To Build a Fire

By Marcus Wile

Snow fell through the splayed branches of the ancient pines overhead as the coniferous boughs were already weighed down by the day’s snow. The evening was darkening as the wind had begun to pick up sending ice cold gusts of snow still held in powder across our meager camp. Our trudge through the drifts had drained us of energy and daylight, choosing now to set up camp in a clearing amid a circle of trees. We had pressed our tents tightly together on a heath protected by a ring of pitch pines to find some shelter from the elements. Our hands had dutifully been stuffed in our pockets or confined by mittens all day as our troop leader kept a stern watch for frostbite, Mr. Glennon looking like a man of the mountain with his gritted expression and stern stride through the snow where us children puffed and struggled to keep up. What had been a flurry of activity as Grant set up the tents with Pierce, Chris cleaning the treads on the snowshoes, and the rest getting dinner ready, now became a huddle around me as they watched me struggle with the fire.

            My task was the only one that required fine dexterous movement, requiring the removal of my gloves, and yet the temperature would render my digits into numb, clumsy appendages steeped in a deep red. My practiced steps to stack heavier logs on the bottom, infill the space with kindling or sticks, and shave the ends of the driest tinder on top had been abandoned as I opted for a hasty pyramid of kindling between breaks to shove my hands in my armpits and attempting to regain some feeling. I could feel their stares boring into my skull, all of them anticipating the warmth of the fire.

            Mr. Glennon took this moment to send the rest of the troop out scurrying for fuel while I shaved little curls off the end of a kindling branch, hoping this would be enough to catch the whole stack alite. My heart sank when I opened the pack of matches. Only five were left. With the necessity of providence in my mind, this was a lot of pressure. I struck the first match, and the tip exploded in an immolation of phosphorus, only to just as quickly die out as a carbonized dud. The second match lit but was immediately blown out by the wind. I remember that moment being the most frustrating: forgetting the basics in a time of crisis. Cursing, I tried to cup the delicate match with my hands as I struck the match next to the tinder pile. The flame took again, my hands warded the wind and kept the flame alive, and yet the tinder pile took its time to catch, and the end of stick its ribbons of wood only managed to start smoking. My hands were now shaking, and I felt a pit in my stomach, wondering what would happen in these snowy woods if I failed to make a fire.

            I struck one more match, only having one left to spare, and almost cradled the slender stick with its bulbous red end and quickly struck with a hissing of burning alkalis. Mr. Glennon rushed over to provide a second set of hands to stop the wind. This time the flame easily licked up the sides, catching the strands I had prepared and causing the pile of tinder to suddenly burst into flame. With a primal sense of relief and elation, I couldn’t help but exclaim as I saw the fire finally take. I held the tinder pile at the base of the kindling, the kiln of twigs drying out the larger logs, curling the exposed wood fibers as the smoking mass finally became a proper blaze. The rest of my troop returned with their sap-laden bark, sticks, and orange pine needles that still smelled sunbaked, throwing these trophies on the blaze, the red and orange glow reflecting in everyone’s eyes as the fire grew, and started to warm us at our cores.

            I finally held up my scarlet, swollen digits to the embers, letting them gain their feeling back as we all settled in for the night, getting out thermal sleeping bags and covering our tents with ample fallen pine branches. Above us the night sky turned into a rolling blanket of dark gray swells, and the distant trees continued to groan and creak, sagging with snow but still standing.

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