I slide onto the Naugahyde bench, rest my elbows on the Formica table, and scan the menu. A smile appears on my chapped lips when I see a chicken fried steak. I nod to the waitress and order it with over-easy eggs, chips, and salsa. And yes, coffee. Please.
I’m in Reserva, New Mexico, doing an unplanned double zero. My refill didn’t show up and there was nothing to do but wait. Ella’s Café gave me a place to do that. The waitress said the mornings could be busy, with ranchers in cowboy hats and families with children, but it was quiet today. Just me, a plate of hot food and a constant stream of coffee.
I stayed a couple of hours. They cleared my plate, the coffee kept coming and there was no reason to rush. No one asked why he was there; they knew it. I stayed seated even after the coffee got cold.
Outside, autumn leaves were drifting across the street.
There was time to write, think about the next stretch of the road and rest.
Ella’s Café in Reserve, New Mexico.
A few weeks earlier, in Dubois, Wyoming, it was different. Blackbeard, Apple, and I lean on our breakfasts at the Cowboy Café, shoulder to shoulder with other hikers. It had been cold and rainy for three days and the trail was a disaster. Everyone was coming to the city.
The dishes arrived heavy, the voices bounced off the walls and the tables were filled with hikers we knew, many of them we didn’t, mixed with locals.
The easy camaraderie of being together.
We ate, cleaned our plates with toast, refilled our coffee, and asked for the bill.
«You’re fine,» our waitress said. «A gentleman has already paid his bill.»
It wasn’t just us. All the hikers in the cafe were covered.
In the CDT hunger is a constant. We arrived in the city sweaty and tired. We’ve been thinking about the city’s food for miles, imagining menus long before we see them. Cafes and restaurants lure us with the promise of a place to sit, full plates, and bottomless drinks. For a while, we don’t need to be anywhere else.
On the road everything is provisional and scarce. Climate changes, water sources can be unreliable, camps are improvised, and our bodies don’t always comply. Cafes and restaurants offer something more.
Not all stops do this. Some cafes are closed when you arrive. Sometimes the food is bad. Or there is only one McDonald’s, familiar but anonymous. We go where we should to eat something. What we are really looking for is comfort, the promise of a table, a meal, a drink.
Cuba, New Mexico, was a worn-out little town holding its own. Some stores were closed, some were not, but it had everything a hiker needed. I arrived mid-afternoon, checked into a motel, emptied my backpack, and checked off the big three: shower, laundry, and resupply.
The next morning, I walked to the south end of town to Café Cubano. Two blocks away I saw the sign: old from the ’60s, tall and sun-faded, with a giant bent arrow pointing the way.
The Cuban Café sign in Cuba, New Mexico.
It was late October and the morning was cool. I opened the glass door, felt a rush of warm air, and entered an open space that smelled of bacon, pancakes, and fried eggs. Square tables lined the wall; circular tables filled the center. Metal chairs with black plastic cushions, easy to clean and quite comfortable. I saw a hiker I recognized and didn’t know. We nod to each other.
I grabbed a middle table, dropped my backpack on the chair next to me, and sat down. The waitress brought a laminated menu and asked about coffee. “Big Pepsi,” I said.
The menu was familiar: egg combos, biscuits and gravy, eggs rancheros, and a full Mexican section. The plates were passed around with fried potatoes cooked as they should be. I ordered them with eggs and ham steak. It arrived on two plates. The Pepsi had a lot of ice.
Ham, eggs, French fries and toast at the Cuban Café in Cuba, New Mexico.
At their best, small-town cafes and restaurants provide structure and abundance and sometimes connection: a place to sit, rituals to observe, more food than we need, and the sense that others are nearby.
We plan kilometers around these stops and trust them to get us through the next stretch.
I used to think of places like this as breaks in the road. Along the way, I realized they were part of it.
I got up, shouldered my backpack, and paid the bill at the register. There was a seven mile road ahead. The trail continued where the pavement ended.
This website contains affiliate links, which means The Trek may receive a percentage of any products or services you purchase using links in articles or advertisements. The buyer pays the same price they would otherwise pay, and their purchase helps support The Trek’s ongoing goal of bringing you quality backpacking information and advice. Thank you for your support!
For more information, visit the About page of this site.
