Chapter 19 - Friendly fire - Part One

Our first fire in the wood heater. Smash taking all the glory.

During our first winter while camping, we spent a lot of time huddled around the open fire. At bedtime, it was hard to leave – even getting two metres away was unpleasant and we’d stand as close to the fire as we could, rotating slowly while brushing our teeth, trying to get fully basted in the warmth before making the dash to the tent and under the covers.

One night, the temperature got down to minus 6 degrees. There are not enough hot water bottles in the world to make that a pleasurable experience. The pillow slips were slippery and hard, like ice rinks, canvas walls cracked and smacked in the wind, the hot water bottles went cold within the hour. Already in thermals, track pants, two jumpers, beanie, scarf and gloves, I added another jumper and loaded all the bedding onto one bed. We lay on our backs all night under a foot of blankets and two dogs. Smash started snoring and when I asked him to roll over, said: ‘Can’t’. I thought about wrapping one of the rocks from the fireplace up in a towel and bringing it into the bed, and would have, but by then I was trapped between Smash and the dogs.

In the morning, the second it was light enough to see, I got out of bed, staggered to the kitchen tent to make tea, polar expedition style, leaning forward slightly, neck and shoulders aching from being clenched all night. The spoon clacked on top of the honey. The water tube to the sink was frozen and the camp stove hissed out a cloud and wouldn’t light. A sparkling layer of frost covered everything, including the fireplace. It was novel, exciting and one of the things we love about Stanthorpe, but I so badly wanted that cup of tea. Forty minutes later, after getting the fire going, I melted some icy water, chiselled out a notch of honey and made a cuppa. When I opened the Esky to get the soya milk, I realised it was colder outside than in – no need to get ice that day.

Back in bed, the dogs had taken my place and refused to move. Schultzy wouldn’t even open his eyes. I wriggled my way in, sloshing tea here and there; Smash moaned about me letting the cold in, sneezed, asked for tissues. The dogs gave deep, shuddering sighs and went back to sleep. I leaned back, snivelled a bit and stared blankly at the tent wall.

Warmth is important, not just for comfort but for good health, so as soon as we got the roof on the shed, I ordered a Nectre Mk 2 wood heater from Hot Copper in Stanthorpe, and had it installed in a spot we both chose in a panic, at the last minute when the plumber arrived asking us where we wanted it. We’d talked about where it should go, of course, but somehow the definitive decision had never been made. While the plumber waited, Smash and I looked at each other, mouths pursed, pretending we were each just about to answer, but really, we were waiting for the other to speak. Then typically, when neither of us could verbally commit, we both pointed to opposite sides of the shed.

The man plumber put down his tool bag and said Hot Copper had only supplied one heater, and we had a bit of a laugh about how we were only joking and of course we knew where it would go. Almost the second he started cutting the hole in the roof on the western side, I remembered we’d talked about having it on the eastern wall, but I kept my thoughts to myself and figured we’d work around the wood stove - it was, after all, going to be the centre point of the shed, and all living would revolve around it.

I love that wood heater, and everything associated with it: setting it, lighting it, keeping it going, collecting kindling and chopping the wood – I even love cleaning it, getting all the gunk off the glass door so we can see the flames and coals. I’ve been warned I will get sick of all that one day, but for now, keeping the home fire burning embodies all I’d been yearning for in our tree change. In the evening, when we come back down the hill after watching the sunset, there is no better feeling than opening the shed door and feeling the warmth, seeing that ironbark glowing, smelling the dinner that’s slow cooking on top.

In saying that, we still loved the open fire, especially when friends came over. Sitting around a fire talking, watching glowing, prehistoric shapes emerge out of fire is one of life’s great joys. It’s also the best way to get coals for cooking, which we’d gotten much better at since that first exploding lamb leg disaster.

Smash loves starting fires, but he doesn’t like to waste time with coaching kindling along in the contemplative way I do, fanning the glow with a piece of cardboard while gazing dreamily at something far off. Smash likes to expedite things with petrol, and if there is some kind of explosion, all the better. Which is why when he gets the petrol out, a whiney tone enters my voice.

Not that much! Stand back! Careful, honey!

Because of my aversion to risk, Smash tends to apply the petrol and light the fire while I’m busy doing something else, so I don’t spoil his fun.

One time, I was peeling potatoes at the sink, groovin’ along with Justin Townes Earl, every now and then looking out the window and thinking how good life was, when all of a sudden, there was an explosive, sound barrier breaking whooomph. I dropped the peeler and raced to the door. Beside the fire, Smash stood with his back to me, arms out from his sides, frozen on the spot. I called his name, and slowly, he turned around.

He looked weird. I asked him if he was okay and he just stared at me, face crimson, hair flared out, and when I got closer, I noticed all the hairs on his beard were orange and curled, like stamens.

‘Too much fuel,’ he said.

‘You think?’

He came inside trailing a foul-smelling fug; when he ran his hand over his beard, half of it came off and sprinkled to the doormat. Either out of shock, or relief I started laughing in the high-pitched shriek of a mad woman. ‘You could’ve killed yourself’!

Smash seemed still in shock, kept saying, ‘Wow’ over and over, looking between me and the fire which had by then died down to a few friendly flames.

After my hysteria died down, I got cranky. ‘You have got to stop trying to kill yourself,’ I said. ‘It’s ruining the serenity.’

I took a photo of his new ginger beard – what was left of it and (tried to) make him promise he wouldn’t use so much petrol again, but by then his shock had settled and the window of opportunity for being sensible closed. He just needed a longer star picket, he decided, with a flaming rag on the end, so he could stand further back to light the fire.

‘Did you hear it?’ he asked, sounding quite proud now.

‘I think all of Nundubbermere heard it.’

‘Imagine how the big stacks will go!’

Ah, yes. The big stacks. On the open field in front of our shed, sat two large piles of dead wood that JT, the earthmoving guy had collected from all over the place. They were big: each 8 metres in diameter and 3 metres high. We’d planned on lighting them once the fire ban was lifted; I was looking forward to it, but for the first time I had doubts about how safe it would be, not just for us, but for the community, wildlife and flora. Using too much petrol and having a scare with a small fire is one thing; lighting up a gigantic stack on a grassy field is another. I looked back to Smash’s scorched face and shook my head.

‘You’re not going to use petrol on those.’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said, caressing what was left of his beard.

‘Nope.’

‘Yep.’

I had an overwhelming desire to keep going, school yard style, but instead, I decided to dob him into the Fire Warden.

Smash’s new beard.