I Remember the Fire

I woke up hungover to a cold stove and a chilled cabin.  With a slight throbbing in my head, I put the kettle on for coffee, noticed the mercury reading 20 below outside, and knelt to build a fire in the stove. 

As the cabin warmed to the pleasant crackle and reassuring glow of fire, I sat in the rocker, coffee in hand and watched the sky lighten over spruce.

Years ago, I had a fantasy about driving across this grand expansive country of ours.  Breathing it in.  Skirting the cities and lingering in the towns.  Watching the sun rise over a different field, forest, or town every morning.

Exploring the back roads of America.  Browsing through it's downtown shops, eavesdropping on conversations over coffee and pie in it's diners, buying gas at it's corner service stations before moving on down the line.

But all this was merely the beginning of fantasy.

I always imagined finding myself in that perfect, sleepy little town, village really.  Full of hardworking, simple folks who relied on themselves and each other, taking little notice of the outside world.

A place that I could feel in my bones and in my blood that I was right to be in, a place where I belonged.  Fall in love with the young woman who ran the bookstore, buy a small house in town, and raise a family.  Do something simple and useful for a living. 

Have someone with whom to grow old and a community in which to belong.

Instead I have spent my life restless and lonely.

Wandering and searching, never quite finding the town, eluded by love, dominated by an urge for going.  Once or twice, I've begun to settle in to life, begun to believe that I've found the town or the woman only to discover that dreams don't come true.

I do my best to be happy with where I am, what I find myself doing but this is a great struggle for me, and I am rarely happy in the present, for I am pulled to continue on down the road.  It is an almost desperate need to find that which I am looking for without knowing what it is that will satisfy my search.

One night, years ago, some friends and I sat around a fire, warmed by it's strong, proud heat, and we fed it deep into the night.  As we were turning in we each took our turn pissing on the coals in a young man's effort to quench the flames.  We climbed into our tents and fell asleep to rain drops pattering softly.  The rain continued into the morning but at each lull the fire would flare up and we'd hear the crackling of flames and see the flickering glow through the tent wall.  As I climbed out of the tent the following day one determined, proud flame was still licking the air from a wet pile of ash and burned brands.  Refusing to face it's end. Refusing to face the finality of failure.

Answering Solitude's Call

It was midweek and I decided to take a break from woodcutting. It was warm at around 10 above. Up about 20 degrees since I’d arrived at the cabin and I figured it was time to blaze a trail to the hot springs. Since arriving at the cabin 4 or 5 days before I’d spent my days wandering around the property with a chainsaw and a maul bucking up down trees, splitting the big rounds, and making stacks of wood to dry in the forest. In the evenings I’d collapse into the wooden rocker with a cup of tea and a book. First War of the Worlds, then The Blue Nile, and Ashenden, or the British Agent (perhaps Maugham at his best)

I’d been day dreaming of blazing a trail to the hot springs for years now. Relatively simple procedure. Cross the river behind the cabin and head up the steep black spruce forested hill to the peak of Bear Paw Butte, from which you drop onto the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs trail.  All told approximately 4 miles of walking and 1,500 feet of elevation gain to arrive at the springs.

I made myself a PB&J, packed a bottle of water, and off I went to promptly break through the ice of the Chena River. Approximately 15 feet off Greg’s property and I’ve already hit my first snag. The weather had warmed and as a result the river ice was a bit unpredictable…or perhaps I should say completely predictable and thus undependable. Once across the river I was maneuvering to climb the cut bank and the ice broke beneath my left foot. I managed to scramble up the bank and my gaitor kept me mostly dry.

The sky, overcast early, had mostly cleared to reveal a blue sky day with the sun blazing down upon the hills and ridges of the Upper Chena Valley. Given a choice, this day, there was no where I would rather have been. The snow was a deep powder and facing me was exactly what I had expected and I reveled in it. A grueling slog through knee deep snow putting behind me 1,500 feet of elevation gain in under two miles. The sweat poured, my chest heaved, and my legs screamed for an end.

Finally, once again, after too long a time I knew that I was happy.

Me, the snow, and the sky.