An Intimate Fire

When I was a boy, nothing pleased me more than an opportunity to feed and poke at a campfire. I quickly learned that each and every fire has its own look and—for lack of a better term—personality. The stacks of wood varied in shape, size, and combustibility, and ambient conditions shifted each time. The flames danced across a wide color spectrum, beginning with yellow and edging into powder blue. I learned to appreciate unique aspects of each fire, and since tending my first, I have developed a sort of oneness with each fire I tend.

For the last couple of days, the overnight temperatures have dipped low enough to prompt me to start fires in our new wood stove. The stove features a glass door, allowing me to watch the fire. I can witness the first flames wavering, tentatively exploring the thin-split kindling. To begin, I pull open the door to let a rush of air urge the flames deeper and higher into the cross-stacked logs. Soon, orange flames waver up, scissoring into the wood. Before long, the entire stack is engulfed in flames fringed with crawlers of blue, and the first ghosts of heat issue forth.

This is my fire, and with modulations of the damper and the occasional addition of a split from a round, I train the fire to consume the wood at a rate that pleases me. I watch as the logs gradually crumble and collapse into a deep red bed of pulsating embers. Heat presses against me if I stand nearby, and at some point, both I and the fire become intimate and ageless.

A New Fire

A Mature Fire Tinged with Blue

—Mitchell Hegman