Without doubt, some of the best times of my life were around a St John’s fire while out in the bush somewhere.
Where I live, the fuel of choice is either pine or spruce. The other day as I sat outside in our backyard enjoying a bonfire with my wife, I threw a stick into the flames. Turns out it was willow. Time stood still as my mind flurried with vignettes of canoe trips down the North Saskatchewan. The smell of that willow smoke took me to many fires, but one in particular. It was a cycle-to-Rocky Mountain House-paddle- in two man canoes-back- to-the-school kind of trip. We had made in to the Big Horn dam on our bikes, then in the middle of the night someone collected them and returned with the canoes and all gear before dawn. That’s a well-oiled machine!
We found a nice bench off the river for our camp spot. As usual, after the kids went to bed, the Masters pulled a few stashed bottles out for a late evening beverage or four. As we stood around the fire, a confused gosling wandered around our feet, and then to our horror, ran right into the fire! The pre-requisite fire size is always “very big” and there were many larger logs stacked over the hot coals. Well the peep-peeps became understandedly frantic as he disappeared from sight, then reappeared on the other side of the fire. I’d never seen anything like it. We stared at him in disbelief and I caught him in my ball cap and took him quickly to the river.
I never did check, but I’m sure his little webs had melted away from between his toes and i probably sent him to his death by putting him into the river, but it was all I could think of at the time.