Campfire By Committee

Time for my account of the annual Ferrin Family Fracas in the Mountains. The names have not been changed because the guilty know perfectly well who they are.

It is time for the Huntsmans to host the monthly Birthday Bash. We could go to Grandma's, or we could host it at our house...but the only way we would host it at our house is if we were doing a weenie roast over the burning embers of the house itself. I think it would be an easier way to get it clean, but apparently the insurance company frowns on that. Bugger. So why don't we go to a cleaner environment (cleaner than our house, not Grandma's) and picnic in the mountains? Joy!

Since I gave up on cooking and grocery shopping years ago, there wasn't much else for me to do except go up early and hold the spot. All I had to do was get up early (noonish) on Saturday and drive up the canyon, find the place, set up my camp chair, and read a book. All doable except for the getting up early part. Yes, I gave up on working Friday nights but my body clock didn't. I still managed to drag myself out of bed, get ready, and drive like a maniac hoping that I didn't miss my chance.

My big worry was the fact that there were what the weather people politely call "wind gusts" in the Salt Lake valley that day. The "gusts" were enough that I was glad to be a woman of some size in my tiny car. I think I saw small children flying past. As I went up the canyon, I hoped that the wind would calm down, because it might make it slightly difficult to have a campfire. I figured that either we would never get it going, or we would get it going and then set Big Cottonwood Canyon on fire shortly afterward. Then the rich people who built their houses in the forest would be really peeved that they burnt down. Maybe they would come burn down my house. Maybe it wouldn't be all that bad...

It is thinking jags like this that always get me in trouble. For instance, I completely missed the turnoff to our favorite picnic spot. Let me substitute "favorite" for other important phrases like "quick to get to" and "the place where we told everyone the picnic would be at". I realized I was in trouble when I got to the ski resort. "Funny" I thought, "I don't remember passing a ski resort last year..." Umm, I had overshot by a good 10 miles. Oops. Fortunately, there was another picnic spot just past the ski resort or we might have ended up having our picnic in Heber City. (Which is not a city at all). Or maybe Wyoming. (Which doesn't have any cities. Or non-windy picnic spots.)

At this point, I had to call my husband and confess that I had already screwed up my part of the party. The good news: it wasn't that windy on top of the mountain. (And I do mean ON TOP). The bad news: I would have to call everyone and tell them of our change in plans. After breaking out in the Ferrin rash that happens when I have to call people, I actually did it. Bad news: it wasn't until I called Neil and Leann that it occurred to me to mention the 20 degree temperature difference on top of the mountain. They nicely brought extra sweaters and sweatshirts. It would have been really perfect if we all had arms the length of Neil's. (Perhaps if I was hosting a picnic for the Utah Jazz?)

OK, now I wanted to execute my secret plan. This year, I would start the fire, alone. Not only that, but I would do it without paper products or liquid hydrocarbons. Hah! I knew I would have to gather lots of tinder (the really little stuff) and kindling (the sort of little stuff) before I could burn the logs. Or is kindling the little stuff and tinder the sort of little stuff? I can never remember. Oh well.

Problem is, there was lots of recent dampness in our picnic spot. By recent dampness, I mean that there was evidence of new rivers that had not been there previously. As I recall from years of girl's camp in Pennsylvania (Latin for: "Rains every day except for the days that it snows") damp wood is a real bugger to get to light on fire without aforementioned liquid hydrocarbons. Bah. So I found what I could that was dry. It took a lot longer than I thought it would, which meant that I didn't have much time to construct my fire and light it.

I decided to make the traditional "tepee" fire. Unfortunately my tepee making skills are up there with my housecleaning and organizing skills. My tepee looked more like a rickety shed filled with stuff. I tried lighting it a couple of times, and it ALMOST worked. But not quite. If I would have had a little more time, I think I could have gotten it. Really.

Too late. The rest of the family is now showing up. And by "rest of the family" I mean "Pyromaniacs like unto myself who cannot resist the urge to help with the campfire." It took my teenagers about 3.2 nanoseconds to inform me that I was "doing it wrong". Big surprise there. The rest of the family circled the rickety-shed-campfire-to-be like vultures around a bleeding corpse. Needless to say, they suggested the use of paper products and liquid hydrocarbons. Of course.

To make a short story shorter, the fire, certain family relationships, and the freezing masses were saved by my brother-in-law Josh, who was nice enough not to comment on my rickety shed apparatus. Instead, he actually got DRY wood and constructed a tepee that very small people could have lived in for awhile. I was only slightly relieved to find that it took him more than once to light his fire, although my teenagers missed that small detail. "See, he got his going. You were doing it wrong." Really?

Next year I just won't tell them where the picnic is. Perhaps I'll try for Nevada. Should be plenty of dry...never mind.