Which of the following is something you will never hear a man say?
(A) I have no sense of humor.
(B) I’m actually a lousy driver.
(C) I’m terrible at building fires.
While all are unlikely, only (C) is a genetic impossibility, overriding the DNA inherited from countless generations of our fire-making male ancestors. In fact, should you ever hear a man say that he is anything less than the best fire builder he knows, examine him more closely. He is probably a woman. Man’s acquisition of fire—usually by theft, often from the gods—is a theme in mythologies worldwide. And not solely because one publisher puts out all those mythology books, although that’s part of it. No, the truth is that fire speaks deeply to men’s souls. It’s just that we have no idea what it’s saying. This is also because we’re men.
We’ve been making fires for 700,000 years or so and the skill remains key to establishing the male pecking order outdoors. On a fishing canoe trip, I once watched three men from the same family argue for an hour over starting a fire. Alone, each could have kindled a blaze in minutes. But it’s not sufficient to show that your method works. It’s equally important to show that nobody else’s has a chance. This can take a while.
My personal love of fire dates to the Christmas when Dad brought home some magic dust. A handful tossed into the fireplace instantly turned the flames marvelous colors—blue, green, white, purple. I couldn’t have been more than 4, but I knew this was the greatest invention ever. Dad would pour some in my palm. I could make the fun last by feeding it in gradually or detonate an explosion of color with the whole handful. I never hesitated. It was always the full load. For a few glorious seconds, I became a god of fire.
Dad taught me to build tepee-shaped fires. “Fire likes to go up and down, not side to side,” he said. It drove him nuts when the cleaning lady swept the fireplace bare. A good bed of ash is the best foundation. He infused me…
