COWBOY COFFEE, CRITTERS AND ARROWHEADS

I found a twig the right size, and put it in the coffee pot … keeps it from boiling over. 

Our Cowboy Coffee is made in an old blue, enamel coffee boiler by pouring the ground coffee in the bottom of the pot, and then filling it with water.  Then, you sit it on the campfire until it just starts to boil.  The twig does keep it from boiling over.  Once it gets to the stage where it almost boils, you move it out to the edge to “steep” for a few minutes and to let the grounds settle to the bottom.  You can make it on the Coleman stove if you want to, but It just isn’t really Cowboy Coffee that way.  If you don’t have an old blue, enamel coffee boiler, then you can put coffee in a plain white cotton sock and tie a knot in it and toss it into a pot of boiling water.  Do make sure the sock is clean.  I have done that when we were out of power during a hurricane.

Sitting at the campfire, staring at the embers and waiting for the Cowboy Coffee to be ready, The Royster and I would sit chatting quietly and watching the dawn wake up the landscape.   In the faint light of dawn, you could see a few deer grazing several yards away.  There are just no other smells or sounds like the smells and sounds at dawn out where we used to camp.  Nor is there the peace that one feels in that place and at that time.  Roy had been camping at that same spot yearly, long before he and I met.  His friend, John, called the spot where we camped, Roy’s Camp, which made it that much more special. 

The place where we camped was on a ranch in Montell, Texas near Uvalde.  You have to go through about seven bump gates to get there.  Our little camp was situated among the hills and native trees below a ranch house, and just above a creek that flows on a limestone bed.  There are real human foot prints fossilized, both in the creek and along either side.  There were also limestone depressions about the size of a bathtub that two grown people could actually sit in. The whole area holds an enchantment of historical times when the Montell Indians lived there.

Where we camped, there were no conveniences as we know them in the everyday life of urban and suburban dwellers.  No timer to set to have the coffee ready when we wake up; no plumbing, and no electricity.  Our tent, sleeping bags, a small table, a couple of folding chairs and a lantern were all we had.   We used an old Coleman two burner stove if we wanted to cook breakfast, and a couple of large coolers for food and drinks.  Oh, yes, and The Royster's homemade stereo.

Since our Hosts would pop in unannounced periodically (And, they were always welcomed), we devised a really good make-shift shower using two solar camp shower bags, a very large Hula Hoop and a couple of shower curtains to hang in a nearby tree.  Perfect.

It was during these early mornings when Ol’ Vic would show up to have some Cowboy Coffee with us.  Roy had met Ol’ Vic through his son, John, whom he had contracted to do some work on an oil lease.  They became good friends.  He and his dad owned the land that we camped on, and, in his younger days, Ol’ Vic had been a 1936 Bronc Riding Champion.  Vic would sip his coffee with us and tell us stories for a while before he would tell us that he had to get on with the day, which usually meant a casual day of fishing or deer hunting through the window of his cabin from his rocking chair in the living room.  The window just happened to face a deer trail, and he knew just when to “hunt”.  He made his own venison sausage, and cured and smoked it in the old smoke shack that had been there for generations.

Later on in the day, John would show up.  I’d never hear his horse approaching, nor would I hear him sneaking up behind me to pick me up and spin me around.  It always just scare the poop out of me; not just once, but every time he’d do that.

 

Sometimes, John would just call Roy and tell him that he’d just plowed up a field, and there had been a pretty good rain right after plowing.  “There’ll be plenty arrowheads surfacing.”  He’d say.  We’d pack up the truck and head out west to see what we could find.  With a stick and a good eye, we could go scratching around and usually come up with several good arrowheads and a pretty good artifact or two; even if it was just an old horseshoe or cow bell.

 

We would look for arrowheads, and snoop around until it just got too hot, and then we’d go back to camp and have some lunch and possibly a nap in the shade of a tree, or maybe take our lawn chairs down to the creek to loll in the cool clear water.  On another day, we might go to Blue Hole, which was a really  beautiful place further up the creek, where torrential rains had pounded a hole in the creek about 20’ deep, and maybe 30’ wide.  The result was a perfect swimming hole, complete with a stone diving platform.

 

One afternoon we’d just finished a lunch of sandwiches and coleslaw.  Since the slaw was gone, I just dropped the spoon in the Tupperware bowl and put the sealing lid back on and sat it on the table.  As we gazed around, The Royster pointed out a small armadillo that was sniffing around.  It was several feet away, and Roy picked up a clod of dirt and chunked it at the armadillo.  Startled, it popped up like a piece of popcorn.  We entertained ourselves by chunking clods of dirt at the poor thing, watching it pop up with every clod of dirt tossed near it.  Later in the evening we would join John and friends for a little band music and dancing up by the ranch house.  After that, it was back to camp and a very peaceful sleep.

 

In the wee hours of the morning there was a startling rattling noise; sort of like a spoon stuck in a garbage disposal.  I jumped up and woke The Royster, who would have slept right through it.  The rattling just kept on.  I let my eyes adjust to the dark, and peeked out of the tent.  There in the moon light, sitting on the little table was a raccoon with the sealed bowl with the spoon it.  The raccoon was shaking the bowl violently, trying to get at the food inside.  My hero, The Royster, came out and hurtled a cantaloupe at the little raccoon to chase it away.  I brought the rattling bowl back into the tent with us.  The little raccoon had won after all…a wonderful cantaloupe for a nights foraging.

We have not been out to Roy’s Camp in years, but I think about it fondly, and wonder if I could camp like that again.  I think I could, but not in the heat of the summer.  We had so much fun out there, and there was so much to see.  It took away the fast paced, rough and tumble of the city life and the suburban life.  Yes, I think I could get used to that kind of living on a daily basis … maybe not camping out, but out away from the masses of toil and haste.   

Yes … I think April might just be perfect.