Quest For Fire

Quest for Fire Max P. Quayle

The day dawns torrentially. At least three inches of cold rain has fallen upon Southern New Hampshire and other surrounding regions throughout the night, and there seems to be no end in sight. Nearly every flake of snow has been was washed down to the lakes and streams and rivers and surely every dry snatch of wood has been soaked clean through. My spirit flails as e-mails are bantered back and forth between the leaders of our Boy Scout troop throughout this gloomy Friday… Should we proceed to lead our young Boy Scouts on the winter camping and ‘woodsmanship’ competition known as the “Klondike Derby?” or, will we drop out like a spent cyclist on the tour de France, relegating ourselves to the apricot wagon, and stay home, warm and snug? As the rain smacks hard against the window it becomes apparent to me that this may not be the year our boys will finally succeed in preparing and serving a hot meal in the wild. I recall past competitions where conditions were optimal, even perfect for fire building and yet, the troop simply hadn’t pulled through with a flame strong enough even to burn a suspended string, never mind boil water or cook an egg. The heavy grey gloom peers into the window, reinforcing my doubt. Perhaps they will call the competition off, I wonder, knowing they won’t. After all, this is what it is all about: We train these boys from a very young age so that when the time comes and they need to rise up to engage difficult circumstance they will indeed “Be Prepared.” I imagine the drenched campsites dotting the lake at Camp Carpenter, each deeply covered with this past autumn’s rain of leaves, 1

needles and twigs; each one laced with bedraggled heaps of damped ‘unkindlable’ wooden sponges. Outside the clouds spray new mists of watery skepticism around me. A ray of hope ignites the far-reaching passions of our Scoutmaster, and in a flourish of appropriate leadership he sends the notice: “If the boys come, we shall go.” I prepare my gear with detail and care; after all, I don’t want to be too uncomfortable in the woods on a rainy February evening. Unkindly, I glare at the sullen, bulging clouds, and wonder if this newest swath of rain will be the days last. Time will tell. As I arrive at our meeting place I note the indomitable spirit of youth carefully undermining all common sense as the boys pelt each other, and their respective piles of gear with snowballs which appear to be made more of liquid than ice. Inauspicious start, I muse. I notice one young scout, standing in a puddle, alternately lifting one foot, then the other as if the ‘toddleresque’ puddle pleasure is still as irresistible as ever. I call over inquiring after the young man’s store of dry socks. He smiles with the confidence of a weather worn Green Beret, and informs me that he has brought none. A glance at his feet confirms this; nothing but skin, from exposed calf right down into a pair of work boots that might have come off the feet of union carpenter – twenty years ago. With faith and no small prayers, we gather the boys, a feat not unlike herding cats or gathering smoke into a jar, ration out duty and gear rosters and set out through a settling fog to the odd little corner of Manchester, New Hampshire known as Camp Carpenter. Arriving in a murky dusk, we find the grounds just as expected; cold, wet, inhospitable. We unload the somewhat moist gear and proceed to stake our site claim as a chill starts to set in to my 2

fingers. Why is it that a damp cold registers first deep in the bones, as if it has the right to sap the marrow of warmth simply by virtue of its disobedience? It is cold enough to be snow or at least frost but by some minute shift, read only the barometer, it defies conformity. We pitch our tents in a curious arc of light cast by the semicircle of our gathered cars’ headlights. Working in the stark and unusual light, we all seem to glance up at regular intervals to be sure we aren’t about to be run down, at least those of us over the age of twenty. The boys have disappeared for the time being, but an occasional hoot or shout confirms they are not too far out of sight. One by one, we grown men raise our small tents in the bright and eerie glare of halogens lamps. If not for the arcane light, we might have been a clan of savage Stone Age ancestors, grunting and tugging at the fabric of our shelters. We move to extinguish the harsh unnatural light as quickly as we can, and as we do, a deep blackness fouls the stark images of moments before. In temporary night blindness we grope and stumble about cursing the light while hating the dark. As my eyes adjust I see the thickness of the night; moisture hangs heavily in the forest air. I eye the clouds and wonder if the sky will open again. The boys have regrouped and lashed an ingenious tripod over a brisk fire, started with the help of dry cedar shims and too much Scoutmaster advice - the fact is, this fire nearly lit itself - a savory smelling batch of troop soup edges patiently toward a slow, rolling boil. Campfire is an effective leveler. As we gather, stooping, kneeling or propped up on some coolers there is a sense of agelessness. Fire does that, it takes away the lines. That is why we want it. With a warm dinner in us, we talk briefly of our high-minded goals for the morrow, and as we do, our spirits sail in a dank vale during the closing minutes 3

of a dark, but portentous night…After all, we’ve had fire, and fire is tomorrow’s goal. Out here with the crackle and snap of heat, thoughts of the scouts’ past failures are less potent; they seem to rise up with the rich smoke and dissipate as they spread across the night sky together…Perhaps. Silence slowly overcomes banal chatter as each of us warm our own thoughts by the blaze. A rustling commotion pulls our heads back to the camp. We observe a troop of highly efficient, well-geared scouts roll in under cover of dark. They operate in a fluid knowing motion, easily leveling the campsite adjacent to ours and occupying every needful space with purpose and intent. The contrast is abundant between our troops, but not off the scale. I realize in this moment that we have not suffered from the typical setbacks of unwillingness, complaint and faultfinding within our ranks. In fact, when all is told, our camp is actually a very neat and tightly functioning establishment. I still hook an admiring glance toward our neighbors’ camp; after all they have clearly arrived where we wish to be. All is well. I have tended the fire down and filled myself up with over rich cocoa; second to exercise, sugar does a fine job keeping the bones warm. The last sip is the best; it slides slowly from the bottom of my mug, like a flat brown slug leaving a rich dark trail of sweet chocolate across my tongue and lips. The taste is all the sweeter while standing within nature, defying the elements. I check the ground around my taut, snug tent for potential puddles and find none, glancing around at the huddled throng of misshapen canvas forms within our ring. I reflect that our boys do still have a long way to go. Anticipating a cool and frosty morning, I decide to double my bags, one within the other, and lay with my tent flaps open, drinking deeply of the still 4

night air. Damp though it is there is a vigor and satisfaction to be had from the unbridled air of a cool winter night. As I lay easing toward sleep, I wonder if fire starting is even that important. After all, the Boy Scouts of America are moving toward a ‘leave no trace’ attitude that precipitates cooking stoves and eliminating campfires altogether…. Just as sleep overcomes my mind I catch a quick glimpse of the stars in Orion’s belt, and am reminded that each of our scouts have greatness percolating just below their unique and individual deportments. They are what this is all about… The night is past, and though stars were revealed briefly at bed, there is a slate gray mass between them and us now. A frost has dressed the morning neatly, and has provided a slippery substrate comprised of itself, leaves, needles, bark and small pebbles over which the boys’ Klondike sled will glide quite nicely, if it lasts… Cooking duties have been assigned and last evenings fire has been resuscitated from a nest of red coals. Pancakes and bacon seem very far from our current state of order. Glancing down the vale I witness a truly astonishing sight: Within about 20 minutes, the Troop that arrived late last night has stowed their tents, ‘rucked’ their sacks and are heading off to pre-register for the mornings events. I am in awe; what a tightly knit group. No arguments, no procrastination, no obvious adult leaders either…hmmm. I turn to view our comparatively motley crew and smile. These boys will find their way to the higher levels of camping and organization presently, as they deem it important, or vital. With our fast broken on camp cakes and ‘slur-up’, the youth have ordered their competition sled and set off towards check in like an anti-gravitational 5

avalanche pouring up and out of the dell. I stay behind with Scoutmaster to stow troop gear and survey the cleanliness of the site. Looking around we realize these hardy boys have stowed their tents, packed their packs, had breakfast and are off singing through the trees like larks, and all before 0900 hours. Wistfully I think, this is progress – this may be our year. The events of the day unfold like a carnival of youth. We observe many grounded sleds, which are practically intractable due to their huge bulk and complete reliance upon packed snow. A couple of rival troops have clearly been endowed with New England winter experience that extends well beyond their years, for their Klondike sleds are equipped with retractable wheels, or simply have attached a set of them to their sleds. They roll along with little effort at all, zipping right past the ill-prepared and trudging masses. Our boys have found a most excellent middle ground between with their small, light sled, and youthful vigor. They are able to push along with relative ease and by noon have made significant progress through various stations. With a thundering crack the lunch canon sounds, the echoes barrel over the lake and come back weakened from the journey but still strong. I now know the time is at hand. Will the boys be chewing hard noodles and gnawing upon frozen vegetables? Or will they conquer the plague of ‘firelessness’ that has beset them for ages…I notice some more of the aforementioned organization, but realize simultaneously that they have chosen what must be the only remaining woodland indentation, one with at least two inches of crushed snow and ice, upon which to build their fire. Doubt begins to penetrate, and slowly 6

overwhelm me…I wander a few paces away so that I do not inadvertently penalize them by helping. What can I say more? They have ignited a fluttering and gasping cook fire. Its temperature is high enough and has lasted long enough to cook (sort of) a scrap of bread dough wrapped around a stick. The boys are elated, capering about and high-fiving each other even as the little embers begin to recede and then, as always, fade… But wait! The boys are attending to the miniature inferno. They have acquired some dry bracken, and lo! A fistful of small twigs are produced by the hand of a younger scout. The blaze quickens, pencil sized kindling is applied with tender care and precision, an eight nay, a full 12-inch flame is beginning to lick the bottom of the tea-kettle. Could this be, is it true? The fire is cautiously maintained by all hands; times passes thick and slow as molasses. Then a few tendrils of steam slip out of the kettle, then more and before long the evidence of a steady boil begins to rise. Success is imminent. We all gather about a dilapidated tent platform to enjoy a banquet. I am lightly sipping a steaming cup of hot cocoa; at my side is a hot bowl of soup with vegetables cooked to juicy perfection, a cool water bottle, and several orange slices to wash it all down. The scouts are all similarly apportioned, and we pray gratefully, pause to acknowledge the accomplishment, and dig in, chatting rapidly and over-complimenting the cooks. It is finished; the curse is lifted, my Troop has finally achieved the summit: a warm meal by their own hands in a barren waste. Their nemesis has been subdued. The quest for fire is won. The rest of the day showed new skills and talents to all: Some great polelashing projects, deep-woods mock rescue, and even a close call with frostbite; 7

dampness, even when temperatures are up, starts in the bones. After helping the chilled scout gain his warmth, I seized an opportunity to slip away from the troop for about an hour and amble contentedly over to the Max I. Silber Library. As I crossed its warm threshold I passed out of the present with a whisper. Mine eyes beheld the artifacts and trappings of the Scouting tradition dating as far back as1907, when, on tiny Brownsea Island in the English Sea, a small band of youth and a dedicated forester began an organized brigade to prepare young men for the advent of military service and survival in the modern, warlike world. I observed original materials for motivating, encouraging, and inspiring young men; preserved carefully under glass. The weight of an hundred years of tradition came over me as I realized boys have ever been and will ever be boys. Though they may act careless, foolhardy, and even sinister at times, there is more of dedication, commitment, and conservation about them than may meet the eye. Which side prevails is a contest decided by organization, reason, and lovingly applied leadership. Sitting in a deep overstuffed chair, I quietly read some old scout journals and slip ever closer to a ‘warm meal on a cool day’ induced nap. Beside me, the fireplace cracks and pops, flooding the room with warmth and setting my mind to wander… “And one without socks,” I mutter and smile and slowly fade away.

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