The Range of Java

Cowboy coffee. It’s a thing. And it is a necessary fact of life and living on the range. I’ve tried making it at home. There, it is simply stupid. I mean, I’m surrounded by the trappings and gadgetry of home; Christmas gifts given of espresso machines and mocha pots, the Cuisinart, Ninja and even Mr. Coffee drip machines (which I am drinking from as I write this–please don’t judge me). 

Then there’s the unimpressive presses: the French press and the aero press. We’ve actually dragged those gizmos up on the range for those too snooty to go all in on cowboy.

But as cow camp living approaches, I find that my caffeine-driven desires begin gravitating to the simplest of simple: the camp coffee. 

Here’s how it works. It’s still pitch dark in camp as I mosey my way to the cook tent; my border collie Clyde accompanies me happily (he has no problems getting up at 4 am and is quite happy to get going with the day). I grab a match and light the Coleman lantern. Its generator is usually a little clogged, so it’s appropriately a little dim for the wee hours. A warm yellow glow illuminates the inside canvas walls, and I light the cook stove. Whumph. I find the  half gallon speckled blue granite ware pot, blackened by years over the fire. There’s a few chips out of it, and they’ve gotten a little brown with rust, but that’s perhaps a little “rustic” flavoring, I think. Because the pot never got rinsed out from the day before, the first step is to get those grounds out (the early morning crew leaves the hot pot of remaining coffee for the “early” risers on the night crew to warm back up on the stove, and it rarely ends up getting cleaned out).

So I fill the pot half-full, and step out of the cook shack into the black. The stars, complete with a full-on representation of the Milky Way and its corresponding members of the Zodiac are bright enough to light my way to the sump hole. Our grazing range is right in the middle of one of the largest patches of dark sky in the US. There is no light pollution, because there are no towns. There’s no airports. There’s no shopping centers. There’s no people. To the west, the nearest habitation of humanity is a 100 miles away. To the east, it is about 60 miles.

You’re probably wondering what a sump hole is. It’s a hole we dig in the range soil about 50 feet from the cookshack. The excavation is only a foot or so deep. It’s where we pour our dishwater and coffee grounds. When we break camp  we fill it again with soil and forest and range duff, smoothing it out, leaving no trace. This “leave no trace ethic” is what we do with our entire camp when move to the next nomadic stake for the summer; cold ashes get spread out, fire ring stones get scattered, all gear gets stowed, rolled and folded up, and trash gets carried and bundled. It happens every week, as we follow the green grass upwards over several thousand feet of elevation, as our cattle graze several hundred miles over the summer.  

Coffee pot rinsed but never perfectly clean but well seasoned, I next fill it 3/4 of the way with water, set it on the stove on high, and bring to a boil. This is not a 212 degree boil. It’s probably only around 190, as our 7000 foot camp elevation doesn’t allow for more; boiling point lowers with every thousand feet of gain. After it rolls away for a minute or two, I’ll turn the heat way down and bring the tin of coffee over. It’s already ground. Drip size grounds are about right. I’ll take 3-4 handfuls (about 1 cup) of coffee and stir while pouring it in. 

Here’s where it gets dicey: I turn the stove back up to medium heat and slowly bring it back to boiling. Boiling is absolutely critical for preventing any resemblance to the bitterness and burn of used paint thinner. And the reason I have to mind it carefully, stirring occasionally, is so that the coffeepot does not boil over. Frequent is this occurrence in the hours between 4 and 5 am, as awareness, at that hour for many souls, pre-coffee, is not optimal.

If boil-over occurs, slide the pot off heat, pet your border collie who thankfully will never judge you, and reignite the gas stove taking care not to burn your knuckle hairs off again like you did earlier. I write this in the second person because I have for the most part been able to skip this section due to a great deal of practice.

Now, I continue the boil of the grounds for a total of 5 minutes. This is not a wimpy boil, but a good rolling one. Don’t despair on this step–it only takes practice. The foam that plagues for the first minute or two will soon dissipate, and there will be just rolling java for the next few minutes. No more than 5 rolling boil minutes needed, but less is guaranteed to fail the smoothness test; coffee will be predictably bitter with less. Now, I pull the pot off all heat, and dump in a half-cup of icy spring or mountain creek clear water into the pot, and stir briskly for 2 seconds. This precipitates the grounds downward. I don’t know why the water does it, but it works. I think it is something about surface tension. Some camp cooks swear by a half teaspoon of butter for precipitating. Same effect. Then, I leave it set for 2 minutes.

Then, the elixir is ready. I turn off the gas stove, and welcome again the silence. I carefully pour the first quarter cup through the strainer spout to wash trapped grounds out. Next, I throw that into the black cosmos outside the wall tent. Then, I pour the thick, earthen brown beauty smoothness into my waiting mug, taking care not to disturb the quiet precipitate of grounds at the bottom of the pot. 

As I sit on my camp chair outside with cup in one hand and Clyde’s neck in the other, we watch the vague glow of rosaceous fill tendering the eastern horizon. The stars won’t give up their place for another half hour. There’s a coyote serenading on the ridge beyond the 400 head of bedded down black cattle, but they pay crooner no mind. I can hear their deep breathing in the silence, along with the rhythmic sound of  cud chewing. I once heard an animal scientist tell of his discovery that there is a pleasure inducing endorphin flow in cows while they chew their cud. 

I too, share that when I hear them, provided that warm cup is in my hand. I’ll savor this brief moment of quiet, enjoying a cuppa as the crew finally makes their wavering and wandering pilgrimage to their same habitual needs; coffee from my same pot, or perhaps tea, while rifling though the gang-pile of horse halters, trying to find theirs with which to gather their mount for the day. 

In another few minutes, we together wordlessly walk across the meadow and the dark timber where we can hear the horse string on the graze. It sometimes takes some wandering to locate them in the dark, but we know their habits and favorite haunts in each and every camp setting. The steeds are hurriedly grabbing their last bites, knowing we are on the way to catch (they miss nothing). We all know who we are riding, and as the very first iota of gray light steals onto the scene, I see mine: it’s Ben, the tall paint gelding. He has what we call a big motor, and is a pleasure to ride because he likes to work. He likes the cattle, and has a resounding appreciation for the big country. 

He’ll be a solid partner for today. I lead him to camp, to the beacon of Coleman light, and to my saddle gear perched on a sagebrush. That’s where I set my coffee, and those last few sips are just what I need before we turn the 400 out and ride into the sunrise with Clyde beside and Ben beneath.

Happy Trails.