At sunset, swallows dive bomb the water’s surface, creating ripples. Thinking the ripples are fish, I can’t help but feel both avian and aquatic companions are coming alive in this golden hour. A Black Fury Mepps lure splashes into the middle of the chaos, and I simultaneously consider the impact of this splash on the birds, but also the journey of this lure. Call it distraction or inattention, I notice the “Made in France” marking on the lure, which I bought at Walmart last year. Now it’s in this pond, causing excitement amongst the birds, and I hope, the fish. Close to home, this particular pond is generally good fishing because it doesn’t allow any combustion motors; to fish it, you need to paddle. Despite being in the middle of Vermont’s most crowded county, this requirement precludes over-eager anglers who rely on engines from dwindling the resident pike population.
Before long, a pike struggles on the end of my line. Its spitting and thrashes grow, a chaotic whirl of pops and sputters. I scoop him into the boat. Soon enough, the hook’s out, and he’s back to the depths.
This summer’s been particularly dry, and it’s evident from the leaves covering the ridge above the pond. Some are already that furious orange reserved for fall.
Run-hiking up to the ridge the next day, I notice a dry game trail at about 2,500 feet. The soil there is superficial, black, and typically muddy, but on this day it is desert-like. The predominantly southern wind topples spruce trees; their criss-crossing looks like an all-grey set of pick-up sticks.
Each day, the VT Department of Forests, Parks, and Recreation publishes a Wildfire Situation Update. Right now, the Fire Danger Forecast is “High.”
Fire’s mostly been our friend, not foe. Cooking is likely the winner in the contest of our most valued use. Passing through a campground full of car campers and RVs, their sardine-like layout was distinguishable by a single attribute: an individual fire pit. “Damn, that’s a persistent habit we have,” I thought.
Elizabeth Marshall Thomas’ field work in the Kalahari Desert calls out fire as our means of extracting more nutrients from meat. It’s a process we’ve refined for 1.5 million years. At the same time as Thomas’ anthropological sojourn to southern Africa, Robert Ruark was on an incomprehensively polar opposite of exploits in eastern Africa, slaying all sorts of creatures, many considered sacrosanct today. He typically ended the day with a fire (and gin).1
I burn five cords of wood in a woodstove each winter, starting in October and ending in April. Wood heat is great, but it’s a pain in the ass. It’s dirty, requires constant attention, and is labor-intensive. I harvest and process the wood I burn, which means I’ve touched the wood half a dozen times between chainsawing the tree and tossing it in the stove. The entire process makes little sense when a thermostat is sitting there on the wall. Yet I’m drawn to the physicality and productiveness of firewood; the work product is readily observable and utilitarian. When the screen’s nebularity becomes too much, I split logs.
It’s a functional exercise, but it’s not really worth it. The work is hard and genuine, but the hourly rate is horrible. Buying a cord of wood or simply burning natural gas makes more sense. One of my knacks is finding activities that require hard work and I enjoy, but generally pay poorly; firewood epitomizes this.
Vermont has the highest percentage of wood burners: 14%.2 Stubburness, passion, conservatism, or frugality, it’s unclear to me why so many people are still willing to deal with wood. My best guess is that, like those cramped campers, fire resonates with us. Whether in a campfire or a wood stove, we get to be part of a ritual. Which sounds better to you?: Turning the thermostat and doomscrolling? Or, collecting newspaper, kindling, and a match to light a flame that will heat your home for the next twenty-four hours? The former is practical, while the latter isn’t. But I’m stubborn, and for as long as I can, I’ll start the fire.
When I choose not to light that match, it means I’ve given up. Which means I should buy a minivan, move to the suburbs, get a 9-5 job, and lose the chip on my shoulder. Sure, all those scions of the good life have attributes I appreciate, like convenience. But the constant striving for convenience and efficiency yields what? More time. For what? More time on a screen for work, pleasure, or some netherworld between the two, like reading Fox News in a cubicle; glorious in that you’re getting paid to read more things to be afraid of, but depressing in that it’s the most synthetic jail cell I can imagine.
For better or worse, I refuse despite familial and societal pressure.
Small campfires are emblematic of our choice. Find the firestarting material and a spot for a fire, and cook some meat on it. And keep it simple. “Come over for a campfire,” a friend said. I chuckled darkly to myself when I stepped onto the bluestone patio that held a pedestal campfire holder, an elevated shrine to tidiness and control; a prison fitted for flame.
A fire with hardwood coals that glows is a glorious sight, even if it’s just the size of a pie plate. On a canoe camping trip, I squat on my haunches next to such a fire, entranced, with a death stare, dilated pupils, and a blank mind. I reach for the pan, hesitate, and instead grab the venison from the cooler. Without much thought at all, I toss the meat on the hot coals.3 The early-season venison is fatty. Contracting, smoking, bleeding, I don’t see a dead deer; I see the moments before I pulled the trigger, and the view from the top of the mountain the buck grazed. On the coals, the meat sizzles and sputters, making a sound not unlike the pike’s thrashing tail as it struggled to break free from my fishing line.
Keep the flame alive
Reading these two books back-to-back is the greatest self-imposed anthropology course I’ve ever taken. Simultaneous existences with drastic differences in class, politics, resources, privilege, and colonialism. See Thomas (The Old Way: A Story of the First People) and Ruark (Horn of the Hunter: The Story of an African Safari ).
Steven Raichlen is a kindred spirit. Also this.
Brb gonna go throw my solostove into the cracks of doom.