To poke a wood fire is more solid enjoyment than almost anything else in the world.  ~Charles Dudley Warner

I am much like this. I am like that log in a fire, that until you stick it with a poker, I really don’t have much to say, however, once poked I rage with the poke of the stick or metal implement and I speak in pops and hisses, fire raising up its beautiful orange and red head. But, like most fires, I quiet down. I will speak my mind and then the cold and quiet will come until the next camper decides to put some more fuel to the top of the burning heat just under the surface of what looks cold.I am the representation of a furnace burning just under the surface. I will rest idle, and be perfectly ok with that. I am usually a hermit and keep quiet to myself. Like most hermit crabs, I am grouchy, moody and really don’t say much unless it’s important. If you have never been around a camp fire you have missed the happiness, on a very cold Idaho night, of poking the log and seeing the sparks and flames jump. You are standing in the wilderness and everything is quiet, You suddenly decide to take a poker and stick the log. Flames, sparks and ashes fly….Are you really surprised? That’s what you get for waking the fire….Heat…, your face is burning to the point where you feel like you’re facing the sun and the just as suddenly there is smoke in your face, gagging you.  You can’t go far enough to the left without ending up in the rapidly moving river.  Just as quickly the flames die down and the sudden quiet envelops you. It’s so quiet that all you hear are the crickets singing their violin harmonies and the pop and crackle of water being released from the log. You curl up in your sleeping bag and awake at 6 am in the Rockies with the sun telling you to get your ass out of bed and wash your face in the river. The flames have died, all that’s left are the memories of the heat and the crickets song, the cold earth under your shoulder and how much you wish you had brought a wash cloth to wipe away the ashes.

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