Where the Hurricane Meets a Blizzard

Chapter 8

        “There’s no way that actually works,” I mutter, watching attentively as Alaska continues sawing away at a long piece of bark with a stick. Alaska doesn’t say anything, his concentration solely dedicated to his efforts at constructing a fire. Beside him is a pit we both spent at least an hour making, stacked with branches, pieces of bark, dead pine needles, and lint from our pockets, which he claims to be used as something he called ‘tinder’, whatever that even is.

        “You’re like the guy on Man vs. Wild,” I say, unable to contain myself. “All survival savvy.”

        Instead of responding, his cheeks seem to become a little rosier than they were before and he ducks his head, rubbing the stick along the groove he carved in his board, which lays flat on the ground, quicker. Little wisps of smoke twist their way up into the air, but I still don’t see how he’s going to be able to construct a fire.

        “What does that long indent you made in the wood even do, anyway? I thought you just take two sticks and rub ‘em together.”

        “Opal, I’m trying to concentrate,” he says with a frown.

        “Right, right, sorry. I didn’t realize my voice was scaring the flame.”

        He lets out a long, mildly agitated sigh, but I can’t help but notice the way the little corners of his mouth quirk up into a hint of a smile, and I sit straighter in satisfaction.

        My silence lasts for about thirty seconds until the urge to start talking again overpowers. “Do you think you could maybe hurry it up a little? I’m cold and thirsty and would like to see a color other than blue, white, or brown for a change. It’s killing my vibe.”

        He uses the side of a knife from his backpack to scoop up little particles of dust that got sawed off from all of the friction and transfers them over to our fire pile, on top of some wood shavings and lint, and begins to blow on it. This creates more smoke, but the fire still doesn’t seem to want to materialize.

        “Quick question . . . if that’s supposedly a ‘survival backpack’ or whatever, why not just put matches or a lighter or something in there?”

        His hand balls into a fist as he continues blowing on our fire pit, creating even more smoke until finally, after his fifth try of collecting dust from the board, adding it to the fire, blowing on it, and repeating, a little spark ignites. He blows harder and adds a few small branches as the flame builds, and before we know it, Alaska actually made us a fire.

        “My hero,” I joke, though it’s hard to camouflage my growing excitement that we finally have a fire to provide us with some warmth and comfort. 

        He smiles wordlessly as he tries to catch his breath.

        While he regains a steady flow of oxygen to his brain, I fetch a small pot from the backpack and fill it with snow, then use the black handle on the pot to hold it over the fire to melt the snow, a method that Alaska told me was necessary in order to get the proper drinking water. Because apparently eating snow dehydrates you. Good thing I have Alaska to tell me this stuff or I probably would have assumed that I could get my water supply from the snow and become dehydrated or something by now. Plus, his survival backpack came in handy earlier when we were both starving and needed a snack.

        “There is a box of matches in the bag,” he finally says, joining me as I settle down a few feet away from the fire, still holding the pot out and watching as the snow begins to liquidize. The heat feels rejuvenating after being freezing to the point of numbness for the past day-and-a-half and I watch the glowing embers that crack and sizzle, a bright contrast against the dim evening light.