Cabin Journal

Lessons from my Wood Stove

I’ve learned a lot—about myself and about fires— from making fires in my wood stove. One of the biggest is patience, because a good fire takes a while to establish itself. The first hour or so I’m just working to keep it from expiring, throwing small branches and pine needles and bunched-up newspapers into the stove so it will get hot enough to sustain itself without much help from me.

It’s not just patience that’s required but persistence to start over when the sticks collapse and the flame has dwindled to almost nothing. It’s distressing to see, maybe because somewhere deep in my brain is our ancient ancestors’ need for fire; if they couldn’t start one, they might not survive. So I feel a small joy and relief when the fire finally roars into being.

I’ve learned that both too much isolation and too much togetherness will kill a wood fire. A good one needs space to breathe, for air to circulate, but if the pieces of wood are too spread out, they lose their cohesiveness and intensity; their heat dissipates and the fire starts to falter. The logs need to be close to the other pieces but not too close. Each piece of wood helps the other one—either ignite or stay hot.

Fires are perfect for meditating. Watching the flames curl up and under, and stretch out—always reaching upward—while listening to the crackle and pop as the wood disintegrates is enough to keep my brain occupied while leaving enough empty space to settle into some deep calm and quiet. I feel far removed from earthly concerns, except for the strong winds buffeting the cabin. That humans have been settling themselves in front of fires for thousands of years connects me with some ancient traditions.

But I also feel a certain sadness when I watch the flames, because this is the final gesture of a long life—and it’s heartwarming in every sense of the word. In order to grow, these trees absorbed carbon dioxide, and they end their lives with a return to air—and the release of energy in the form of heat.

Many of these logs were here when I bought the cabin, more than 12 years ago, and who knows how long they were there before. Cut down years or decades ago, these remnants sat in the dark garage through many winters, springs, summers and falls, their energy trapped until I put a match to them.

The other night, before I went to bed, I threw a locust limb on the fire, expecting that it would be too dense to burn all night without the help of some smaller, more ignitable sticks. But in the morning, not only was the log totally incinerated, its remnants  still retained some warmth. This thick log, from a tree that sprang up in my backyard without any prompting from me, had kept the cabin warm all night.

Gratitude is the only word that comes to mind.

Stuck in February

February is my least favorite month. It’s halfway between winter and spring, uncomfortably residing in something that’s neither here nor there. In this month of little snow and warm temperatures, it doesn’t feel like winter, but there’s no new growth to indicate it could be spring (which is still two months away here in the mountains). It feels like a gap, like a hump one has to get over. It’s like a river that’s been dammed by sticks; eventually, some force will push the sticks out of the way and the river will start moving again, but right now nothing’s happening. Life seems stuck, unable to move forward or backward.

The creeks are silent under the snow, even as the willows around them are bare. On my walks, I’m stopped by the quiet that encloses the empty cabins. Some days, it feels like the whole world is deserted, that life has left us. Maybe, like everyone else, I have pandemic fever, a yearning for the world to be whole again and to start moving.

The only life I see are the Steller’s jays, and I’m grateful for their raucousness, yelling at each other while they dig into the gutter, looking for something to eat. I’m grateful for the rabbit that eyes me warily when I step outside.  

Aside from the jays, the world is almost unnaturally quiet. Even the tree branches are still. But then I look up at the sky and see gray clouds churning, sending shafts of hopeful rays to the earth. Snow clouds spill over the top of Mount Meeker, spreading their moisture down the giant granite flanks. To the north, patches of blue sky are interwoven with puffy clouds that could almost be spring clouds.

Life is moving, whether we notice or not.  

Graupel Followed by Snow

This week at the cabin, a gray day had a hint of moisture in the air—maybe snow? But temperatures were in the high 30s, so what came out of the sky was graupel, a German word I love to say because it sounds like what it looks like: hard, round kernels of snow, somewhere in between hail and snowflakes. It came down fast, like hail but not as destructive, pelting the deck and roof with a hissing sound.

It didn’t last long, because it’s something intermediary, caused by temporary weather conditions. So I headed to Wild Basin, just a few miles up the road, to wander through the forest that goes along the St. Vrain River. Much to my delight, it started snowing—big, thick heavy flakes.

Instantly the world was transformed. What was sharp and clear was now fuzzy and obscure. The hillside of green pines was hidden behind a veil of white. A tall pine loomed above the creek, like a ghost tree, stranded among the willows. The creek was a blur with sudden bursts of clarity where a dark pool emerged from the snow and ice.

The road back was an unbroken expanse of white. The only tracks were from a small animal that eventually wandered off toward the creek. From the woods I heard a strange cry, something in between a cat, dog and bird, something  plaintive that I’ve never heard before. It was just me and this unknown animal sharing an empty landscape on a rare snowy day.