Fire

I never got to go camping as a child. I never went on hikes. I wasn’t a Boy Scout, and I wasn’t made aware of any great spirit. I never connected with nature—or, at least, what I now consider ‘nature’ to be. I thought of autumn trees and rolling hills. Eagles. Nature was a place that was somehow quiet on its very own. If you go to the woods, don't build a fire. Sit still; you are responsible for very little; you are free.

I grew up in a small town on Route 1 in the south of Louisiana, where there were no forests or hardwood trees—just bayous and rivers and lakes and reeds. There was no firm ground from which to transcend. "The Outdoors" was not a destination, but a great obstacle that spanned the space between other things that mattered. The rivers moved one way, the bayous swayed by anything. Even when we drove north, to Mississippi and the woods, we went hunting and there was always the gun.

With each passing year what I came to relish was the absence of activity, the absence of human machination. I wanted to connect with something greater than myself. Once, as I was driving above the swamp on a long, raised bridge, my car ran out of gas. There was no way to turn around. It was then that I realized I was looking for something that was scattered all around me, but I would have to run away from everyone I knew in order to find it. I had been rejecting it all my life by sitting still, offending nobody but myself. Because out there, wrapped and waiting, was my life. 

I guess I’m making up for all that now. I am alone in the woods, and I am perfectly happy. It’s winter in Tennessee. The Appalachian Trail sits about two miles distant across the valley on a vertebras ridge. I’ve laid out a few boughs. I have a small tent. I brought a few books along, but none of them have caught.

The fire has reached its peak, and the snow melts in a widening circle. There's a half-foot of powder out amongst the hibernating trunks. It fills the thickets of rhododendron and the holes left behind fallen trees. I have a nice fire going. A nice fire, and I have nothing to worry about. Bears are afraid of the fire. The cool, blue center of the flame. If I can keep it going I will sleep below this black bowl and the snowline. I should save the kindling for later—but it’s nice to be warm. I throw the last of the sticks into the fire, switch sides, and warm my back. 

Maybe nature (as an abstract concept) cannot be defined. Maybe it's just what you decide it to be. After all, what is natural? And what is unnatural? What would an African tribesman living in a mud hut say to me if I asked him, "Do you like nature?" Distinctions like that are absurd. I cannot speak for anyone else, but for me one thing is certain: a man in the woods is natural and good.

A branch cracks behind me. Snow compresses and squeals in the woods. I turn and see that the fire is out. The coals are settled into a small pile and the logs above them are deep and black and unburning like two arms straining against an invisible weight.

 I paw for something to throw on the fire, but find only Self Reliance by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I kick the consumed logs aside, tear out several folios of paper, and throw them over the embers. They smolder a moment and then ignite. My eyes search the woods for the source of a voice. One of the half-consumed logs is cocked back in my arm when two silvery orbs come determinedly forward.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey!” I cry out, swinging my arm.

“Hey.” The flat brim of a hat, the gleam of cufflinks, and a golden badge emerge from some pines. It's a park ranger. "Sorry to bother you," he says and points to the disappearing leaves. "I saw the fire." 

“Oh. OK."

He stands business-like, boots on the edge of the unmelted snow. "You’ve got the Louisiana plates? The Saturn?" I nod and he begins prodding with a flashlight, smiling up to his bushy eyebrows. “Well, you left your lights on.” 

"Shit."

"Hope your battery isn't dead." He shines the moon-white light over my face, noticing the tent, the torn book cover and scattered pages, and my arm, cocked back with a black log. He freezes. “Everything OK?”

"Oh." I drop my arm quickly. "Sorry."

“I scared you." 

“I thought you were a bear."

"They're sleeping," he says, motioning around. He clicks off his flashlight. The black dome lowers like a curtain and he steps toward me through the middle of a withering fire. "It’s people you have to be worried about in the woods.”