To Build A Fire
By Jim Bates
Hot Black Coffee
The wind howled down the canyon. Above the granite walls, the leaden sky leaked snowflakes that swirled around the two figures huddled on their knees against the cold. They needed to get a fire going. Fast. Before it was too late.
"Jerry, how are those matches holding up?" Steve asked. He had his gloves off and was blowing on his frozen hands. His fingers were turning white, and he was losing all feeling in them. "Can you get that kindling lit?"
"Shit, no," Jerry swore, his frosted breath immediately turning to ice, adding to the cake building up on his beard and moustache. "I've got three left, and I can't feel my fingers to hold them. Can't feel a damn thing." He blew on his fingers to emphasize his point.
Those were not the words Steve wanted to hear. It was twenty degrees below zero. If they didn't get a fire going in the next few minutes, hypothermia would set in, and they'd begin the slow, agonizing process of freezing to death. He blinked to keep his watering eyes from freezing shut. It didn't help, and he rubbed at them to clear his vision.
Next to the two men, the rushing water of the Yellow Knife River cascaded over ice-covered boulders on its way to Lake Superior ten miles to the east. Steve and Jerry had been on a winter hiking trip along the trail that ran high above the river when the ledge of snow they were on collapsed, and they tumbled thirty feet down the steep slope into the frigid water below. In just seconds, their heavy winter clothing, Jerry's dark blue thermal pants and parka, and Steve's tan Carhartt overalls and insulated jacket were soaked through to their skin. The wet clothing and the numbing cold was a dangerous combination.
They had scrambled out and found a level spot in the snow and took stock of their predicament. Their day packs were lost, and Steve had sprained his wrist. Jerry had wrapped it as well as he could with a wet scarf, but it didn't help much. One consolation was that the cold helped numb the pain, but that was all. Steve could feel his beard icing up and, with his face getting numb, it was getting hard to speak. He wasn't much help. It was up to Jerry to build the fire.
They'd built a small teepee of twigs and pine needles but a combination of wet stick matches and a wind swirling down the narrow canyon walls made getting the match lit next to impossible. With two matches to go, their prospects were grim.
Steve shuffled on his knees closer to Jerry, their heavy clothes forming a barrier from the wind. Then, in a gesture of profound intimacy, he motioned to his friend, "Here, give me your hands."
When Jerry balked, Steve said, "Don't give me that macho BS." He motioned again and said, softly, "Here, let me help." Steve took his friend's bare hands in his and, ignoring the pain in his wrist, drew them to his lips and blew on them, warming them with his breath.
The warm air melted the ice on Jerry's hands, and it dripped onto the snow, freezing immediately. Blood flowed into his fingers, bringing them back to life. In a minute, he could wiggle them. "Hey, man, that feels good. They're better." He flexed his hand. "I can feel my fingers, now."
Steve blew on last long breath, and then Jerry quickly moved his hands away, took the second match, and struck it against the side of the matchbox. Nothing happened. It was too wet. On the second try, it broke apart and fell to the snow, useless.
The two men looked at each other. "Here," Steve said. "Give me your hands again."
Steve again cupped his friends' fingers and blew on them, willing warmth into them. Their faces were windblown and red. Their teeth were chattering and their eyes watering so much they kept freezing shut. Their beards were filled with chunks of ice. And they only had one match left.
The sun was setting behind the pine trees lining the rim of the canyon. With the lack of sunlight, the cold was settling in deep and hard.
Steve blew on Jerry's fingers one last time. "Ready?"
"Yeah." Jerry took the last match, resolve set in his eyes. He looked at Steve. "Let's do this."
"Go for it, man."
Jerry struck the match. Both men watched, their lives hanging in the balance, as the flame flickered...then faded... then caught.
In spite of ice-covered beards and frozen faces, they looked at each other and grinned. Then, they quickly set about building a roaring fire.
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