Chapter 13 #2
The fire ring was a disaster—waterlogged ash, puddles, and a few pieces of wet wood that someone had given up on. I kicked out as much water as I could. I knelt and pulled out my blade and dug a small trench to let water drain.
Then I started looking for wood.
The key to fire in the rain isn't finding dry wood—that’s usually impossible.
The key is finding wood that’s less wet than everything else.
Dead branches still attached to trees. The underside of fallen logs.
Inside hollow stumps. Stuff below cedar and pine trees tends to be drier.
There was a wood pile; some trail angel had probably hauled it here in a cart.
But it was scattered now. They must have tried digging into it to try to find dry pieces and only managed to soak everything.
I circled out. Found a dead pine with low branches that had stayed relatively dry.
Snapped off everything I could reach, carried it back to the shelter and took off my rain jacket and used it to cover the wood.
I was soaked anyway; there was no such thing now as ‘wetter’.
I made three more trips, building up a pile.
“He’s actually doing it,” I heard someone say. Still skeptical, but with a hint of curiosity now. I noticed two were out of their bags, watching.
Next came the hard part: making tinder dry enough to catch.
I pulled out my knife and started carving into the center of a branch, getting to the drier wood inside.
I created a pile of thin shavings, fine as paper, carefully placing them on somewhat dry wood under my jacket.
Then I went over to the shelter. “Louis. I know you’re prepared. You’ve got a heat tab, right?”
I knew he did because it had been part of his display when we’d first me and he laid stuff out.
“Sure thing,” Louis said, glad to be part of this. And to be asked.
He dug in his pack and produced a small waterproof bag and handed it over.
“Thanks,” I said. I had some heat tabs in my ruck, for emergencies such as this, much better than fire starters, more durable and longer lasting which was what we needed here. But I wanted to get Louis in on this.
Everyone was watching now. Even if they thought I’d fail, at least it was something to do besides shiver.
I gathered more kindling and put it under my jacket.
And had to go farther out for more wood.
The key once you get the fire started, is to be prepared to sustain it in these conditions and not be running around looking for what you needed.
Finally, back at the fire ring, I built a small tepee of the driest twigs I’d found, protected on one side by larger logs to block the wind. I placed my shavings and heat tab in the center.
Then I used my high-speed lighter. Yes, I know manly men use a ferro stick or steel wool in Vaseline or whatever, but I was a wet cold man.
I clicked the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, the heat tab caught, and the shavings started to smoke.
I crouched low, blocking the wind and sleet with my body, breathing gently on the embers.
Not too much—damp tinder needs oxygen but can be blown out easily.
The smoke thickened. A small flame appeared.
“Holy shit,” someone muttered from the shelter.
Now was the tedious part. I carefully added the smallest twigs, letting the fire build slowly.
Too much wood on too fast and it would suffocate.
Too slow and it would be put out by the rain.
Patience. Let it grow on its own terms. The flames caught.
Started licking up the tepee. I added slightly larger pieces, still protecting it from the wind and sleet with my body.
Ten long minutes later, I had a real fire going. Small, but real. I added bigger pieces, building it up carefully, creating a structure that would protect the heart of the fire even as the outer wood got wet.
I was so focused, I was surprised when I looked up and a couple of people were standing next to the fire pit. One, I recognized as the young guy who’d semi-defended Claire at the stream the other day, asked, “What can we do?”
“Find some more wood,” I said. I explained what they were looking for. They spread out in search.
The fire was getting bigger, putting off real heat, which felt nice. Maggs was now by my side.
The searchers came back with more wood. I had to toss half of it: too wet, rotted. But there was enough to keep this going through the night.
“There,” I said, standing back. “Someone needs to feed it every fifteen minutes or so. Not too much at once. Let the wet wood dry out from the heat around the fire before it goes in the center. Don’t just toss it on.”
For a moment, none of the others in the shelter moved. Just stared at the fire like I’d performed a miracle. Then suddenly everyone was scrambling. Pulling on shoes, grabbing wet gear, emerging from the shelter to crowd around the flames.
“Oh my God,” the woman from earlier said, holding her hands toward the heat. “Oh my God, this is amazing.”
“Hold on,” Louis said. He pulled a tarp, an honest to God tarp, out of his ruck.
“Can someone help me?” They stretched it out from the entrance of the shelter, over the picnic table to the edge of the fire.
Used bungi cords to pull it tight. This created a partial roof that kept the worst of the sleet off while still letting smoke escape.
Smart. Someone else produced lengths of 550 cord which they strung underneath the tarp and people hung wet clothes on them.
Most were stripping down to their underwear; modesty tossed to the wind in the desire to be warm and dry.
“Who’s got food they can share?” I called out.
Several hands went up.
“Bring it out. We're cooking. Bring your pots.”
Suddenly the shelter transformed. People emerged fully, no longer huddled in their bags. Someone found a rusting grate to put over the fire. Someone else had instant coffee. A third person contributed hot chocolate mix.
Within twenty minutes, we had water boiling, food cooking, and everyone crowded around the fire instead of hiding in the shelter. Sleeting, turning to slower snow, but we were out of it under the tarp. Still somewhat cold. But different now.
“I was ready to quit,” the woman from earlier admitted, holding a mug of hot coffee like it was precious treasure. “Seriously. I was going to hike out at dawn and never look at a mountain again.”
“What changed?” I asked.
“You did.” She gestured at the fire. “You showed up and just . . . did something about it. Didn’t complain. Didn’t give up. Just went and made it better.”
I felt kind of good about that given that so far, I’d knocked two people off the trail: Tom and Jenna.
Both were necessary, but still. “It’s just a fire,” I said, knowing it was more than that.
When that RI had made that fire and all the students had gathered round to stay alive, I’d learned a valuable lesson.
And now I was passing it on. Who’d have thought?
Rangers lead the way. Sometimes in the strangest ways.
“It’s not just a fire,” the older guy said. “It’s the difference between giving up and keeping going. You showed us that.”
“I just didn’t want to freeze,” I said.
“See, that's the thing,” the young guy who’d defended Claire, whose name I now knew was Zach, chimed in, stirring his ramen. “We all didn’t want to freeze. But we just accepted it. Decided it was impossible. You decided it was unacceptable and did something about it.”
Maggs had positioned herself as close to the fire as she could without singeing her fur, looking blissfully content. People kept reaching over to pet her, drawn by her calm presence.
“Can I ask you something?” The older woman—Linda, she'd introduced herself—leaned forward. “Are you military?”
I didn’t want to answer but fuck it. Wasn’t going to make any difference now. “Was.”
“You know what your trail name is?” Linda asked.
I nodded. “I’ve heard. But I’m Max and this is Maggs. I prefer that.”
Linda nodded. “Max and Maggs. I thought you were military. My husband was Army. You have that look. The ‘I’ll fix it or die trying’ look.”
I smiled. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is. Trust me.” She sipped her hot chocolate. “He used to say that the difference between amateurs and professionals was that amateurs waited for conditions to be perfect. Professionals made conditions perfect.”
“Your husband sounds smart.”
“He was. Died three years ago. Cancer.” She smiled sadly. “This is my first big hike since. Doing it for him. He always wanted to do it, but you know. Never found the time. I learned from that. Make the damn time.”
The group went quiet, leaving just the sound of sleet and crackling fire.
“How’s the hike going?” I asked her.
“Better than it was an hour ago.” She looked at the fire. “Sometimes you just need a reminder that you can still do hard things. Even when everything seems impossible.”
Zach spoke up. “I hate to admit it, but I called my girlfriend earlier. Even before the rain got bad. Told her I wanted to quit. That this was too hard.”
“How did she respond?” I asked. I turned my rain jacket inside out and hung it. Steam drifted off as it dried. I checked to make sure no one had put their stuff close enough to catch on fire. I pointed at a pair of boots that were close to smoldering. “Might want to move those back.”
“She asked what I thought quitting would teach me,” Zach said. He poked at the fire with a stick. He chuckled. “I said it would teach me to know my limits. She said it would teach me to give up when things got uncomfortable. Then she hung up on me.”
A few people laughed.
“She’s a keeper,” someone said, and they meant it.
Zach nodded. “She is.”
I thought of Claire and Boone out there in the wilderness somewhere. Her refusal to stay in shelters. I hoped she’d hitched a ride into town after seeing the forecast of bad weather.
We all stood there for a long time, feeding the fire, cooking food, slowly warming up, clothes drying and being put on.
Damp sleeping bags brought out to dry. I stepped back a little as people started talking—really talking, not just complaining.
Linda told stories about her husband. Zach talked about his girlfriend and why he was really out here (trying to prove something, though he wasn’t sure what).
The old man admitted this was his third attempt at thru-hiking by section; he'd quit the first two times.
As the evening wore on, someone pulled out a harmonica and played badly but enthusiastically.
I hope no one would bring out a banjo. Before I would have felt like I was in some dumb, hokey movie, but it was kind of nice.
Someone else had a flask of whiskey that made the rounds, but I discreetly passed.
Linda started laughing at something Zach said, really laughing, and suddenly the whole mood shifted.
We weren't miserable hikers anymore. We were just people, gathered around a fire, making the best of a bad situation.
We barely noticed, but the snow slackened and then stopped.
It was close to midnight. Gradually, people slipped away, into the shelter or their nearby tent.
I took Maggs and found a spot inside the shelter, a first for me.
Rolled out my pad and my bag. I lay down, Maggs, a dry Maggs, pressed against me.
It had been a good day.