hushed symphony that whispered a lullaby over the world as it drifted off to sleep.

The solitude was broken as I stirred what was left of the hot ashes. Time for bed. My grandfather bedded down hours ago, but I wanted to watch the night under the Kansas sky. We camped alone on the prairie. Alone under a million stars, caressed by a constant breeze, sang to by a chorus of crickets, night birds, and the distant yelp of a coyote. The old man and the young man. He was asleep, dreaming. I was awake, in a dream.

I’m not sure how the road trip came about. My grandfather was an old cowboy, born and raised in North Dakota. He lived next to a reservation in a two-room house on the plains. He and his siblings would walk to the one-room schoolhouse, often chased by a herd of wild horses. He was a WW2 vet. A torpedo sunk his ship and he spent a week or so in a lifeboat before he was rescued. He was a man of few words, but when the time was right he’d share his stories. Some would shock me, some embarrass me, some made me emotional, but all held my 20-something brain spellbound. Who wouldn’t want to take a trip across the plains, mountains, and desert with this man? For me, it was the trip of a lifetime. For him, a visit back home.

We laid in some supplies. A small, well-worn, and seasoned canvas tent, two lawn chairs, cooking supplies, camp stove and lantern, bedrolls, fishing poles, tools, food, coffee, and more coffee, and an electric percolator for making coffee. And a couple pounds of sugar for the coffee. My grandfather grew up in a world that didn’t have much sugar, and when he’d have coffee it was about 25% sugar and the rest coffee.

I ask him about the percolator too. I figured he’d make cowboy coffee. Cowboy coffee is what “real” cowboys make. You boil water and throw the grounds in there and just sorta let it do its thing. Some people say if you sprinkle cold water on it the grounds will settle. Some say to throw eggshells in. Some strain each cup through a cloth. I’d just drink it as is and spit the grounds out. It never tasted too good and I’d spit grounds all day, but I liked to cowboy it. So, to be with a real cowboy and make cowboy coffee, sit around the fire, smoke, and swap stories? This was living. So why the percolator?

“Of all people, you – a real cowboy, don’t you make cowboy coffee?”

“Hell no! You ever taste that crap?”

“Well, yeah. I did. I mean I do. I mean, I make it every time I go camping. It’s the cowboy thing to do.”

“Ok. You be the cowboy then and I’ll enjoy a good damn cup of coffee.”

I packed a 100-foot extension cord for the electric percolator, and we were gone.

We left the plains of Kansas and headed into Colorado. Our ages were different, but our spirits were the same, so when he pointed west and said, “Let’s go that way” I knew what he meant. We went “that” way, followed the sun, chased by the wind, and rolled along two-lane highways until we got tired of rolling. We’d stop at high mountain meadows to walk amongst the columbine and have a snowball fight in a snowfield. Anywhere with an electric outlet would be a coffee and smoke break. I’d run the cord from wherever to the tailgate of the truck where we’d set up the percolator. More than a few people would pass by and wonder just what we were doing. My grandfather would hoist his cup like a flagon of ale before a quest.

“Havin’ coffee. Want some?”

Folks would laugh and keep walking. He’d look at me and with a look of confusion on his face wonder aloud what is wrong with people who don’t want to stop for a cup of coffee.

“Damn sodbusters” he’d mutter into his cup.

We did a few touristy things on our trip. He loved Silverado because that’s where the gold was. To this day I have no idea what he meant. The town was full of tourists and people dressed as cowboys. But evidently, somewhere in Silverton, Colorado, there is gold. We spent a week there one day before we began the ascent into the San Juan Mountains to find a place to camp.

We camped in national forests, about 100 miles from nowhere and typically as high up as we could get. The San Juan’s were our favorite. Our campsite that night was about 100 yards from the timberline, right next to a stream that was running out of a snowfield. Two huge pines towered over us and guarded us while we camped there. Tiny white, yellow and pink wildflowers dazzled in random spots against a deep green carpet of grass. It was an oddity because the mountains are dry and dusty, but this spot was an oasis. Looking up, east across the stream, through the pines was the top of the mountain. Just several hundred yards away. We were camped at the top of the world. Similar to our campsite in Kansas, just us.

That night after we ate we sat by the fire and talked, never saying a word. Well, except for complaining about no electricity. We had to make that “damn cowboy crap” over a fire. The fire crackled, the pines above whispered, we spit grounds, and it was all good. A branch deep in the woods behind up would snap now and then, reminding us we were guests in someone else’s home. The mountain top in front of us beckoned an adventure. But this was good for now. Being part of this mountain. Becoming part of this night.

“Hello in the camp!” A voice from the woods shattered the solitude of the dawning twilight. “May I enter your camp?”

I jumped out of my lawn chair to find where the voice was coming from. Somewhere behind me in the woods it seemed. My grandfather spit out some grounds, tugged on his cigarette, and exhaled quickly.

“Yeah,” he chuckled.“Come on into the camp. You want coffee?”

The man walked out of the darkness and into the firelight. He stood for a minute taking me in while I did the same to him. Leaning on a walking stick he smiled warmly, shifted what looked like a heavy backpack, and took a few steps forward.

“Hello, friend! Not many people camp up this high. It’s good to have neighbors for the night. Mind if I sit by the fire for a bit? And yes sir, a cup of coffee sounds mighty fine. Thank you very much.”

I offered my chair, and he took it right away, brushing the dust off his canvas pants and jacket. They were worn and faded but had a comfy look to them like an old shoe. He had a broad-brimmed hat that had seen a few years as well. Long grey hair, gathered into a tussled ponytail fell from his hat. He had a full beard and mustache that covered his face. His eyes were exceptionally clear and bright and sparkled in the firelight.

“All we got is cowboy coffee. No damn electricity up here for the percolator. Tastes like crap. That ok?”My grandfather was a man who spoke the truth.

“Yes indeed, that’ll be just fine. We often have to suffer a few modern-day conveniences to enjoy the basics of nature. I’d say it’s more than a fair trade wouldn’t you? This is how a man should live out his days. Under the canopy of a blue sky, in the shadow of the trees, against the shoulder of the mountain. Ah, it’s so good to be here.”

My grandfather handed him a cup of coffee.

“Yup. No sodbusters here.”

The man looked at me, confusion in his eyes.

“This is my grandfather. He’s a cowboy from North Dakota. We’re on a road trip.”

The man sat silent and motionless, gripping the cup of coffee with both hands. His gaze shifted from me to my grandfather, then back to me. Shadows and firelight danced lightly on his face revealing a smile and moist eyes.

His voice was strong and bright earlier. Now a whisper floated out.

“I was a grandpa once.”

We sat by the fire and chatted for a bit. The old man was a retired professor. His wife died several years ago, he sold all he had, bought a Winnebago, and spent most of his time on this mountain studying fungi. He didn’t offer much more, and we didn’t ask. He drained his coffee, thanked us, and disappeared back into the forest.

My grandfather hit the hay early that night, leaving me alone to listen to the wind, the forest, the gurgling stream, and the stars. A shooting star raced across the purple-black sky, falling behind the mountaintop, beckoning me to follow. So I did.

The stars were so bright I left the flashlight at camp. The ascent was steep but not far. I crossed a snowfield. The snow sparkled to reflect the stars above, crunching under my boots, the sound carried off on the wind. I scampered across big rocks, carefully picked my way across a boulder field, and kept climbing. It was foolish to do this at night. I looked back down the mountain for my camp. What seemed like a few hundred yards was now a distant glimmer in the cold night air. I kept going. I had to see the top. One last rock field to ascend.

I touched the floor of heaven itself. Alone, on a mountaintop. Stars so bright they cast a shadow. A shadow of a young man, looking out on the world, looking up into eternity. The face of God looking back. In the solitude, I’d never felt so connected. Connected to what, I didn’t know. Something bigger than me, bigger than anything I’d ever known or felt. The wind that whispered across the mountaintop sang a song my soul knew. I was a piece of dust, a tiny speck, but part of the mosaic of forever. I could stay here forever. Maybe I have.

Later that night I lay awake in my sleeping bag, trying to process all the events of the evening. I was so deep in thought I didn’t hear the sounds of the forest as they came closer and closer to the tent. At first, it was a huffing, chuffing sound. Like a deep exhale. Then the snap of a branch, a pause, a scuffing sound, a chuff, and another snap. The forest was now right outside the tent, right next to me. Only a piece of canvas separated me from whatever beast may be out there. And it was stuff chuffing. A sniff, the canvas moved, and then a deep exhale. Scuffling on the ground. It was moving on.

“Are you awake?” I whispered to my grandfather.

“I am now. I’ve been listening to that bear.”

“Bear? That’s a bear? Oh. MY. GOD. What should we do?”

“Well, since it looks like it’s not gonna eat us, I’d say we should stay put and get some sleep.”

The old man fell asleep. I spent the night listening for any crackle of a leaf, waiting to die.

I awoke to bacon and eggs being cooked over an open fire, cowboy coffee, and biscuits. I may not have died, but heaven was in my camp that day. My grandfather laughed at how scared I was.

“You weren’t scared?” I’m sure he wasn’t. He was so calm and cool. Plus he was a real cowboy.

“Well, only an idiot wouldn’t be scared of a bear. Of course I was scared. Whatdaya think I’m stupid?”

“But you just laid there and then you even fell asleep!”

“Right, because if I moved around and made a sound, the bear would investigate and who knows what would happen. Nothing I could do, so I might as well try to get some shut-eye. Want a cup of bad coffee?”

I swallowed my pride with the coffee, and spit out the grounds.

Claw marks were on the pine tree next to the tent. The bear told us we needed to leave his house that day, and so we did. We packed up the truck and headed to the desert. A desert campground that had electricity to power a percolator. I stretched the 100-foot cord to its max, and we had fresh, percolated coffee. It must have been about 117 degrees. The temperature outside, not the coffee. We drink coffee no matter what the temperature is. We're not sodbusters. 

We sat around the campfire in the desert and talked of bears, life, death, eternity, and stars. Every now and then we’d hear what we thought was a rattle, so we’d stoke the fire up a bit and move closer to it. I didn’t ask him if he was scared. The last rays of the setting sun lit up a box canyon and the golden light shimmered just above the desert floor. Soon we saw gold and red light shimmer here and there across the desert horizon.

“Does it always do that?” I asked quietly as if inquiring of God in church.

“Yup. It’s the sun reflecting off the back of box canyons. Gotta happen just right. Something to see isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer.

The night sky pushed the day away. The canvas of heaven was being redrawn with a dry brushstroke of gold and red, then purple. Then black. Then twinkling white, green, blue, red, and gold as the stars emerged and washed away the black. From east to west, north to south, as far as I could see all around, the sky dripped with hints of heaven's glory. The evening breeze followed us from the mountain and whipped up tiny dust devils at our feet. Somewhere in the night, a coyote cried lonesome. The stars began to fall. The lullaby begins anew. I slept. Safe in the arms of the world.

We had many adventures on our road trip. Roadside cafés on reservations. Finally finding a gas station as the engine shudders and stalls out. Conversations with friends we never knew we had. Spitting out a trail of coffee grounds as we go.

My grandfather is gone now. Buried with full honors in a military cemetery. He’d like that. He was no sodbuster. I’m a grandpa now myself. I was 22 when I climbed that mountain at night. I was ancient when I came down. The other day I held my new granddaughter for the first time. She was not 24 hours old in this world. Yet I could see her when she was old. In her sweet cherub face, I was back on the mountain. On the plains. Looking at canyons. Feeling the wind. Listening to the stars. We go on. 

If you’ve never been “that way”, I recommend you go. You might find what you’re looking for. Maybe you’ll lose what you don’t need. Maybe you’ll lose yourself and find who you are. 

Whatever you do, don’t drink cowboy coffee. You’ll be spittin’ grounds for days. 

Stupid sodbusters.