For some reason it’s easy now, this whole “making-a-fire” thing. I felt pretty inadequate and lazy this summer, failing to make, no create, out of thin air (literally) and ashes and cardboard and pine, a fire in the little tin stove in my canvas tent in Tuolumne. It was so much easier to just crawl into my sleeping bag, turning off my little battery-powered light and enjoying a night of down-enabled warmth before waking up in the shiver-cold dawn to go back to work.
But this stove is so easy. I pop in some wood and with hardly any effort at all, flames dance to life from burning paper and voila, a fully lit yule log crackles away.
Beautiful and simple satisfaction, creating your own warmth. Even when I have to step outside in the pitter-patter of the rain to feel around for dry wood, or chop rounds into manageable pieces.
I drink tea now too, apparently. Piping hot peppermint, or soothing kava. I’ll drink half a glass of wine and feel buzzed and uncomfortable, pouring the rest back into its bottle in favor of the kettle (this has happened more than once).
Other ways I like to get warm:
When we were in the Creek I developed a habit of pouring a healthy serving of whisky into my hot chocolate before crawling into my tent. It warmed my insides, the alcohol lighting a small, smoldering fire of its own in my belly. I made note to not make it a habit, but after a day of sun and wind and sweet sweat and an evening of biting cold, it was absolutely perfect — the embodiment of comfort, it even fended off loneliness and with it I sank into a smiling, whisky-dimmed slumber.