Gathering Wood

--by Bo Sirant, 2012

December 30, 2011 and one more day to go It has been pelting ice and snow all day even though it was still balmy, sunny, green and dry yesterday It was easy pickings then Gathering wood was a cinch (The verdant juniper and club mosses were abundant and still visible Like miniature trees they stood I imagined that I saw them in aerial view as if I was flying over a dense tropical jungle looking for villages infiltrators, interlopers, intruders or elephants and tigers along the trails) But It would be tough sledding now to push through and return with a cumbersome load and burdened back From this dense foot-deep snow-laden gnarly bush And home of a snarly timber wolf pack Yes, I have seen the pack once crossing a frozen lake In pursuit of a cow moose and her yearling desperate to shake them I have seen their tracks and scat and have heard them from time to time howling, growling, yipping whimpering, barking, woofing whining and yelping growling, snarling and moaning fighting over carcasses or bones speaking a language all their own ever harmoniously but only on the quietest and stillest of nights and only when they warily venture out to survey the borders of their domain the boreal wilderness boundary the outer reaches of their reign

and not far from this lodge Their eerie and haunting howling is a reminder that the primal law of the jungle still governs here The strength of the wolf is the pack and the strength of the pack is the wolf I have found the bones and other remains of the hapless deer and moose that became banquets for these excellent hunters and am grimly reminded that these denizens were born to a vicious struggle for survival-Gathering wood is that most ancient of tasks and one I greatly enjoy In these old woods communion with my forebears is almost palpable Thank God the Creator that I am still a hunter, Although an irregular hunter and a gatherer of sorts (but not the kind you may think) and a sometime hewer of wood and occasional drawer of water I am therefore hardly cursed but truly blessed to enjoy those oldest of past-times but not as if my life depended on it now Yesterday I gathered kindling and firewood taking what had not yet touched the ground from the dry, spongy forest floor A lot of it was paper birch snag rooted up, ripped and torn blown down and wind thrown crippled slash and crash from the last big storm A young, toppled over ash was a real find Entire boughs of deadwood lay about Some thin and brittle other stiff and stout Like dismembered black burned bones and limbs Thrown about on the North Winds whims I picked up the freshly fallen deadwood and broke the boughs into easily carried lengths I snapped as much as I could by foot But some stiffer branches needed chopping

so the hatchet came in handy specially to cut from leaning fir snags and toppled paper birches I brought as much as I could carry Over three trips to the old fire pit for tomorrows New Years Eve bonfire I stacked the pines cones and pine and fir kindling over some crumpled newspaper balls and other twigs and tinder laced with paraffin from red and green Christmas party candle stubs I built it up in wigwam structure or tepee form bringing the poles to an apex with successively thicker twigs, sticks and logs until it was knee high from thin to thick from soft to hardwood from dry to wet with care so that it would light on one attempt One shot, one kill is my philosophy (Im good at lighting fires and have had years of experience with the old Zippo) The stack looked big enough so I cover the arranged structure and several extra logs with a tarp in case it rained or snowed And its a good thing I did All I have to do now is light it and away it goes crackling, hissing, and sizzling The flames licking and dancing shooting sparks and glowing embers letting off enormous plumes of steam and thick, sweet smoke while we will sit nearby lit up eating chocolates warming our mits and boots sipping mead, wine, whisky and rum telling tall tales, wild war stories and having some primitive fun