Page 2 of Ignited By the Mountain Man
"Most things are, when you've never had to do them." He glanced up at me. "You're not from around here."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Chattanooga, Tennessee. Well, technically I'm from a lot of places, but Chattanooga’s my home base right now."
"What brings you to Wildwood Valley? Besides ruining perfectly good kindling piles."
"Research. I'm writing a piece about small mountain communities and their fall traditions. How they bring people together, preserve local culture, that sort of thing. Your bonfire is supposed to be the centerpiece of my article."
"Great. No pressure." He held up two different types of what looked like bark. "Birch or cedar?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
"Birch." He set the cedar aside and began arranging small pieces of the birch bark in the center of a clear area. "Burns hotter, catches easier."
"How do you know all this?"
"Military training, mostly. Plus, I've lived here three years. You pick things up." His hands moved with practiced efficiency, building a small nest of tinder. "When the power goes out in your cabin if someone sneezes too hard near a transformer, you learn to be self-sufficient."
I found myself mesmerized by the careful way he arranged each piece. There was something almost meditative about it, the precision and patience.
"Were you supposed to be doing this alone?” I asked. “Where is everyone?"
"The rest of the volunteer crew took a dinner break.” He struck a match and carefully touched it to the birch bark. "Igrabbed a sandwich and headed back over here. No one else seems all that stressed about the fact that busloads of teenagers are arriving at any minute.”
The bark caught immediately, small flames licking upward. He began adding pieces of kindling, each one placed with deliberate care.
"That's amazing," I said softly. "You make it look so easy."
"Years of practice." He looked up at me, the firelight already beginning to play across his features. "Want to try?"
"Try what?"
"Adding those pieces." He indicated what remained dry from the pile I’d scattered. "But you have to do it slowly. Too much too fast, and you'll smother it."
I scooted closer, suddenly very aware of how near he was. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, which was something woodsy that suited him perfectly. Finally, though, I had to leave him to get a stick from the pile. I grabbed one and held it up.
"Like this?" I asked.
"Smaller pieces."
His voice was lower now, rougher. I swooped down for another stick and held it up for him. This one got his approval. When I was standing next to him again, he took my hand to guide me, his fingers warm against mine.
"Now, lay it across the flame, not on top of it,” he said. “You want air flow underneath."
I followed his guidance, acutely conscious of his hand still covering mine. When the stick caught and began to burn, I felt a ridiculous surge of pride.
"I did it!"
"You did." He was smiling now, a real smile that transformed his whole face. "Natural talent."
We worked together in comfortable silence after that, gradually building up the fire until it was large enough to begin catching the pieces toward the top. With each successful addition, I felt more confident, more connected to this primal act of creation.
"You know," I said, feeding another stick to the growing flames, "I've been to bonfires, but I've never actually helped start a fire before."
"Most people haven't. They just show up when it's already going." He sat back, watching the flames climb higher. "There's something satisfying about starting from nothing, building it up piece by piece."
"Is that why you volunteered for this? The satisfaction?"
He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. "Partly. Also because someone has to do it, and I know how to do it safely."
