The wood stove was hot, a bright bed of coals glowing yellow, orange and red while lazy flames flickered upward. The heat was so welcome; now the summertime effort of cutting, splitting and stacking the wood seemed like the smartest thing you ever did, a stroke of brilliance in fact. Nothing beats the deep, muscle penetrating heat of a wood fire.
I lazily stared at the flames, mesmerized by the fire just as untold numbers of humans have done for time immemorial. There’s something wholesome and honest about a wood fire. Perhaps it’s the spiritual, mysterious flicker of the flames, the pulsing glow of the coals that floats us away into a state of perfect relaxation and fires a spiritual happening deep inside our souls. Fires speak of times past, present and future, warming not only our bodies, but our innermost beings, bringing a tranquility you simply cannot find elsewhere so easily or enjoyably.
Suddenly, the years flew backward, memories swirling in a dense cloud, whirling, changing shape, like a spiral of leaves swept in a violent wind. A single leaf floated out and as it drifted slowly down I was caught away to another fire so long ago.
My grandfather, Arthur Hayes, sat on a campstool, leaning forward by a ring of stone. The stones enclosed a bright, leaping fire whose ruddy light reflected on the side of Pop’s face, glinting on his glasses and sparkling in his bright eyes. My parents and aunts and uncles completed the family circle. The low murmur of conversation and occasional laughter completed the idyllic scene.
The yet undammed Allegheny River flowed to our left, the black undulating waters occasionally reflecting a glint of starlight as it flowed steadily by on its long journey to the sea. The dark sky was just light enough for the far ridge of Sugar Run to be made out against the sprinkle of stars.
The entire family was camping on the West side of the river, away from the road and people. It was the Fourth of July week and every year the family came here to fish, swim, hike, canoe and eat. As kids it was a type of Huck Finn adventure, the leash was off and other than strict warnings not to cut off a finger or drown, we were free to explore and do as we wished.
I was 10 and my brother Gary 7. We had heavy responsibilities to perform. First, every morning we had to travel to a large swath of huge ferns, six feet high. I had my Dad’s bolo, a huge heavy knife some 18-inches long and Gary a black handled sheath knife with a 6-inch blade.
We cut bunches of the ferns and then laid them in front of each tent, making a fragrant, beautiful matt over top of the sand and dirt beneath. This allowed anyone entering their tent to remove their shoes, keeping the tent floor and sleeping bags free of dirt and debris. Every morning the family had a brand new mat. We took our task seriously.
Other than my brother sticking his knife in the side of his foot about an inch deep we had no mishaps, though it was surprising how much that wound bleed. Pop laughed it off. Clean it out, dump some iodine on it and the kid will be just fine. The women mumbled and shook their heads, but the hospital was a long drive and Gary had no intention of leaving camp for a mere flesh wound. He bore the pain without a flicker for fear of being forced to leave.
That night was a chorus of grumping bullfrogs. Across the river a 6-foot clay bank filled with muskrat holes, undercuts and fallen clumps of thick grass provided a haven for huge bullfrogs and tonight 10 or so were in full voice. Brooom, brooom, brooom; their deep throated roars carrying a surprising distance.
A sudden loud and piercing squawk came from above us as a late flying heron voiced his displeasure with the bright light below. If you listened smaller leopard frogs and green frogs added their lesser voices to the many and varied night sounds.
Just before bed time we kids made s’mores and dragged out making them as long as possible. Kids are good at that. Once in our little tent the side nearest the fire glowed with a red light. We laid quietly and listened to the adults. Now they talked of things never mentioned when we were near and we’d giggle quietly, all ears.
I didn’t know it then, but those were golden days. Our Grandparents were still healthy and vigorous, all four of their children still lived in the Bradford area, the family intact, not separated by the many miles that seems so common today.
And then there was this very special week in the wilderness. The river had plentiful bass, walleye and the occasional muskellunge lurked in the still pools and lagoons. We children roamed the area as children do discovering nature’s many treasures, fishing, playing, swimming until too weary to continue, yet through it all and after all these years I still see the red campfire embers playing on my grandfather’s face, smiling at us all as only he could.
I glanced outside at the cold and ice, but those memories from the past warmed my soul with a fire of their own.
