Last week-end, some friends of Dave and Sue’s came out to help us cut firewood so we could be spared from having to do it in the middle of the winter. Justin and Shannon (Witmer) Bolog, and their children, Jordan (10), and Ashlyn (8), spent a winter out here a few years ago, actually living in our house. They furnished several stories about pipes bursting and showers leaking, and confirmed that our stove will adequately heat the house at -60 C! They recently moved into a new place on a town lot in Taylor, a few miles south of Ft. St. John, so maybe they missed the fall wood ritual. Whatever the reason, it was a a very neighborly thing to do, and their help and extra chainsaw was much appreciated as we hauled several hefty trailerloads to our house. The pile we were cutting from a logging load of poplar which had been sitting probably six years. It was very dry, and some of it on the rotten side, though there was still plenty of good wood.
Around six p.m., as I was putting the finishing touches on a dinner of roast chicken, roast baby carrots and potatoes, Nick had to run an errand up to camp, driving close by the woodpile. He was up there maybe 20 minutes, and when he stepped back outside, he saw against the dark sky the bright light of a huge fire. He told someone at camp to call Dave and Sue’s, and headed back. At first, he thought it was our house, but as he got closer, he saw it was the old woodpile. When we got the call, I looked out the kitchen window, and for maybe a second thought our place was on fire. That was a sudden insight into how attached I am to my possessions. In a matter of minutes, the whole pile was ignited; completely unstoppable. That morning, however, we had had a small snow which still lay on the ground, and the grass around wasn’t burning. Also, the wind which had been blowing the last two weeks, was remarkably still. The woodpile was not close to any buildings – the nearest being the old tack barn and our house – but a wind could easily have carried such a hot fire away.
The men took off as soon as they got a call, and once they had assessed the situation and decided it was under control, actually seemed to enjoy the blaze. I mean, what else could you do? The winter’s supply of wood was burning all at once, but to look at it philosophically, it was no one’s fault, there was nothing that could be done, and it wasn’t the greatest wood anyway. It was a spectacular fire, wood and waste aside. The children were scared but fascinated. We went out on the porch and watched for a few minutes, and Marley decided it was ok after all. He didn’t want to come back inside. Lyra, on the other hand, couldn’t bear to watch anymore, so we went down to the basement with Megan, who doesn’t enjoy fires, either. Megan stayed with them while I went to have a look, and by the time I got back, Lyra was looking on the bright side and decided we could roast marshmellows once the fire burned down.
How DID the fire start? I have never heard of a post-woodcutting fire, but I guess I haven’t lived in the north all my life. Towards the end of the afternoon, some of the wood was actually smoking from the heat of the blades. Chainsaws have spark arresters, so there shouldn’t have been any sparks, but between the heat, the dry sawdust, and maybe some gas or oil, there was combustion. By morning, there were just a few wisps of smoke and a pile of ashes. We were thankful nothing valuable was lost, no one was hurt, and we are also thankful for that big pile of wood outside our door.
Zia Silhouetted
