We weren't looking for Bigfoot's camp. We were looking for a good spot to set up our own camp on a ridge in the Olympic Peninsula, and we came around a switchback and found it.
It was unmistakably a camp. A fire ring, carefully constructed. A flat area cleared of debris. What appeared to be a lean-to made from fallen branches — structurally sound, well-designed, better than anything we'd built. And sitting next to the fire ring, a collection of items that stopped us cold.
A cast iron skillet. A well-worn hatchet. A stack of flat rocks arranged as a prep surface. And — we are not making this up — a Foxhole Cold Brew mason jar, still cold from the mountain air, beside a note scratched into a piece of bark.
The note read: "Great brew. Gone fishin'. P.S. Nice camp."
We stood there for a long time.
Then we did the only respectful thing: we set up camp about 200 yards away, brewed a pot of Foxhole Dark Roast, and left a full bag on the flat rock prep surface with a note that said "Enjoy."
The bag was gone by morning. The note was gone too. In its place was a single pinecone, placed deliberately in the center of the rock.
We took that as a thank you. We've been leaving a bag at that rock every time we go back.
Foxhole Coffee — appreciated by those with excellent taste. → foxholecoffeeco.com