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I heard him before I saw him.
On a wide stone outcropping high in the Aberdare mountains, I was
crouched over an open fire, examining a handful of freshly-hulled
Kenyan Arabicas. I’d been hearing good things about this particular
harvest, so I’d come to the plantation to judge the beans
for myself. The reports I’d been hearing were right.
With the sun going down and a gentle African breeze rustling through
the coffee fields behind me, I was feeling like the only man in
the world, when suddenly a sharp cry echoed up from the canyon below.
Startled, I dropped the beans and stood up, listening intently.
There was only silence, but my curiosity was piqued, so I walked
down to the edge of the cliff and peered over. Couldn’t see
anything at first, but then I heard a deep groan, long and loud,
like somebody fighting for their last breath.
I leaned out as far as I dared, and that’s when I saw him:
some white-knuckled rock climber hanging off the side of the mountain
by nothing but his fingers. His arms were covered with dust, and
his shoulders trembled as he strained to pull himself upward.
He was about thirty yards down, and I wasn’t at all certain
that he’d make it to the top without some assistance. Not
one to leave a fellow hanging, I raced back to the campfire and
tore open my traveling pack. I keep it stuffed with this and that,
because you never know what you’re going to need. At the moment,
I needed a good long rope, and within seconds I found it.
I slung the rope over my shoulder and ran back to the edge of the
cliff. For a second I thought I’d lost him, but a skittering
of rocks drew my attention, and there he was, one hand hanging on,
the other flailing above his head, looking for something solid.
I called down to him.
“Hullo!”
His reaching hand found a thick root. He grabbed it and turned his
face up toward me.
I held up the rope and signaled that I was going to toss it down.
He didn’t say anything. Hanging by his fingernails over the
edge of all creation, he just stared at me. And then I saw it.
There on his belt, a small burlap sack. He’d heard the same
rumors I had. He was coming for a sack of beans.
I looked back at him, and an understanding passed between us. He
didn’t want me to throw that rope. He wanted to earn this.
I slung the rope back over my shoulder and nodded. He just put his
head down and threw himself into the next reach.
I walked back to the campfire, sat down, and tossed a roasting pan
over the dancing flames. I grabbed a handful of the dried green
Arabicas, and within a few minutes that sweet, familiar smell of
fresh roast filled the air.
Normally, I’d have let the warm beans rest for a few hours
before grinding, but I figured these were mitigating circumstances,
so for the next half-hour I busied myself with grinding, heating
a pot of water, and listening to the sounds of climbing.
Finally, as the last ray of sunlight disappeared, a triumphant arm
reached up over the edge of the cliff, and my fellow traveler pulled
himself to the top. He stood, dusted himself off, and walked toward
me. By the time he reached the campfire, I had a freshly-brewed
cup waiting for him.
We sat in silence, drinking together and enjoying the night air.
I thought about my friends back home, all climbing their own personal
mountains, and I realized I wanted nothing more than to have a cup
of fresh brew waiting for them when they reached the top. For me,
that’s the sort of thing that makes life worth living.
So you take care of yourself. I’ll take care of the coffee.
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