How to Make Fire

Without fire there's no comfort, little safety, and so, no joy in camp.  You gather birchbark, tiny spruce twigs because they are dry under their canopy, neat piles of dry twigs roughly sorted by size, and envision the flame.  Wishing won't make it so, though.  Fire must be created.

Fire can be made with friction and pressure.  By sheer force of will and untiring work.  This is rubbing two sticks together, your hands working down a carefully chosen spinning stick, palms almost as hot as the tip of the twig as it grinds into the groove of another perfectly dry branch.  This is a solitary endeavor, your focus intent on the friction point.  You dare not pause even for a moment, or let up on the downward pressure as you spin.  Sweat drips into your eyes and doubles your vision.  No one can help you do this, and any wavering of intention will lose the small steady gains.  Your palms might blister, your shoulders ache, the sweat (or is it tears?) drip from the tip of your nose.  A waft of smoke, thin as spiderweb, begins to drift up from the contact point.  You have forced fire into the world.  This is the most difficult way, serving when your journey is solitary...without a guide, by choice or by chance.  Your joy in this fire is knowing you are self-sufficient, determined, and powerful.

Fire can be made with a spark.  By a tiny miracle of ingenuity.  This is striking flint to steel, or focusing the sun through a lens or in a reflective curve polished to mirror finish.  Literally brilliant, like an inspiration, the spark must be cradled in a perfect bed of ultrafine tinder.  You prepare tiny shreds of single layers of birchbark, dry grass as thin as hair, bits of found paper or dried leaf.  Only in perfectly laid plans will the spark live long enough for the flame to take hold.  You strike the flint again and again, sparks flying and bouncing off the shielding wall of dry rock blocking the wind.  Again, again, again.  Until the moment you drop the flint and steel, quickly leaning in to blow the caught spark into life.  Your heart pounds, your breathing quickens, all hinges on this moment.  The tinder catches, a tiny flame is born.  You have inspired fire into the world.  This way serves when your journey is well prepared and your mind is sharp.  Your joy in this fire is in triumphing by your talents, inspiring yourself and your companions.

Fire can be made with an ember.  By accepting the gift of fire from one who has it.  This is a coal from their fire, cradled in dry moss inside a hollow branch.  You must carry it, a precious jewel of potential, and keep it alive with your breath until you reach your own hearth.  You must be willing to accept it, and make it your own.  The same banquet of fuel must be prepared for your ember, a place for it to breath and eat and grow strong.  You lay the coal on the shreds of birchbark or red crackly dry pine needles and blow your spirit into it.  You feed it with tiny spruce twigs and more birchbark, careful not to smother it.  Too much food will kill it faster than too little.  A perfect balance of wood and air is needed.  Your fire grows into an upright blaze, new embers popping from the pine sap and landing up against the edges of the firepit.  You could gift these embers now, as you sit back and admire the dancing tongues.  You have shared fire with the world.  This way is the sweetest way, when your journey happens upon the right companions.  Those who share and inspire and encourage, who are willing to give of themselves.  Your joy in this fire is in honoring the gifts you are offered, nurturing them until you can share the light and warmth with any and all, whether they sit at your hearth or carry your gift away to their own.