There was a stretch of my life when I was on and off camping for about four and a half months.

One of those weeks, I woke up every morning in 18-degree snow while in the Vegas desert. In a tent. With a sleeping bag rated 50.

Yes, I checked. Yes, I used it.

To sleep, I wore the sexiest get up ever. Two pairs of socks, long underwear, a turtleneck, a Patagonia puffer, ski pants, and a beanie and gaiter, all at once, just to not freeze. It was equal parts ridiculousness and stubbornness.

But somehow, I looked forward to every single morning.

Because every morning...I made snow coffee.

No French press. No kettle. No Aeropress TikTok technique. Just a fire pit, some grounds, a ceramic camping mug, and a ritual. I'd boil water over the fire, toss in the coffee grounds cowboy-style, then top it off with a splash of snow to cool it down.

It tasted like burnt hope and wet earth.

And it was perfect.

It wasn't about the taste. It was about the fact that something warm existed in the middle of chaos, and I made it happen. That snow coffee reminded me I could figure things out, even when I didn't know what the hell I was doing.

It wasn't novel.

It wasn't pretty.

But it worked.

And sometimes, that's enough.

Would I do it again? Honestly...yeah. But I'd bring a better sleeping bag.

Be good to yourself today.