Soldier Girl Coffee Does it Again

I have finally done it, I have had an entire bag of each of Carrie Beavers Soldier Girl Coffee blends, and they’re all awesome. The last flavor I sampled was the Hazelnut because I have never liked that blend of coffee. Don’t get that confused with the idea that if it’s the only thing being served, I won’t drink it, though. But I was never one to go out of my way to purchase some because I just knew I wouldn’t like due to past experiences. 

I was talking to Carrie one afternoon about her latest coffee blend Southern Pecan, and she asked, “So, does that complete your tour of my coffee blends?” 

I had to answer honestly and inform her that I had indeed tried them all except for Hazelnut because I have never been a huge fan. That wasn’t an acceptable excuse apparently because Carrie sent a bag with my next order telling me, in an enclosed note, to stop being a puss and give it a try. 

At first, I opened the French Vanilla Hemp Infused bag I had initially ordered and made a pot of that because, well, that’s what I was craving. But the next day, I opened the Hazelnut, and the aroma that slapped me in the face was amazing. I thought Carrie had put the wrong blend in the wrong bag. “Surely this can’t be Hazelnut,” I thought to myself as I eagerly scooped the grounds from the bag, placing them in the coffee filter. 

Once the coffee started brewing, I went over to my computer to start typing the last chapter of my book, “Life’s Memorable Moments.” But, I became distracted by the saliva building in my mouth. The smell of the coffee coming from the kitchen had been seeping into my subconscious, causing a significant distraction. I regained my focus, went back to read what I had typed, and discovered I had inserted the word “coffee” five times in two sentences. 

“Well. I guess I had better get a cup,” I mumbled to myself as I rose from the computer. I grabbed my cup, and as I poured the black gold into the mug, I was tempted to drink straight from the pot. 

Soldier Girl Coffee’s Hazelnut blend is different from any other Hazelnut blend I have ever tasted. The mixture of coconut adds a subtle sweetness to the Hazelnut sending your taste buds into a happy state of confusion. The sensory overload I was experiencing distracted me entirely from my task of typing. I decided to go outside, light up a cigar and just enjoy the new addition to my top-shelf coffee collection.

I will conclude my grand tour of Soldier Girl Coffee by simply saying all the blends are spectacular. They are perfectly blended, requiring nothing. However, if it’s a particularly cold night, perhaps you should add your favorite whiskey and choice of smoke and sit near a large fire. If there is a better way to enjoy winter weather, it has thus far eluded me.

The Hubble and James-Webb Space Telescopes

Hubble Space Telescope over Earth 2009

The Hubble Space Telescope is a large space-based observatory launched into space in 1990 aboard the space shuttle Discovery. It orbits the Earth at an altitude of 340 miles at a cruising speed of 17,000 MPH. The large space telescope is named after Edwin Hubble. In the 1920s, some incredible discoveries completely changed how we understand the Universe. The first Discovery Edwin Hubble made in the 1920s was that some of the faint hues in the night sky weren’t clouds of dust but whole galaxies much like our own Milky Way. Before this discovery, the Milky Way was thought to be alone in the Universe. His discovery of more galaxies shook the core of the human species’ understanding of space and its existence. Much like the discovery of the Earth being round and not flat had done. While the discovery of other galaxies was profound, it was overshadowed when Edwin Hubble further analyzed the galaxies. He then realized that the further away a galaxy was from Earth, the faster it moved away. This observation directly resulted in our current Big Bang Theory.

Edwin Hubble

Due to new cutting-edge scientific modules being installed, the Hubble Space Telescope’s capabilities have increased immensely over the last 30-years, thanks to six astronaut-led service missions. Because the astronauts completed these upgrades, the Hubble has remained in use longer than previously expected. 

Hubble’s lens Allows it to see an extensive range of light, from the ultra-violet, the visible, and even into the infrared. Because of this ability, the Hubble has captured many stunning images of nebulas: like the “Pillars of Creation” in the Eagle Nebula,

Pillars Of Creation

The Horsehead Nebula,

Horsehead Nebula

My personal favorite is the Crab Nebula,

Crab Nebula

And, of course, the Orion Nebula, which can be seen with the naked eye in the night sky tonight if you live in the Northern Hemisphere.

Orion Nebula

The Hubble Space Telescope has fundamentally changed what we know about our solar system, our galaxy, and our observable Universe. In fact, because of Hubble, we know our observable Universe is about 95 Billion Light Years across.

Hubble has found distant disks of gas and debris orbiting newborn stars. One day these disks may become new planetary systems like our solar system.

Protoplanet formation

It watched as the Shoemaker-Levy 9 Comet slammed into Jupiter.

Shoemaker-Levy 9 Before impacting Jupiter

It also tracked the first confirmed interstellar Comet, “Borisov” in 2019. as it raced through our solar system.

Borisov Comet

We have captured images of merging galaxies and…

even determined, our Universe is expanding at an alarming rate, several times faster than the speed of light. 

Hubble has also allowed astronomers to discover planets orbiting distant stars; we call them exoplanets. Scientists use what is known as the “Transit Method” to find new exoplanets. They can determine the exoplanet’s orbit, size, and even atmosphere. Suppose the astronomers determine an exoplanet has an atmosphere. In that case, they can then look at the color spectrum of light passing through the atmosphere to judge its composition. Essentially, the scientists can tell, using Hubble, if an exoplanet can support life. Well, life as we know and understand it, anyway.

Exoplanet Transit

More than 1.5 million observations have been made throughout the Hubble Space Telescope’s life. Over 19,000 peer-reviewed scientific papers have been published using Hubble as their source. There isn’t an Astronomy textbook in circulation today that isn’t filled with photos taken by Hubble or research articles made possible because of Hubble. 

If Hubble is so great, why is it being replaced by the James-Webb Space Telescope?

Sadly, the last upgrade to Hubble was done in 2009, and the limits of Hubble have been realized. With the significant advancements in technology in the last 13 years, NASA and other space exploration agencies understand it’s time for a new large space telescope.

The James-Webb Space Telescope

On December 25, 2021, the James-Webb Space Telescope was launched into space. On Monday, January 24, 2022, it reached its final orbital destination in the Lagrange 2 region between the Moon and Mars. Unlike the Hubble, the James-Webb will orbit the Sun instead of the Earth and won’t be serviceable like the Hubble. At least not in the foreseeable future. 

But like the Hubble, the James-Webb Space Telescope will usher in a better understanding of the Universe’s mysteries and further our understanding of physics. Who knows, it might change what we know about physics entirely depending on what astronomers are able to observe. The James-Webb just came online this week, and there are many checks the engineers have to go through to ensure all systems are good to go before any real imagery comes back from the large space observatory. Currently, fresh photos of our favorite stellar phenomenon are estimated to arrive in May 2022. I’ll be keeping a close eye on information about James-Webb, and as soon as I know, you’ll know.

But, let’s remember it was because of the contributions of the Hubble Space Telescope and the profound observations made through it that the need for the James-Webb Telescope became a reality.

Life’s Memorable Moments: Stories that didn’t Make the Book

The FDIC Building Downtown Dallas: Part One

During the summer of 2002, the plumbing company I worked for, Geep Mechanical, picked up a project at the FDIC building in downtown Dallas. The task was simple enough: drop a pair of chilled-water lines down from the roof of the twenty-two-story building through a pipe shaft to the ninth floor. That’s where the communication systems and internet servers were. The first challenge was figuring out where the two 4-inch Victaulic lines were going in the existing pipe shaft. 

The pipe shaft was about the size of a two-car elevator shaft, only it was crammed full of an assortment of piping and I-beams to hold the piping in place. The task of installing the piping was so daunting that Geep could charge time and material to complete the project rather than an outright bid. Geep could charge this because the job was so dangerous that no other companies wanted to touch it. Not just for those of us doing the installation but for the employees working in the building. 

Victaulic Pipe and Coupling

To put some perspective on the task, this is what we did. We dropped fifty feet of pipe at a time down the pipe shaft with a winch cable. To accomplish this, we assembled two twenty-one-feet long pieces of Victaulic pipe, then cut one foot off of one end so we could get rid of the grooves. Then we welded a nine-feet long piece of weld pipe to the end we cut off; to make fifty feet. We then welded a ⅝ nut onto the side of the pipe about ten feet from one end, wrapped the winch cable around the pipe under the bolt, and pulled the cable tight. Once the cable was tight, we shoved a pin through the nut and continued to lift the pipe, guiding it into the hole in the roof leading to the pipe shaft.

As the pipe was lowered down the shaft, two of us would leapfrog down the stairway stopping at every third floor where an opening was cut into the wall to give access to the pipe shaft. A person would crawl through the hole into the shaft and stand on a 4-inch wide I-beam until they could get their hands on the pipe being lowered towards them. They would then guide it down to the person three stories below. At any given point, a person was standing between nine and 19 stories trying to manhandle fifty feet of pipe without plunging to their death. 

There was one event where the pipe got hung on a pre-existing I-beam, and the noose of the winch cable grew larger as more slack developed in the cable. Those of us in the pipe shaft began yelling in the walkie-talkies, we were issued, at the winch operator telling him to stop. Unfortunately, the operator heard our screams before he heard us over the radio. All the metal in the shaft disrupted the signal. Luckily, the cable was pulled up, the noose tightened around the pipe again under the nut, and the pin fell back in place when the pipe began to straighten. If that pipe had dropped, it definitely would have bounced off of something, shot through a wall, and killed a few employees minding their own business. Fortunately, that never happened. The fact that no one was seriously hurt on the project speaks volumes to how capable Geep Mechanical was as a plumbing company. That’s not to say the project went without incident, though. The entire duration of the job was one big screw with Mikey, fest, which began about a week into the project. 

Chain Fall

It was late May, and Mike Callan, the Plumbing Department Supervisor, had come out to get a chain-fall we weren’t using to take to another project. I remember it was about 1:30 PM because we had worked through lunch due to a looming storm moving our way. When Mike Callan arrived, the storm was directly overhead, and the sky was green, signaling hail or a tornado. Clay, Donny, Darin, and I were scrambling to pick up anything that might get blown off the roof by straight-line winds. Mike Callan was helping tie things down and pointing out anything we might have missed. When we were done, we headed to the stairway right when the bottom fell out of the clouds. The raindrops felt as large as fists, and the wind was so strong it blew the rain sideways. When we opened the door leading to the stairway, the wind tried to rip it off its hinges. It took Darin and me to pull the door back closed once we were all in. It was then we realized no one had grabbed the chain-fall in our dash to the door. Everyone looked at me. 

“You can’t be serious? I only weigh 140-pounds. That wind will blow me right off the damn roof,” I exclaimed, genuinely concerned I might take flight. 

“Well, stay low and get to the chain-fall quick; it will help hold you down,” Clay laughed.  

I looked to Mike Callan to save me. 

“Sorry, Gump, you’re the low man in this group,” Mike Callan replied to my glare. He, too, was laughing. 

“Well, shit, this sucks,” I said as I stood at the door. 

Darin stood holding the doorknob, looking at me in his straw cowboy hat, wrangler pearl snap shirt, jeans, and boots, and asked, “You ready?” 

I felt like I was seventeen again, sitting on the back of a bull, getting ready to tell the cowboys around me to open the chute. I took off my hat, set it in the corner, returned to the door, took a deep breath, gave a nod, and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Darin opened the door, I bolted out, then he and Donny pulled the door shut. The wind was at my back, trying to take me into the air with each stride. About halfway, a lightning bolt lit up the sky, accompanied by a thunderous clap.

“Holy shit, that was close,” I said to myself. 

Block-and-tackle of a chain fall

I reached the chain-fall, lifted it, draped the chains around my neck and over my shoulder, so the ends hung on my chest. I held the large block-and-tackle in my arms like a running-back holds a football and headed back into the wind and rain. I reached the stairway and kicked the door so they would open it for me, but nothing happened. I reached out and opened it myself. I walked into an empty stairway. Setting down the chain-fall, I walked over to the door leading to the offices and knocked, but again there was no answer. I couldn’t open that door, though, because to get through that door, you had to have an I.D. to wave in front of the card reader on the wall. Clay and Mike Callan were the only ones with such an I.D. I merely had a visitor’s pass. 

“They wouldn’t have? Mike Callan wouldn’t have let ‘em,” I mumbled. Then I looked over at my hat, and tucked inside was a note that read,

Gump,

Bring the chain-fall to the boiler room at Kettle when you finally get out. You can finish your day there.  

Thanks. 

Mike Callan.

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” I grumbled. 

Kettle was a food plant in Fort Worth, and the only way out of the stairway without an I.D. was to walk down the twenty-two flights to the loading bay in the garage. I picked up the chain-fall and began the journey. 

“I guess I should be happy; I am going down instead of up,” I mumbled. 

Finally, I got to my truck, opened the hatch to my camper shell, and put the chain-fall in the bed. Sitting in my tool bag was another note. 

Mikey, 

Do you want to work this weekend?

Mike Callan.

I got in the driver’s seat, reached into the back cab, grabbed a towel to dry off then called Mike Callan.

“Yeah, I’ll work. Is Clay going to be there?” I said when Mike Callan answered. 

“Yeah,” He replied. 

“Good, because I am going to kill him. I know you wrote the note, but I also know it was his idea,” I responded. 

“Okay. Just wait until the end of the day when the work is done,” Mike Callan suggested while laughing, then hung up his phone. 

By the time I got home that evening, I had admitted to myself that shit was funny, and had I been Clay, I would have done the same thing. 

To be continued. 

Soldier Girl Coffee

Southern Pecan

To hell with pumpkin spice, give me my Southern Pecan

Like many people, I don’t consider myself awake until after having at least two cups of coffee. While I enjoy coffee from many different brewers, the coffee brewer I keep stocked at home is Soldier Girl Coffee which is owned and operated by a veteran named Carrie Beavers. 

As a veteran myself, I try to do my best to purchase as many products as possible from veteran-owned and operated companies. Buying my coffee from Soldier Girl doesn’t only check that box. Still, every month Carrie chooses another veteran-owned operation that is more focused on veteran health and wellness and spotlights them on her page. She also donates a portion of Soldier Girl Coffee’s profits that month to the organization. 

I have tried just about all of the Soldier Girl Coffee flavors, except the Hazelnut, but it is on my to-do list. My personal favorite is the CBD-infused French Vanilla, or should I say it was. To be fair, the CBD-infused French Vanilla is still my favorite with CBD, but my new favorite flavor is the Southern Pecan. 

 When Carrie announced she was introducing a new blend of coffee called Southern Pecan, I about leapt out of my shoes. I have a love for anything pecan flavored. Hell, I love pecans. I enjoy them more in the shell, so I get to crack them and extract the meat. It’s probably because as a child growing up, my mother and father had two great big pecan trees in their backyard. Nearly every fall, I would collect pecans and eat them. In fact, on weekends, my father wouldn’t even make me come home for lunch; he would just tell me to eat as many pecans as I could find. I was quite content with that proposal for two reasons.  First, It meant when all my friends had to go home for lunch, I could stay outside and play. Secondly, finding pecans in Fort Worth, Texas, is as easy as finding a rock on a gravel road. They are, after all, the Texas state tree. Nearly every block has at least one pecan tree; the only trick is knowing which trees were dropping fruit that year. Naturally, by the age of ten, I had the cycle of every tree within my six-block radius pegged. 

Pecan trees, like many hardwood trees, have alternate cultivating seasons. Meaning one year, they will drop a heavy load of pecans, and the following year they won’t bear as much, if any. I guess because God loved watching me eat pecans, the two trees in my parents’ backyard would drop on alternate years. So, every year at least one of them would drop a large number of pecans. I just had to fight the squirrels for them, but I had a dog for that. 

I recently received my Southern Pecan Blend from Soldier Girl Coffee, and from the moment I opened the bag, I was in love. The aroma coming from the bag made me instantly check my six for any potential squirrels wanting to take my bag from me. The gorgeous smell of coffee blended with a clear hint of pecan had my mouth watering as I loaded the coffee filter and filled the water reservoir.  I sat there anxiously waiting for the brewing process to be complete and filled my cup. I took my first sip and knew I had found an alternative to the French Vanilla. 

The other flavors I have tried

Like all of Soldier Girl’s coffee blends, the pecan flavor is subtle. I could have a slice of pecan pie with it and not have a pecan overload. However, a strange thing happens when I drink Southern Pecan coffee. The glorious taste of coffee is still in the forefront, letting you know this isn’t a sissy cup of coffee. But the smell of pecan wafting up from the cup is quite noticeable, combining with your taste buds producing a moment of unadulterated joy. Now in the cool mornings of fall, I can sit outside, enjoy the taste of pecans and not have to go under my tree to find some. This is a great thing because the pecan tree in my backyard didn’t drop very many this year. 

If you love pecans as I do, Southern Pecan from Soldier Girl Coffee is a must. Its rich coffee flavor, partnered with its bold pecan smell, hits your senses in all the right ways. God put your nose over your mouth for a reason, and with Southern Pecan Coffee from Soldier Girl Coffee for once, you’ll be glad he did. 

To hell with pumpkin spice, give me my Southern Pecan. Maybe just a splash of good whiskey, too.

The One-eyed Cow Vs. Two Combat Vets

Life’s Memorable Moments

We often receive lessons in humility straight from the hand of God, and to ensure we learn those lessons, they are delivered via one of his other creations. For a friend and me, that lesson would come disguised as a one-eyed cow. 

My friend Walt and I are friends from the Army. We have shared the hardships of combat and have individually had to hunt the most dangerous prey. Sometime after we exited the Army, I had traveled to Tennessee to offer him a hand on a cattle operation where he had been hired. In return, he was going to help me get some of my Veterans Affairs issues resolved. 

 We woke up one morning, and our Boss informed us that a neighbor’s cattle had gotten loose and were in one of the pastures we hadn’t fenced yet. Our Boss, however, didn’t want us to do anything about them just yet. Not until she had a chance to contact who she thought was the owner of the cattle. So, Walt and I finished our coffee and set out to continue fencing a different portion of the property. After a few days, the owner of the wandering herd was able to capture most of the cattle except for one. He vowed he would return when she came out of the densely forested hills. If we saw the cow, give him a call, and he would get over as quickly as he could.

 A few days went by, and the lonely stray cow made her way back into the pasture, and our Boss called the owner. That same evening, the cow’s owner came to wrangle the animal and once again failed. Walt and I watched from the four-car garage of the farmhouse, enjoying the cool evening with a couple of beers. The debacle playing out down the hill in front of us provided entertainment. After the sun had set behind the Tennessee hills, we saw the dome light of a truck’s cab come on with the opening of the driver’s door, then it went off as the same door closed. The headlights came on, and the truck headed our direction and stopped outside the open bay door of the garage. 

“Hello, fellas.” The man said as he stepped out of his truck. “How are y’all?” 

“A sight better than you, it would seem,” Walt replied with a laugh. 

“Want a beer?” I was laughing too.  

“No sir, I brought my own.” The man responded. “I don’t believe that’s one of my cows,” he added. 

“That was a hell of a lot of effort for a cow that turned out not to be yours?” Walt questioned. 

“Yeah, that’s the problem with these black Angus; they all look the same till you get close enough.” The man returned. 

“You sure she didn’t just get the better of you, and now you’re giving up?” I asked. 

“Yeah, if you need some help getting her in that trailer, we would be happy to lend a hand,” Walt added. 

“No, sir! I truly believe that creature doesn’t belong to our herd.” The man said with enough enthusiasm to make us question his honesty. 

“Well, who do you think it belongs to then?” I asked while lighting a cigarette. 

“I couldn’t really say; she seems pretty feral.” The man offered. 

“Okay then, we will let our boss know,” Walt said. “Have a nice night.” 

With that, the man got back in his truck and headed back down the gravel road into the darkness from whence he came. 

“Not his cow, my ass. You know damn well that was his cow.” Walt said to me. 

“Yeah, that guy doesn’t belong in the cattle business anyway. You don’t herd cattle with a shotgun.” I added. “The Boss should be back soon. We will let her know and then discuss what we want to do in the morning. “

“Yeah. You want another beer?” Walt asked. 

“Yeah, I might as well,” I responded. 

The night went on and grew cooler. When the Boss returned from town, we told her what had happened. She said she would think about it, and we would discuss it in the morning. Walt and I had a couple of more beers then called it a night. The following morning we sat around the kitchen table having our coffee while discussing the cow. 

“I’ll make some calls today to the other farms around here and see if anyone is missing a cow.” The Boss said. “In the meantime, if you see her, try to get a better look at her. If no one claims her, I want to know if she can be added to our herd.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Walt and I responded in unison. We put our coffee in our thermoses, grabbed our water jugs from the refrigerator, and headed back out to our fencing project. It was now mid-March in middle Tennessee, and the days were growing warmer. There were still going to be a few cold snaps, but the harshness of winter was through for the most part. We started our days with jackets and beanies but were typically down to short sleeves and ball caps before noon. Later that afternoon, while taking lunch, we looked out over the pasture, and there was the cow. 

“There she is,” Walt said, “Let’s go get a look at our potential opponent.” 

We jumped in the ATV and headed over that way slowly. We didn’t want the sound of the engine to startle the animal. When we got about 200 meters from the cow, we stopped, turned off the ATV, and proceeded on foot. We were able to get within about forty feet before she started to show signs of discomfort. Forty feet was close enough to see what we were dealing with, though. 

“Boy, she doesn’t look good at all,” I said to Walt, who was less than a foot from my left shoulder. 

We squatted down, so we were less threatening, and Walt added, “Yeah, what’s wrong with her eye?” 

“I am not sure? But she sure looks sickly. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were some sort of disease.” I responded. 

“I don’t think it should be added to the herd. How about you?” Walt questioned. 

“I agree, not until we get it looked at by the vet, at least,” I answered.

“Well, that’s all the Boss wanted us to do. I guess we’ll leave her alone for now.” Walt said.

We slowly backed off until we were a safe distance then turned, and headed back to the ATV. We continued sourcing cedar posts from fallen trees, and that night we told the Boss what we had seen. 

“She is skin and bone, and her ribs show through well enough to count them. Her hair is black and mated, and one eye is shut either by disease or injury; we haven’t been able to get close enough to tell. It’s mine and Walt’s opinion that we shouldn’t add her to the herd until we get her looked at by a vet.” I informed the Boss. 

“Well, no one is laying claim to her. Let’s see if we can get her into a quarantine pen, then I’ll get the vet out here.” The Boss said. 

“Roger that, ma’am. We’ll get the pen set up tomorrow, then go looking for her.” Walt said. 

 “Get the pen ready, yes, but don’t go looking for her. If she shows back up, see if you can get her corralled. Otherwise, just keep working on those fences,” The Boss said.. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Walt was also in agreement.

Walt and I devised ourselves a plan and toiled over it until surely nothing could go wrong. We perceived her feeble frame and poor posture as a sign of weakness. Surely it would be simple to corral the seemingly shaky-legged beast. I think it was our hubris that caught God’s attention. The next time we saw her, we would put our plan into action, and God would also put his lesson into action. 

The next day we built the quarantine pen. We got a large bale of hay and a water trough ready for when she returned. If she stuck to her current pattern, it would be about three days until her next sighting. However, after two weeks went by, we still hadn’t seen her. We thought perhaps she had made it back to her own herd. 

One evening we headed back from the fences early to put out some hay for our herd and check their water. Once again, there was the cow; in the pasture, she had obviously claimed as her own. I couldn’t blame her. It was an excellent pasture. Long and narrow, with a creek lined with large trees and the main farm road on one side. On the other side lay the hills, thick with trees. The pasture stretched nearly 500 meters. It had a nice dogleg right about three-quarters of the way if you looked from the west to the east. It was rich with clover and good grass and had already been designated as our finishing pasture once we installed the fence. I was driving the ATV when I saw her and slapped Walt’s arm without looking at him. 

“Yeah, I see her,” Walt said. “Let’s go take care of our herd, and if she is still there when we’re done, we’ll give it the ol’ college try.” 

With that, I put the pedal down, and we headed to the pole barn, which sat across the road from the finishing pasture’s most western point. A new, burnt orange tractor and about twenty large round bales of hay sat in the pole barn. It only took the two of us about 45 minutes to get the feed and watering done. As Walt was parking the tractor, I walked across the road while lighting a cigarette to see if the cow was still in the pasture where we last saw her. It was dusk now, and we had about an hour at most before the sun was completely set. So, after my smoke was lit, I looked up. Much to my surprise, the creature wasn’t where we had last seen her. She had made her way west also and was only about fifty meters in front of me. I waited patiently for Walt, not wanting to call out and spook the animal. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Walt said quietly while lighting his own cigarette. “This is going to be easy as pie.” 

“Damn it, Walt, you’ve gone and done it now,” I said, knowing a statement like that just ensured nothing was going to be easy as pie.

“Sorry, Mike. If it doesn’t go well, at least we have something to blame it on.” He laughed. “I’ll skirt the creek if you take the hills.” 

“Yep, I got it,” I replied. 

The plan was simple at this point. Walt would skirt the creek staying in the trees, moving as quietly as possible. I would skirt the hillside, staying where the animal could see me so I could keep its attention. Once we could get around behind her, we would close in and slowly work her into the quarantine pen. 

Surprisingly, the cow never focused on me once Walt and I split up. Instead, she stayed laser-focused on Walt, rotating as he walked around her. When Walt exited the trees into the pasture about a hundred feet behind the cow, we started to walk towards each other. It was at this moment the creature let out a great bellowing call. 

The scene must have looked like it was pulled from a movie. The cow perfectly playing its part as the underestimated foe. Walt and I looked at one another; we were now twenty meters apart, both curious as to what the animal had just tried to tell us. The three of us stood there still as statues as though waiting for someone to shoot first. A few seconds went by, then Walt and I started our push, keeping perfectly in line with each other as we had done before against well-armed enemies. The cow let out another bellow, then turned and began to walk casually toward the quarantine pen. 

“See, easy as pie,” Walt said halfway in doubt of his own words. 

“Did those bellows sound like this is going to be easy as pie?” I responded as quietly as I could and still had him hear me. “Why do I get the feeling we are being set up?” I laughed.

“You’re giving this animal more credit than it deserves, Mike. It’s going to be fine.” Walt said confidently. 

“What does Murphy’s Law of Combat say about this? Something about the best-laid plan, isn’t?” I countered. 

We proceeded to walk behind the animal as she continued to stay right on course, but then as she got to the wide-open gate, she veered to the left, past the pen. Then, she picked up her speed along a game trail. Just like that, she was off into the trees and disappeared into the darkness of the forest. 

I looked at Walt and laughed, “You can’t tell me that shit wasn’t planned. Still think I was giving her too much credit?”

“It’s my fault, I guess?” Walt said. 

“Damn right, it’s your fault! Easy as pie? Really, man? You know better than to jinx an op that way.” I laughed. “Come on, I think there is still some beer in the cooler from last night. We can try to forget about the fact we were just outsmarted by a cow.”

“Not just a cow, a one-eyed cow!” Walt laughed. “Don’t guess I can talk you into keeping your mouth shut about this one?” 

“Nope,” I stated. 

“Didn’t think so.” He laughed. “Then you can tell the boss in the morning.” 

The following morning we were once again at the kitchen table. But, because it was Saturday, we didn’t have anything significant on the worklist. Over breakfast, I informed the Boss about the previous evening’s events. After a bit of a laugh, we concluded we wouldn’t underestimate the cow again. That night, Walt and I went over to Justin’s house. The following Tuesday would be St. Patrick’s Day, and we figured since all of us were Irish, we should get the celebrations done early. Justin lived just a few miles away and was a friend of Walt’s. Justin had served in the Marines before returning to the Lynchburg area, where he now worked as a promoter for Jack Daniel whiskey. He always had a fresh bottle that needed drinking, and Walt and I were always willing to help. I told Justin the story about being outsmarted by a one-eyed cow, and again, Walt and I laughed hysterically. We still had the mental image of the cow leisurely strolling toward our perfectly planned pen, setting us up for heartbreak. 

Late Sunday afternoon, we returned from Justin’s house after going fishing at a nearby river. Walt and I were laughing about something we had heard on the radio when we came upon the quarantine pen. Behold, there was the cow. It was locked in the pen snug as a bug. Walt stopped the truck. 

“How the hell?” He said. 

“The boss must have gotten lucky,” I replied.

We continued up the hill to the parking area outside the farmhouse and hopped out. We placed our leftover beer in the coolers in the garage then went inside. The Boss was sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Hello, fellas.” She said with a grin. 

“Nope, not buying it. How in the hell?” I blurted. 

“She was in there eating the hay we had left, and I just walked up calmly behind her and closed the gate.” She said, “The cow went ballistic for about an hour, though, so you might go down there and check to make sure the pen is holding up well.” 

Walt laughed, then he slapped my shoulder and said, “See, easy as pie.” 

“Yeah, Yeah. Let’s go check the pen, then I am headed to bed. We have a lot more fence to run.” I responded. 

So we walked down the hill to the pen. The cow raised its head from the hay pile as we approached, and we got our first good look at her eye. 

“I am not a vet, but I am willing to bet a bottle of Jameson that it’s some sort of disease,” I said to Walt as I leaned on one of the pen panels. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I am going to take that bet,” Walt replied. 

Just then, the cow charged at us and slammed into the pen panel where I was standing. Walt and I both jumped back a couple of feet.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “Easy girl, eat your hay. We aren’t here to take it from you.” 

“Let’s check the hinge-pins of the panels and leave her be,” Walt said. “No sense getting her all riled up.”

So we split up and made our way around the pen, keeping our distance so we wouldn’t further upset the animal. 

“My side looked okay,” I told Walt. 

“Yeah, mine too. After that bit of excitement, I think I want a beer and a steak. “Walt said. “The boss can call the vet out tomorrow.”. 

With that, we headed back to the farmhouse. We made ourselves some steaks on the grill with some vegetables, then headed to our bunks after dinner. I could hear the cow beating up the pen for a few hours, trying to find a way out. I had heard cattle do this before and knew eventually she would settle into her new surroundings. After all, she had plenty of hay, water, and even some sweet oats to make her comfortable. Soon things became quiet, and I closed the book I had been reading, turned out my lamp, and was off to sleep. 

The following morning we woke just as the sun was rising over the eastern hills. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the caffeine to do its job. As I sat down, Walt emerged, seemingly in the same state I was in. Neither of us even greeted each other. Instead, he poured his coffee, and we both sat at the table in silence. After we were about halfway through our cups, Walt finally spoke. 

“How’d you sleep, Mike?” He asked. 

“Like a baby,” I replied, “I woke up every couple of hours and cried. I accidentally left my window open. Damn, it got cold.” 

“Why didn’t you get up and close it?” Walt asked. 

“Because that would have been colder,” I explained. 

“I thought you were some big shot 10th Mountain Division Polar Bear?” Walt questioned.

“I am, but just because I can tolerate the cold doesn’t mean I enjoy it,” I said in rebuttal.

“Fair enough,” Walt said. 

I finished my cup, got up to refill it, and topped Walt’s off while I had the pot in my hand. About that time, the Boss walked in the back door returning from feeding her pets and chickens. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.” The Boss said. 

“Morning, ma’am,” we responded. 

“I was about to call the vet.” The Boss stated. 

“Okay, we will stop and check on the cow on our way out to continue the fencing.” I returned. 

“Yeah, we need to stop at the Pole Barn anyway. I think we might need the tractor to bring down some more T-posts.” Walt added. 

Walt and I grabbed our gear and headed out the door to the ATV, then drove down to the Pole Barn, which lay just behind the quarantine pen. As we approached the pen, to our surprise, the beast was gone. One of the panels had been lifted off one of its hinge-pins and twisted the other pin, so the panel lay flat to the world. 

“What the hell?” Walt said. 

“I don’t know, man. I don’t think I have ever seen that happen?” I replied. 

We pulled the ATV off the gravel road, through the mud, and next to the pen. Then we stopped and got out to examine the damage. The corral had been beaten savagely. There were dents in the panels, and the whole construction had been jerked from its original position about a-foot. After circling the pen together, Walt and I came to where the animal had exited the enclosure. We could see hair on the remaining top panel pin and the bottom pin slot where the missing pin had once been. There were some clear hoof prints in the mud near the exit point, but then the hoof prints vanished as though the creature had grown wings and flown away. 

“Where are the tracks, Mike?” Walt asked. “Am I blind?” 

“Nope. I don’t see them either.” I responded. 

“We used to do this for a living, right? I mean, we are trained for this shit, aren’t we?” Walt added both baffled and frustrated. 

“I thought so,” I replied. 

We continued to make circles, trying to find any sign of which direction the creature had gone, but none were found. Finally, we decided to call it a loss and went back up to the farmhouse to tell the Boss the cow was gone and not to call the vet. 

After informing the Boss of what we had seen, we continued work on the fencing. We left the pen as it was until the Boss had a chance to go down and see the damage for herself. I stopped the ATV at the Pole Barn to drop Walt off so he could get the tractor. He lit up a cigarette and looked at the pen.

“I have seen some pretty crazy things, Mike, but I haven’t ever seen an 800-pound animal vanish without leaving so much as a track,” Walt said. 

“Yeah, she straight up pulled a Houdini on us, man,” I responded.

“She sure the hell did. Hey, what was Houdini’s wife’s name?” He asked. 

“Bess, I think?” I responded as I did a quick internet search on my phone. “Yep, Bess.” 

“Bess,” Walt said as he expelled some smoke from the drag he had just taken. “Seems fitting, don’t you think.” 

“Yes, sir, I think it is,” I responded. And, with that, the cow was named. 

About a week went by with no sign of Bess. She was at the front of our minds, though. Walt and I often wondered how an animal so large could travel through the mud and not leave a track. The only thing we could surmise was she had skirted the mud and walked through a deep grassy area. There wasn’t a clear trail left by the cow if it had gone through the grass; but, if she had done it early enough in the night, the wind and frost might have covered her tracks. We had called our neighbors and told them if they saw Bess let us know, and we would do our best to capture her. 

Bess had almost made her way out of our minds when one night, right as we had put some steaks on the grill, the Boss got a call. The cow was in our immediate neighbors’ pasture about a half-mile down the road. The field Bess was in was just east of our finishing pasture. So hopefully, we could walk her through a large opening in our shared fence line through the finishing pasture and into the redesigned quarantine pen. 

The pen was basically the same design, only smaller, so she wouldn’t have much room to run. We had driven T-posts into the ground where each panel connected then secured the panels to the T-posts. Hopefully, that would hold her, although I secretly had my doubts. 

“Jeff said Bess was in his back pasture.” The Boss came out and told us. “You haven’t put the steaks on yet, have you?” 

Walt and I looked at each other, and both said, “Murphy’s back.” 

“Yeah, but Mike can get our gear while I sear them real quick. Looks like we are all having our steaks rare tonight.” Walt responded to the Boss. 

I loaded the ATV with our gear which consisted of some herding flags and our heavier jackets. Walt walked the steaks into the house, put them in the oven, then came out and hopped in the ATV. There were about two hours of daylight left. Walt and I wish we had three hours, but maybe Bess would cooperate this time. We drove down to Jeff’s house, a double-wide trailer house that was well-kept and white. As we pulled up, Jeff and his wife came out to greet us. 

“She is over in the side lot just to the west,” Jeff said as he shook our hands. 

“Thank you, sir. We saw her as we drove up,” Walt responded. 

“That’s a good way to push a cow on foot. Hopefully, the creek acts as a natural barrier for you boys,” Jeff commented. 

“Yeah, hopefully,” Walt returned. “Mike, you wanna take the creek-side this time?” Walt asked me. 

“Sure, why not,” I replied. 

So once again, we split up. I headed off to the right along the road to the treeline. Once there, I held my position down in the creek while Walt headed off to his position. Again Bess watched us intently and let out a bellow as though to say, “I see you.” 

Walt was in position and, with a hand signal, informed me he was set. So, I moved out of the creek and into the pasture so Bess could see me. I moved slowly and calmly, not wanting to startle her. As I emerged into the field, she let out a call while looking at me. I can only imagine she was saying, “Hello again, you fool.” 

Walt left the corner of Jeff’s house and walked to the pasture’s fence about a hundred feet from Bess. She called out to him, just as she did to me. Then Bess turned to the west and proceeded to walk her frail body in the direction of our finishing pasture. We followed slowly behind her, letting her lead the way. Our plan seemed to be working, but we knew better than to get complacent. We had gotten her about halfway to the opening in the fence that separated Jeff’s property from ours, and things were going well. But then, “EHHH EHHH, TEXT MESSAGE.” Screamed from Walt’s back pocket. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I yelled in a whisper. “You brought your damn phone!” 

Walt hung his head because he knew he had screwed up. I turned, and Bess was now at a trot. We were about to call it a failure when the cow stopped and looked at us. She let out another call, and it seemed as though she were laughing. Then happy with the distance between us, Bess strolled back into the middle of Jeff’s pasture and went back to grazing. I looked back at Walt and held up my arms in a shrug. He held up his phone and let me watch as he turned it off. The decision was made, we would continue our pursuit. 

We began to close on Bess once again, and once again, she raised her head and called to us. Walt and I both felt we could now understand her language. 

“I think she is saying she’s ready,” Walt said softly. 

“Yeah, I just hope we are,” I said. 

We got to within about fifty feet. We each had herding flags in both hands and began to extend them laterally like wings. Again Bess turned to the west and was calmly walking toward the opening in the fence. We had found Bess’s comfort zone for being herded. If we stayed about fifty feet behind her and moved at a slow pace, she would mosey along the way a cow should. Just as we were about fifty meters from the fence, “HONK, HONK, HONK… HONK HONK” The Boss was honking her horn from her car, not knowing we were already in the field, finally having success moving Bess. That was all it took to make Bess cut to the south, up into the thick trees on the hill. But not so far we couldn’t still see her. Walt threw his flags in the air and used a few choice expletives. 

“That’s it, I am done,” Walt yelled. “I feel like the two stooges.” 

I stabbed my flags into the ground, pulled out my smokes, and lit one up. “Yeah, I can understand the sentiment.”

“Can I get one of those? I left mine in the ATV.” Walt asked.

I handed him my pack, and we stood there looking at Bess as she looked back at us. Again she began to call to us, but now she was begging us to continue the pursuit. 

“Now I feel like she is setting us up for some elaborate trap,” Walt said.

“Yeah, I think she has been playing with us for a month now,” I said in agreement. 

“Well, should we continue or call it?” Walt asked.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well, even if it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, I guess,” I responded. 

“I know those hills better than you. I’ll go high and flank her if you go right at her. Let’s see if we can push her back out into the open.” Walt proposed. 

“Sounds good to me.” I agreed. 

We picked up our flags and proceeded with our new plan. Bess sat and watched, listened, and smelled as we moved toward her. Another bellow called out, and she turned back to the west, through the undergrowth along a game trail. I halted my pursuit to give Walt a chance to get around to her left flank. He was out of my line of sight now, but when he was set, he gave me three soft whistles to let me know to proceed with my movement. 

Bess went down a wet rocky embankment and back up the other side as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Then the cow stopped and looked at me and called to me again. “Come on, human, you can do it.” she seemed to say. I crossed behind her, and once on the other side, I let out two short whistles, and Walt answered back with two of his own. Now we had an idea where each other were. Bess didn’t know it, but by crossing the gully, she was now on our property, so at least we were making progress. 

I caught a glimpse of Walt’s flag. He was coming up on Bess’s left side to push her back down the hill into our pasture. There was only one problem: a barbed-wire fence between the pasture and the thicket we were in. As Walt closed in, Bess cooperated and began to move downhill. I was now on her right flank, keeping her from returning to Jeff’s property. Walt was within eyesight now, so again, with hand signals, I asked, “What about the fence?” Walt shrugged his shoulders. We were now in uncharted territory.  

While Walt and I had our silent conversation, I clearly wasn’t paying attention to my foot placement, and a twig broke under me. I didn’t even have to look. I could hear that she had taken off like a lightning bolt and was gone again. She was headed right for the fence, and I knew soon this would go from a capture to a rescue. Again to our surprise, she leapt over the fence like an antelope, with at least a foot of clearance. Walt and I looked at each other amazed at what we had seen. She was now in the finishing pasture, then she turned and called to us again. Not to laugh. This time, Bess was clearly gloating. “You want more, fellas? I can do this all day,” It seemed she was saying. 

“I am not being defeated by a one-eyed cow!” Walt called out. “When we catch you, Bess, if you’re not completely riddled with disease, I am fattening you up and eating you!”  

Though I was in agreement, I didn’t say anything. I was still in shock of seeing an 800-pound animal clear a fence that was four feet tall. Walt and I walked to the barbed wire fence and crawled through its middle. We were now back where it all began. In the middle of our finishing pasture, the three of us once again locked in a stare. We saw Bess’s ears perk up. Something was behind us. 

“What’s behind us, Mike?” Walt asked, wanting one of us to keep eyes on the beast. 

“It’s the boss,” I replied. 

“Good, maybe her good luck can counter all our bad.” He said.

“Let’s hope so. This is getting me frustrated.” I responded with a chuckle. 

Walt slapped my arm, laughed, and asked, “Can I get another smoke while we wait.”

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” I said to Walt. “You want one too, Bess,” I called out. 

We finished our cigarettes just as the Boss walked up. 

“Sorry for honking, guys. I didn’t know where you were.” The Boss said as she approached. 

“It’s okay, ma’am. At this point, I really don’t think it mattered.” I said sincerely.

“So, what’s the plan?” The Boss asked. 

“Mike is going to take the south side along the hill. I am going to take the center, right behind her. and If you took the north side along the creek, that would be great.” Walt replied. “Mike, if you would give her one of your flags, I’ll give her one of mine. She isn’t as quick as us, so she needs to look bigger.”

“Here you go, ma’am,” I said as I handed her one of my flags in compliance. “Walt isn’t going to start closing on her till we get in position. In reference to Bess, our position should be between the middle of Bess’s back and her front shoulder. Don’t get in front of her shoulder; that’s kind of a cow’s reverse spot.” I added. 

“Yeah, and don’t wave those things around or make any loud noises unless she turns your way. Most of the force should be coming from me.” Walt added in the caveat. 

“Boss, you have the furthest to travel; you go ahead. Walt, Bess, and I kind of have a relationship going at this point. She should stay focused on us.” I suggested. 

The Boss complied and set out to her position. Once again, the three of us were looking at each other. 

“Okay, I am off,” I said to Walt. 

“Good luck,” he replied.

“You too, sir. You too.” I returned. 

We were now all in position, and the sun was getting low. We had one more shot at this. If we failed, it would be too dark to try again. Walt began to walk toward Bess slowly and calmly. I held my position, but the Boss didn’t and also got in front of Bess’s front shoulder, which pushed Bess right towards me. It also startled Bess, which put her into a trot, forcing me to do a slight jog to keep pace. Things only escalated from there. She began to trot faster, so I decided to go into a flat run to get in front of her, which surprisingly I did, causing the cow to come to an abrupt halt. Now Bess and I were head to head in a face-off. Typically, Black Angus cattle are a gentle breed, but this beast was looking anything but gentle. One eye was closed, her hair all matted, and snot was dripping from her snout. I had been in this situation before, but it was high school, and I was in a rodeo area staring down a bull I had just been thrown from. I stood there knowing I was standing in front of a freight train but stood my ground. Walt was yelling with his hands and arms to the Boss to stop moving, realizing a sudden move from either of them could send the creature straight through me. I just needed to get Bess to calm down and turn about three degrees to the north. Then Walt could continue his push. So slowly, I raised my flag in my right hand and whispered, “Come on, Bess, we aren’t trying to hurt you. We just want to get you looked at.” Then a yell came out from the north. 

“COME ON, BESS, GET IN THE PEN!” The Boss called out. 

That was all Bess needed to get spooked. The yell came from her blind side, and she bolted right at me. I leapt out of the way as she galloped by like a thoroughbred. She shot at me as I attempted to give chase. I was right alongside her for about three or four good strides. But she got out in front, then turned into the hills and was gone into the darkness. Walt came jogging up to me. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my smokes, put one in my mouth, and held the pack out for him. 

“You, alright, man?” He asked as he took the pack. “I thought that cow had you dead to rights for sure.” 

“Yeah, I am good. It wasn’t as close as it looked from your angle.” I responded. Breathing heavily from the close encounter. 

“I thought you were going to relive your glory days as a bull rider there for a second and hop on her.” He added with a laugh. 

“I thought about it but knew I couldn’t make the leap at a dead run,” I said jokingly. 

The Boss came walking up and said, “Sorry about that, Mike.” 

“It’s okay, ma’am, no one got hurt,” I replied, trying to contain my frustration. “She’s gone now, though, so let’s go get the vehicles and get back to those steaks.” 

 Now in complete darkness, we walked down the road toward Jeff’s place. Got the vehicles and returned to the farmhouse. We sat at the table and ate in silence. When dinner was over, Walt and I went out to the garage. We drank some beers and talked about what we had witnessed from our unique perspectives. I gave Walt quite a bit of harassment about his damn phone as well. 

We never saw Bess again after that day. But we went looking in the woods for the next week to make sure she wasn’t lying somewhere injured. But we never found anything. 

A few months later, Justin was over at the farmhouse having some beers with us in the garage, and he asked, “Whatever happened to old Bess?”

“You mean the one-eyed cow that broke out of a pen and disappeared without a trace?” I asked.

“You mean the 800-pound, one-eyed cow that leapt over a four-foot fence like an antelope with room to spare?” Walt asked. 

“You mean the one-eyed cow that charged me at full gallop like a thoroughbred on race day?” I pressed further. 

“Yeah. That one.” Justin responded as he began to laugh, nearly spitting out his beer.

“We don’t think she ever really existed. She was a figment of our imagination. She’s a mythical beast like the Mentor.” I finished. Then as the words exited my mouth, a cattle call bellowed and echoed from the darkness of the hill. 

Walt pulled out a bottle of Jameson, poured three shots. Then we raised our glasses. “Here’s to Old Bess, the one-eyed cow. God sent her to teach us a lesson, and let us hope he doesn’t have any more for a while.” 

We tossed back our shots, and another deep bellow echoed from the darkness.

Flavor Without Feathers

As Americans, we have an almost love affair with coffee. Some of us want it sweet, like cake in a cup, while others prefer it harsh and bold. In a following article, I will talk about how America came to love coffee, and my love for coffee is almost adulterous. 

I think I began drinking coffee at the age of seven. My mother and father never had hot cocoa in the house, so I always got cream with a bit of coffee in it. To this day, I blame that for my short stature. But side-stepping that digression, I became a connoisseur of coffee through the 30 plus years that followed. I claim to be a connoisseur of coffee because I almost always drink it, as an old friend would say, “without feathers,” and through a series of trying times, have often sought solace in a warm cup of coffee.

These days the only thing in my coffee is cream or whiskey, sometimes both, and a hard stare at what the day may have in store. Flavored coffee is seldom my thing, and I have never been a believer in CBD oil, but Soldier Girl Coffee has changed my opinion. I have now tried all of her coffee selections and must say rarely leave a drop in the pot. 

With this coffee, there’s little sense in K-cups; you might as well make a pot because one cup just won’t be enough.

So let’s break it down. When it comes to coffee, only one thing really matters, flavor!

Let me explain my thoughts. 

Flavor

When it comes to coffee, many people drink it but need to add five sugars, two creams, cinnamon, chocolate, and a myriad of other things to get the taste they seek. At what point does coffee stop being coffee and become a hot soda drink. 

Good coffee should only need a heat source, filter, water, a cup, and maybe a spot of whiskey because who doesn’t feel Irish sometimes. If you have to add things to your coffee, then you haven’t found the proper coffee. Am I saying that Soldier Girl Coffee is the right coffee for everyone? Of course not. However, both Snickerdoodle and French Vanilla don’t require any extra steps when it comes to flavor. 

I’ll explain further…

Snickerdoodle

I’ll admit when I ordered Snickerdoodle, it wasn’t for me. My significant other likes coffee, sort of, but loves cinnamon, so I thought, what the hell, let’s give this a shot. Much to my surprise, she poured a cup, took a sip, and it was so delightful to her particular pallet that she never thought to reach in the fridge for cream or in the cabinet for sugar. In fact, it was only when she had to pour another cup that she realized she loved the coffee. 

“Holy crap,” she surprisingly stated, “this is some great shit!” 

“I know, “ I agreed, “I was worried it would be too cinnamony if that’s a word, but it’s not.” 

I walked her out to her car, and she said with a kiss, “If I got a bag of this for our anniversary to take to work, that would be okay.” She gave me a wink knowing I struggle with gift ideas. 

I’ll be taking the bailout because I am at a loss about what else to get her. Of course, I’ll get her flowers too.

French Vanilla

French Vanilla was a recommendation from Carrie herself. We were talking about the upcoming Veterans’ Social Summit when she asked me to give the flavor a chance, knowing my sensitivity to sweets when it comes to coffee. 

“I don’t know? “ I stammered over the phone, “Not a big fan of sweet coffee.”

“Just try it! Would I offer you something that isn’t good?” Carrie said. 

“Yes!” I replied, fully knowing that’s exactly the kind of friend she is.  

I did obviously try it and, like the Snickerdoodle, was happily amazed. It wasn’t sweet like I feared. The smell is of French Vanilla, but the taste has a smooth boldness. Like a good cigar, the aroma awakens your nose, but the pull is exactly what you were craving.

Last Sip

So if you are like me and struggle with the idea of flavored coffee, take a little advice from a coffee purist. TRY IT! I truly believe if you give Soldier Girl Coffee, especially French Vanilla and Snickerdoodle, the opportunity, it’ll prove to be the perfect blend of flavor that doesn’t lose the boldness coffee is supposed to have.

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Coffee

Americans have a unique connection with coffee, and the British are to blame. Damn near every American and many around the world know of the Boston Tea Party. Hell, when I was in Afghanistan, one of my interpreters told me he thought it was the coolest story in world history! Personally, I think he’s right. Those who might not know the story or are a little foggy about it, let me give an abbreviated version.

The Lead-Up
The 1760s were not very profitable for Britain. They were actually in debt up to their wigs, so they started to impose taxes on the American Colonies to pay that debt. The Stamp Act of 1765 taxed almost every piece of paper used in the Colonies, even playing cards. Then in 1767, The Townshend Act taxed even more goods. Not satisfied with just taxing paper, the Brits now taxed paper, paint, glass, lead, and tea. Needless to say, this didn’t sit well with the citizens of the Thirteen Colonies because having taxes imposed by a parliament they had zero representation in was intolerable.

On the night of March 5, 1770, a few Colonists encountered a Patrol of British soldiers. According to most accounts, the colonists had just left a tavern and were not particularly fond of having the British Military patrolling their streets. The slightly inebriated Colonists began throwing snowballs and oyster shells at the soldiers. A second patrol of soldiers arrived at the scene, and shots rang out. When the smoke had cleared, five colonists were dead, and six more had been wounded. The act of violence would go down in the history books as the Boston Massacre. Obviously, this went over like a sack of bricks for the already disgruntled Americans, and louder rumbles of revolt began to be heard even across the pond. Most of the taxes were repealed by the British Parliament, but they did keep the tax on tea because it was the most consumed item in the Colonies.

The Colonists, not satisfied, boycotted tea from the British East India Company, which lead to Britain having millions of pounds in surplus, and nearly bankrupted the company. So, the Tea Act was introduced in May of 1773. The Act made it possible for the British East India Company to sell tea to the colonies duty-free, making the tea much cheaper than other companies but maintaining the tea tax. However, the complaint of the colonists wasn’t the cost but the “taxation without representation.” I can hear an angry colonist in my mind saying to anyone that would listen at the local tavern, “It’s not about the damn cost! It’s the principle of it all!”

The Event
In the year of our Lord seventeen-hundred and seventy-three, the Sixteenth of December, a band of American Colonists dressed as Native Americans raided a ship docked at Griffin’s Wharf, Boston. The roughians gathered up the 342 chests of tea imported by the British and dumped them in the harbor. So began America’s stand against tyranny and the shift from tea to coffee.

The switch to coffee was almost immediate. By the 1800s, it was already outpacing tea in trade, one of the largest consumers being The United States.

Coffee and Cowboys
During the United States Civil War, coffee became a staple to the American soldier. On the cold winter nights of the American mid-eastern states, coffee offered a warm distraction from the misery being suffered.

After the Civil War, many of the men ventured west to work as cowboys on the quickly growing cattle drive business. Many of the cooks were also veterans of the “War Between Brothers” and brought the coffee pot with them. Cowboys on the trail often started their day dipping a tin cup into a five-gallon kettle of coffee sitting in the glowing red coals of a fire. The men would warm their hands around the mug, letting the caffeine awaken their senses. If the cook told the trail boss, they were low on coffee; it was time to turn the herd towards the nearest town.

Thanks to those old John Wayne movies and other western films like “Lonesome Dove,” I can imagine a group of cowboys sitting around a fire before dawn, getting a few bites of a biscuit and a hot cup of joe, watching the sunrise over the open plain.

With the rise of the railroad and the Industrial Revolution, the cattle drive industry died out, but the American’s love for the coffee bean grew more vigorous than ever.

Coffee in the Modern Era
Coffee in this day and age has grown astronomically. With coffee houses on almost every corner, thousands of brands sold in stores or online, and the invention of K-cups, nearly every hand in America has a coffee cup in it. There are coffee blends to satisfy any taste bud, decaffeinated coffees, even iced coffee. Even still, there are coffee artisans that will create designs in the foam of coffee.

Photo by Jill Burrow on Pexels.com

Gas stations typically have coffee going all day. Nearly every restaurant or bar has a coffee pot ready to serve, and many Americans won’t even look at their children before pressing a cup to their lips. I have heard some comment that they prefer coffee over sex. Yes, coffee in America has become an addiction to many and a crutch to others. There are even hot debates between coffee enthusiasts and those who drink power drinks. I have seen fights erupt in the right setting, though there was usually alcohol involved in those cases.

Coffee has become almost religious as well, having different sects of coffee connoisseurs. Some consider themselves purists who only drink black coffee. In comparison, others argue that the flavors of coffee are what makes it artistic. Until recently, I would only drink regular coffee black, simply because it can’t be screwed up. Now I have found Soldier Girl Coffee and their French Vanilla and Snickerdoodle has changed my mind. I have also discovered It goes quite well with a little whiskey like a good Irishman.

The Bond Between Soldiers and Coffee
Since the Revolutionary War, soldiers have developed a close relationship with coffee. Its high caffeine content helps to keep soldiers awake during those long nights when falling asleep will get you killed.

As a veteran, I can attest to how important coffee can be to a soldier’s life. While stateside soldiers often have to endure 24-hour staff-duty. During this time, the soldiers on duty are not permitted to sleep. In my opinion, the most challenging part of the 24 hours is the early morning, between 2:00 AM and 6:00 AM. To me, at this time, it often felt like the only person awake in the world was me, and my eyes would grow heavy. I would drink coffee constantly till I was so amped up with caffeine; my hands began to shake.

The entire Department of Defense is keen to the need soldiers have for coffee as well. In almost every MRE (Meals Ready to Eat) is a single pack of instant coffee. Heat some water in the provided heating bag, dump the coffee into the tin canteen cup, add the hot water, and enjoy. The MREs even come with sugar and dry creamer. On the large and medium bases overseas, there are even coffee shops to cater to soldiers’ caffeine cravings.

I think soldiers make the best judges when it comes to coffee because we have had horrible instant coffee. So, when the opportunity arose to have excellent coffee, we savored every drop. Bearing this in mind when I shop for coffee now, my immediate go to is companies owned and operated by veterans. Because I trust they wouldn’t sell something they won’t drink themselves. Trust me; soldiers don’t drink bad coffee unless there is no other choice. Also, veterans have a reputation to keep that reaches beyond a personal reputation. When a veteran backs a product, as a veteran, they are putting the entire veteran community’s reputation behind that product.

Last Sip
If you’re an adult living in America, chances are there is a batch of coffee grounds somewhere in your house. Even if you are not a coffee drinker, you might still have some for guests. If you are one of my fellow Americans who enjoy a warm cup of joe, be proud of it. From the Boston Tea Party to this very day, it signifies our desire to put down tyranny, wrangle some cattle, and face the long nights life sometimes requires. While you are drinking coffee or serving it to your guests, drink the best you can afford, and if you haven’t tried coffee from veteran-owned companies, Soldier Girl Coffee , Mountain Up, and Third Day Coffee Seguin are a couple to look into, Give them a try you won’t be disappointed.

Something About Fishing (the conclusion)

I had been out of the army for about a year now. I had an apartment, a job, and an overall relatively good life going, but still, something was missing. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but something just wasn’t quite right. Often, while trying to figure out what had me so unsettled, I would pour a drink of something, sit down at my fly tying desk and tie up a few patterns, hoping it was just boredom or idle hands. If I had the day off, I would grab my fly rig, look at a map on my phone, and set out to a nearby creek to see if today was the day I caught my white whale. 

It was always the same, though. I would find a place to park, grab my gear, and make my way down to the water. My loadout had changed; now it consisted of my fly rod, my hat, a box of flies, and of course, my phone. If I didn’t catch anything within a couple of hours, or my phone went off due to a message or a call, I would wrap it up and head back to civilization. I usually did catch something, but it was always something small that seemed to lack fulfillment. 

One night I was out with some friends or friends of friends rather, and the topic of fishing came up. Many of the conversation participants were stating how they didn’t understand how someone can spend all day fishing, hoping to get lucky. While others that were fishermen tried to defend the attacks with pictures of giants they had wrangled out of the water, using a fishing pole that cost several hundred dollars, from a boat that sat in their driveway 80% of the year. My father always told me the best time to make a case in a conversation like this is after everyone else had already spoken; doing this allowed you to have all the information needed to make a comment that is difficult to refute. Using my father’s tactic, I waited, and when all the shots had been fired, I took a sip of my whiskey, a long pull off a cigar, and began my opinion on the matter. 

“Gentlemen,” I began, as I exhaled the smoke from my lungs, “not a single one of you have understood what fishing is or why those of us that engage in the craft do so.” I looked at the faces around me, and my opening had worked; they were now all listening so intently, their drinks were still, and for those of you who understand body language, their feet were pointing directly at me. I continued, “Fishing is not spending all day on the water aimlessly casting into an abyss, hoping luck is on our side that day. No, it is looking at the things around you that tell where the fish might be. Watching for birds hitting a certain part of the water feeding off baitfish or looking for breaks in a current that may house a predator waiting for their prey. Or still, it might be something as obvious as fish hitting bugs resting on the surface. Regardless it is not just blind luck.” I paused, took another sip to let the sting settle a bit, then began on the second part. “I think that you (addressing the fishermen now) have missed the real reason why we fish. It isn’t the pursuit of the great whale lurking in the deep. No, it’s allowing Mother Nature to heal our emotional wounds; and let us, for a moment, return to being a kid whose only worry is a dry hook or a hot Dr. Pepper.” I took one last breath and ended with, “We might not all be anglers sitting on the water, but we are all fishermen with a secret place we go to recenter.”

About halfway through those remarks, I realized I was no longer speaking to them; hell, I was no longer the one speaking. Something deep inside had risen to the surface and took over my voice box. That twenty-something year old had come out and had to say aloud what I was apparently too thick to hear internally. The night went on without much more said about the topic, but the person who needed to listen to those words did, and after that night, things began to change.

 The very next day, I got up, grabbed my gear, and headed out. I stopped at a nearby IHOP, had some breakfast, and thought about where I wanted to go. I didn’t pull up a map on my phone though, I just thought of the places I knew and decided to go to one I remembered had an excellent walkable bank and away from anyone else. When I got to the spot, I filled a backpack with a few Dr. Peppers, a bottle of water, a pack of cigarettes, and two beers. Then I threw on my hat, grabbed my rod, tossed my phone in the glovebox, and headed upstream. I won’t tell you caught a beast because I didn’t. I won’t tell you I reset or found myself on that trip because I didn’t. I can tell you that the thing I missed, I found and it was now only a matter of time. 

Two or three months later, I was out driving around near a fork of the Trinity River, trying to find a good place to park, with the intent of walking its bank quietly, hoping to sneak up on some wildlife. The area was right behind a neighborhood, but on either side of the creek was about two or three hundred meters of woods and floodplain. After about half an hour of driving around, I began to get restless sitting in the confines of my truck. I saw a driveway with some cars parked in it and looked at my watch; it was now 10:00 AM, “Hopefully, they aren’t late sleepers,” I thought. I parked my vehicle on the street, walked up, and rang the doorbell. I could hear a couple of small dogs barking and an unknown man yelling at them to calm down. I had my fly fishing hat on, and when he opened the door, I introduced myself and asked, “Sir, I am Michael McGarrey; I have been driving around for about half an hour looking for a way down to the creek to do some fishing do you know of a spot I can park and get access?” He was an older gentleman, probably close to eighty, clean shaven, a fresh crew haircut, and thick eyeglasses. He introduced himself as Rick Dunn and began to tell me how there used to be all sorts of places to park before all the “damn Yankees” moved in. We chatted for about fifteen minutes, and finally, he said, “Leave your truck right there, and you can go through my backyard. Fish as long as you want, I am not going anywhere today, just stop on your way out and let me know how you did.” “Thank you, sir; I’ll do that,” I replied.

I went to grab my pack, with my now standard packing list, and turned off my phone but put it in my pocket. I had learned to do this for the sake of pictures when I did catch something. I went through an entrance beside the house; traversed the backyard through an exit. This opened up to a slight hill leading down to the floodplain. I strolled along a large game trail, amongst the trees listening to the sounds of birds and squirrels. I finally arrived at the creek bank. It was only about shin to thigh deep in most places, with deeper pools scattered throughout. It had a few soft bends slowing the current down enough, so when the water passed over a set of rocks, the sound of the ripple was light. It was now close to noon, and the sun was high, but the trees were tall pecans, about ten feet from the water’s edge, with large reaching limbs that shaded the area nicely. I walked upstream and found a lovely fallen tree that offered a perfect workbench for assembling my fly rod. The sun’s rays danced through the woods and reflected off the wings of a few birds in hot pursuit of a meal. The scene was so pleasant, I opened a beer, sat on the log, and watched nature do its thing. I finished up, put the empty in my pack, and walked upstream a bit more. I finally came to a place on the bank where the Trinity River Authority engineers had put a rock embankment to prevent further erosion. It had everything a fish could want; rocks to hide behind, shade to keep the water cool, and a bend to slow down any bugs floating on the surface. I looked around and decided a nice ant pattern should do, so I pulled one from my hat, fixed it to my line, moved to the upstream side of the bend, and began fishing.

The first couple of casts were just to get the line out and figure out what kind of form I would need to use in this area. It wasn’t exactly tight, but not wide open either. I finally felt like I had the right combination sorted out and focused more on the fly’s presentation. For me, the scene couldn’t be more perfect. I had a cast I was comfortable enough with, meaning I didn’t need to be too cautious about it. I had tied a fly pattern precisely for a situation like this, and a spot that seemed like it should hold some fish. All that being said, I was still not tunnel-visioned on catching something; my head was on a swivel watching the world around me. In fact, on the other side of the bank was a pair of squirrels racing the trees, and unknown to them was a hawk on my side about twenty meters away waiting for one of them to get a little too far away from safety.

After a few minutes, I returned to paying attention to what I was doing and made a more purposeful cast, causing my ant to land softly on the surface, in the right spot of the current to have it pass near a rock in the water away from me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as if Mother Nature had just whispered in my ear that I had better pay attention. Then with a soft role, I saw a mouth barely break the water tension, causing an effect similar to water rushing down a drain; my line began to tighten. Half in shock, I almost forgot what to do; I pulled on the excess line and lifted my rod tip setting the hook in the creature’s mouth. The line raced away! I had no choice but to let it run; my leader was only a three-pound test strength, and the animal was pulling harder than ten-pounds, or so it felt! It sped like a race car, downstream using the current as its friend! This was a smart bastard, which meant it was old, which in turn translated to big. I couldn’t contain myself, I looked for my audience, and the hawk was watching closely. I yelled at the bird, “Are you seeing this shit!” The beast on my line turned drastically and headed back towards me. Then with great enthusiasm, broke through the surface! Instantly, I was that 11-year-old boy again, “HOLY SHIT!” I yelled. My focus tightened, and the words from my past came rushing back, “It only counts as a catch if you land it,” and these days, a person must have pictures for proof. The fight went on, back and forth up the creek the whale raced, leaping from the water trying to throw my hook. I kept the tension ever so light, not wanting to snap my line but also not loose enough to allow him freedom. Sweat began running down my brow, my forearm was now beginning to throb, but the bass showed no signs of tiring. 

After what seemed to be half an hour but was only ten minutes, the beast began to relent. A few minutes more, and I was pulling my net from my belt loop, preparing to secure the buffalo of a fish. Holding the rod and line together in my left hand, I raised the tip high while squatting down with the net in my right hand to scoop up my prize. I pulled my White Whale from the net, stood there, once again holding my trophy with my chest extending far in front of me. Smiling before the only audience I needed, the hawk, and Mother Nature. Of course, I took some pictures for proof when I told the story over drinks later.

That’s My blood, stuck myself it finned me

I pulled my phone from my pocket and took a couple of pictures. They weren’t great because my arms were shaking from a mixture of fatigue and adrenaline. I pulled the hook from its mouth and held the fish out to admire it. I knew that this was the moment I had been longing for since that hot summer day back in 1991. I gently placed the fish back in the water and let the current rush through its gills till it regained its strength and swam off. I remember taking my fly rod apart, seeing the hawk looking at me as though to call me a complete ass hole for not donating it to him, then flying off. I pulled my last beer of the two I had from my pack, lit up a cigarette, and headed back to my truck.

My White Whale

After stowing my gear, I went and rang Rick’s door again. He opened it up and asked, “Did you catch anything?” I responded as I removed my hat from my head, wiping the sweat from my brow, “Boy, I sure did.” He smiled and said, “Good, there is a little bar up the road, follow me there. You can buy me a drink and tell me all about it.” So I did over a few hours and a few drinks; I told him about the fish I had caught and how I came to understand that there is just something about fishing.

Rick Dunn

The End

Something About Fishing (part three)

For the next few years, I would continue my Sunday quest, and as I became more talented in the industrial plumbing world, the more pressure was being placed upon my shoulders. Soon Sunday afternoons and evenings were the only time I had for myself. If the weather was decent, I would set up my fishing rig and head somewhere close by and spend some time on a river or a creek just trying to reset. I became more of a fair-weather fisherman, and my pursuit of the sound of a ripple began to fade. 

In the winter of 2007, I chose to walk a different path and joined the United States Army. So what I didn’t give away, I put into storage, packed one little handbag, hopped in a cab, and headed to my recruiter.  The Recruiters would take me to the Military Entrance Processing Station, or MEPS, in Dallas, for shipment to Fort Benning, Georgia. For the next sixteen weeks, I would train as an infantry mortarman before being sent to my first duty station. In just sixteen weeks, the Drill Sergeants were able to turn a 27-year-old man into a newborn soldier. The transformation that takes place in such a short time is truly remarkable. Though, with 231 years of experience by the time of my acceptance into the Infantry, I suppose they had it pretty well figured out how to turn a soft-skinned civilian into an armed warrior. 

In the summer, I arrived at Fort Drum, New York, home of the 10th Mountain Division. I would spend the next few years there, but unfortunately, between training and deployments, there weren’t many opportunities for fishing, which was indeed a shame because Fort Drum is very well known for its outdoor activities. The next eight years would be much the same. Between changing duty stations, deployments, military schools, and my most fun thing, training cadets at West Point, I didn’t have a lot of time left to pursue fishing. Weekends were ordinarily free, but the incredible hardships a soldier must survive to become prepared for war; also comes with great brothers in burden. It is my firm belief there is no greater bond than the bond forged in suffering, and the greater suffrage shared, the better the bond. So my weekends were spent gallivanting around the towns. 

A new fascination had piqued my interest while in the army, the art of Fly Tying. In the military, much of my downtime had been spent on YouTube watching videos about fly casting, different places to fly fish, and videos of people catching giant fish. As anyone who has done any amount of YouTube surfing knows, YouTube will lure you into Alice’s Rabbit hole, using your searches and views to keep you entranced like a snake charmer’s flute. While captured in one of these spells, I stumbled upon fly tying. I had known about the craft before but had never really given it much thought due to the task’s perceived difficulty and the lack of mentors. However, with the invention of YouTube, it became quite clear it wasn’t complicated at all. The more videos I watched, the more convinced I became, this would be the next endeavor in my fishing journey. Even when I wasn’t watching videos, I was dreaming about the different flies I would tie and the white wales I would catch because of my not yet demonstrated talent. 

At the end of eight years, I decided to say farewell to the army and head back to Texas. Now in my mid-thirties, the memory of time spent on the water, the sound of the cast, and the feel of the hook set, filled my dreams. Of course, the fish soon to be caught on my newfound skill, I still hadn’t begun to learn, often kept my mind racing, preventing me from dreaming. 

Not a month after my return to Texas, I received my first fly tying kit. For a hundred dollars, a vice for holding the bare hook, an assortment of different type hooks, a decent array of fly tying materials like dear hair, several different types of feathers, and about five or six thread spools came in the mail. Also included was a nice little DVD that showed the basics of getting started. How to use the different tools, like the whip finisher, and how to tie the basic fly patterns like a wooly booger, mayflies, or nymphs. 

Without hesitation, I set my station up, poured a glass of whiskey, and set out to learn this fantastic skill. A week later, I finally crafted a fly that didn’t have glue or material blocking the eyelet, looked close to what I wanted it to, and thought it was fishable. By the end of two weeks, I had the hang of it and had a good variety of flies going. I hadn’t ventured off into my own creations, though; I was merely replicating that which I could find on YouTube.

My first fishable fly, supposed to be a cricket

Sometimes I would get lucky and hook into a little bass, but mostly, I was catching BlueGill, Perch, or Panfish. Even this was enjoyable on a fly rod due to its light structure, and again I was just happy to be out on the water, attempting to put the trials of the military in the past. After a few months, I now had a pretty good grasp of fly pattern construction and began toying with my own creations. I would come up with an idea, think about it most of the day while at work, then when I got home, I would sit down at my fly tying desk, pour a drink to get the creative juices flowing, and set to figuring out how to construct the image I had in my mind. The first thing I tied was a large winged black ant pattern because they are often seen flying around Texas at certain times of the year. Next was a small BlueGill pattern, a favorite food of larger fish like Bass. The first attempt of these didn’t turn out so great, but after a few days or a week of fiddling, I finally produced a couple I thought a bass might like. I headed to a few familiar streams, and sure enough, I was successful and caught my first few fish on my personally designed pattern, still mostly large BlueGill, large Panfish, and even a Catfish, to my surprise. Still no large Black-Bass, though.

My BlueGill Pattern

However, I had hope that I was on the right track; I just had to find a sound hole and have the right fly on hand. With this in mind, I began to craft artificial bait that mimicked the insects I frequently saw filling the sky, and around river banks during the different seasons. One night while sitting next to the pool outside my apartment, I saw a slew of what I only know as Texas Dragonflies. Large prehistoric-looking things with two sets of wings, a large head filled with eyes, and a body about an inch or so long. I jumped up, went to my desk, and began construction. It took two or three days, but I finally got it. Like the others, the pattern proved successful with the common fish found in the Texas waters, but it also produced more Largemouth bass catches as well. So it became a pattern I continued to refine.

little one pound bass, caught on a dragonfly

My time away had caused me to regress to the state of pursuing the catch and not paying as much attention to the beauty around me. I do remember a few fleeting moments, generally at sunset; I would remember to take a look around and just breathe. Usually, that was about when my phone would vibrate, and I would be called to a social gathering of some sort, or a member of my family would need help with something. After all, I was still a plumber, but now, thanks to my time in the military, I was also a general problem solver. Of course, I would stop what I was doing to render any aid that I could. Also while away, somehow, I had forgotten that there was more to life than work, and the something about fishing I had learned to love, was now lost.

Little Catfish Caught on an Ant Pattern

To Be Concluded…

Grilled Plank Salmon

Several years ago, my medic, Bobby Alvidres, and I were living in Kentucky, just outside Fort Campbell, home of the 101st Airborne Division. We had just returned home from Afghanistan and were living the high life. We were both great cooks, so each weekend, we would trade off on who was preparing the feast. I am not going to say there was a competition as to whom was better, but he is a California Boy, and I am Texan, so a battle of the republics may have been an ongoing thing. Like any good non-competition, there were rules to the feast. Whoever was doing the cooking bought the groceries to supply the ingredients needed. The person not cooking purchased the alcohol, tobacco, and firewood; he also got to choose grilled, pan-fried, or baked. Almost always, the choice was grilled. 

One weekend, in mid-March, Bobby pulled out an awesome steak fajita recipe that was simply amazing. He did this purposely because I had been bragging all week about how Texas, especially Fort Worth, was steak country, with no shortage of Mexican food. Besides, “Ain’t any way a hippie from Cali is going to be able to grill a good steak fajita because he can’t cook a good steak.” First of all, let me state for the record, Alvi might be the furthest thing from a hippie California has ever seen. Hell, he is probably more Texan than some Texans I know. Now when I bit into that steak fajita, served exquisitely in a flour tortilla with all the veggies you can think that goes with such a dish, I had to admit, with hat in hand, there was at least one hippie that could. 

Not to be outdone, I chose to showcase my abilities in seafood. Just as I had chastised Bobby, he, in turn, did so to me. “There is no way, a landlocked cowboy, from Fort Worth, Texas, knows the first thing about cooking seafood,” he proclaimed. Well, I knew a way to make grilled salmon few have seen, and even fewer have done. It’s grilled wood plank salmon, and it won that month’s battle over the grill.

The Mid-March winning dinner

Last night, Monday, November 23, I made it again, and I will share this little masterpiece with you. You’ll need to buy some wood grilling planks. They are generally cedar or hickory and can be pretty hard to find. Home Depot normally has them in with the hickory and mesquite chips in the grilling section of the home and garden. Next is picking your salmon. I look for an excellent deep red-pink color, and you want some skin in this game. So here is a list for those that want to copy and paste to your notes.

Cedar or hickory grilling planks

At least a pound of fresh salmon skin on one side

4-5 lemons

Salt and pepper 

Garlic powder

Rosemary, dried or fine freshly chopped 

A large bottle of cheap white wine for cooking (you won’t be drinking it, so get really cheap)

You might as well get some good white wine or your choice of beverage while you’re in the area.

Charcoal for the grill (this is best on a charcoal grill, but can be done with a gas grill) 

Throw away, turkey pan.

So to begin, unwrap your planks and turkey pan, then place the plank or planks in the turkey pan. Open the cheap wine and fill it till it’s about an inch or so deep. I know wood floats. If you used all the wine, fill the now empty bottle with water, re-cork, and place it on top of the plank to submerge it. If you are doing two or more planks, use something to create a small space between each plank to prevent them from sticking together. They need to soak for a minimum of 2 hours and up to 24 hours. Longer is better.

While you wait, make yourself a drink, and let’s work on seasoning that salmon. With good fresh salmon, less is more, and we don’t want to mask the fish’s flavor, so stick to your natural herbs. First thing, placing the salmon skin side down on a cutting board, cut your fish into the desired serving sizes. You will need a good sharp knife to get through the skin, and do not wait until after cooking the animal. Like most fish, when cooked, salmon becomes very flaky and does not cut well, in my opinion.

Take one lemon and cut it into wedges. Generally, I do two wedges per serving of fish. Squeeze the lemon on to the slabs, generously covering the fish, let the juice soak in for about as long as it takes to sip your beverage. Now apply salt, pepper, rosemary, and garlic. Use enough of each to cover the salmon thoroughly. 

Using two other lemons, slice them into about ¼ inch slices. Please do not overthink this. No, it doesn’t need to be exact, so guys don’t go reaching for the tape measure and pen.

Put the center slices aside; take the end pieces of the lemons you sliced and place them fruit side down on the salmon meat. 

Cover the fish lightly with plastic wrap and set in the refrigerator, and while you are there, get a refill of tea or whatever. 

This is an excellent time to get your charcoal and grill ready. Do not light it yet; just get it staged. Also, you can prepare your sides. I generally stick with asparagus, broccoli, cauliflower, or something along those lines with salmon, but hey, it’s a free country; do what sounds acceptable to you. 

Once your planks are done soaking, pull them from the wine and dab them with a towel just to get the surface liquid off. Take the lemon slices you have cut and lay one at a time on the plank creating two or three rows depending on your board’s width. Remove the salmon from the refrigerator, unwrap the plastic, and place the salmon, skin side down, atop the lemon slices. Cover if you have animals. If you need to slice more lemons do so. 

Now grab another drink, head outside, and start that grill. If you’re using coals, you want them that nice dark red and white color. If using gas, get the temp up around 350-400 with the lid closed. Have a spot away from the flames for your plank. In either case, you want to create an oven-like environment between 300-400 degrees. Once this is achieved, place your plank directly on the grill. Keep a spray bottle of water on hand in case of the board flames up around the edges. The longer the board soaks, the less likely it is this will occur.

Cook the salmon until it starts to whiten about a quarter of the way up from the skin. It should be flaky when touched with a fork. Pull the plank and all from the fire onto a baking pan, bring inside, and tent with foil. Let rest for about 10 mins, or while your side cools. Using a spatula, remove salmon from the lemon slices, plate, and serve.