Man’s Love of Fire

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. My personal love of fire dates to the Christmas when Dad brought home some magic dust. Dad taught me to build tepee-shaped fires. Recently, at a cookout, the host had gotten one edge of the coals to catch but couldn’t persuade the fire to spread. I had to apologize to several people downwind for blowing ash into their drinks, but the fan accelerated the fire such that we were sitting down to dinner within 20 minutes. One was a small, hot fire made for cooking a fish dinner on a beach. It flared up nearly instantaneously, reached and maintained the temperature required to cook the fish perfectly and—as if knowing its work was done—died almost immediately. It had been casually but expertly banked, the coals precisely spaced and covered with ash. Personally, I don’t want fire to lose its mystery. Every fire I make is the first one—new, different, experimental.
obsessed with fire
Understanding a lifelong fascination with fire.

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…

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