I read this on my favorite forum (drakemag.com) This essay was written by Bob White (whitefishstudio.com) and is for all the wood cutters and burners out there.

Something new for you to read. I woke up at 2AM and couldn't go back to sleep, so I wandered up to the studio to try and dig my way out from under a pile of "to do's".

After getting cold, and lighting the first fire of the season, I figured I'd be happier at dawn if I did something fun.

Firewood

I knew I'd been living in Berkeley too long when I saw a sign that said “Free Firewood" and my first thought was, who was Firewood and what did he do?
~ John Berger


It was just the two of us, staring into the last fire of the season; another summer in Alaska had come and gone, the lodge had been boarded-up, and in the morning we’d leave to make our way through another winter until spring and the next fishing season.

“Fire’s an interesting thing.” Rusty, the old guide said for no particular reason.

I pushed a round of spruce back into the flames with the toe of my boot, and sparks climbed high into the dark autumn sky, dancing away on the biting wind.

“Have you ever thought about what you’re really watching when you look at a fire?” He asked without looking up for a reply. And then, as it was his habit to answer his own questions, he told me. “What you’re actually watching and feeling right now is sunlight that’s been accumulated and stored in the trees we’re burning. Years of concentrated sunshine are being released in this fire.” He said. “I figure that for as long as we’ve been doing this together, we’ve watched a couple of thousand summers go by.”

It was cold early this morning when I got up to the studio, and I felt compelled to start the first fire of the season. With the realization that autumn is upon us, I’ve begun to think about firewood and thus gauge the woodpile with a critical eye. Depending upon the winter we’ll burn three to four cords of hardwood to heat the studio until spring. Since there’s a variety of softer wood mixed into the pile it may even stretch to five, but as anyone who heats with wood will tell you; if you need five cords to make it through, you won’t rest easy until there’s at least eight or ten cords stacked and covered. Heating with wood teaches one about planning for the future, and I look upon the woodpile in much the same way as our retirement accounts; it’s better to end up with a little too much than not enough.

Ten cords of cut and stacked firewood represents a considerable investment of time and labor, but I don’t mind. I feel secure, even somehow wealthy, when the chore is finished. Not that the work ends with the falling of the first snowflakes. Winter is the best time to cut and split wood for the following year. It’s a joy to work in the woodlot without overheating, and even the toughest rounds seem to fairly explode beneath a splitting maul when the temperature falls below zero.

Watching my father split cordwood, “making wood” as he called it, is one of my fondest childhood memories, and I became enamored by the tools of a woodcutter. In college, when my friends were going to homecoming games, I could be found at farm auctions, looking for just the right crosscut, buck, and bow saws. My idea of retirement is having enough time on my hands to retire the chainsaw with its noisy tooth rattling vibration, and stifling exhaust. I’d like to watch my woodpile grow slowly and smell the sweetness of hand-cut wood in my old age. In my mind, the perfect Christmas gift is a finely balanced splitting maul and a good pair of work gloves.

Making wood is a great way to spend time with kids and teach them about life. It’s both fun and satisfying to work side-by-side with someone toward a common goal. The value of working hard, accomplishing a small task and repeating it until the job is finished was taught to me while watching a woodpile grow. I don’t know of any studies to support the notion, but I suspect that very few people who get into serious trouble have spent much time in a woodlot.

Some folks are particular about the wood they burn, preferring a homogenous woodpile. I like a mix of woods for the variety of scents they leave behind. Wood smoke is like a perfume to me and I appreciate a multiplicity of bouquets.

Red and white oak is a standard choice that produces an even foundation of aroma that I don’t easily tire of. Ash has a particularly rich tang that I enjoy in small doses. I love the pungent fragrance of birch burning on still, moonlit winter nights, and although I’ve never found any in Minnesota, the smoke from burning hickory has a way of taking me back to my youth and makes me nostalgic. Even softwoods that are often passed over by others will find a welcomed place in my woodpile. I treasure white cedar burnt on soft, gray autumn days, and save my meager supply of it for special occasions. Willow, while low in BTU’s, produces a fragrant, sweet aroma that reminds me of the warming fires we made while playing hockey as a kid. A whiff of spruce crackling away takes me back to the bonfires I’ve shared with friends, and all the shore lunches I’ve made.

Perhaps my fondness for wood smoke is why I prefer our ancient pot-bellied stove to the newer more efficient models on the market; it leaks a rich and complex aroma that permeates everything in our workspace. Nearly everyone that visits the studio comments about how pleasant it smells. Even our dog, which spends an inordinate amount of time lying on the floor there, smells good.

I believe that how a woodpile is constructed reveals a lot about a person’s character. While there are many ways to go about it, properly stacked piles of wood have several things in common; the wood is raised off of the ground, it’s put up in such a way as to make its deconstruction convenient and efficient, and it’s protected from the weather. There are any number of contrivances for holding up a wall of wood; wood wracks, steel fence posts, standing trees, expensive sheds, etc., but the experienced wood cutter has mastered the art of constructing the self standing wood pile. This is done with the skill of a master stonemason, by alternating the direction of the cordwood on the ends and leaning the pile back on itself ever so slightly.

Good kindling is a valued commodity in every wood-burner’s life, for even seasoned wood that’s been properly stored needs to be started somehow. Last summer I rebuilt the back porch on our old home, and in the process removed three layers of shingles. The original roof was made from first growth white cedar, so finely cut and seasoned that I can light a piece of it with just one match. Though I have no way to substantiate it, I’d like to believe that the trees came from the valley where we live, and were milled in our little village. What a find! There’s a peculiar essence to first growth white cedar, and I’ve decided that it smells of time.

Even something as simple as wooden matches takes on special meaning to someone who burns wood, and I have my preferences. Ohio Blue Tips are my favorite brand, and I’ll buy as many boxes of them as I can whenever I find them.

Not all the wood we make goes into the studio’s stove. Now that autumn has finally arrived and the nights are growing cooler it will be time to blend the rich scent of wood smoke with crackling cold nights, the sparkling of stars, and a haloed moon. Perhaps we’ll have a bon fire tonight.

As our five-year-old daughter, Tommy, stares into the flames tonight I’ll ask her, “Have you ever thought about what you’re watching when you look at a fire?” And then, as it’s become a habit to answer my own questions, I’ll begin to tell her.