One weekend in 2001, I realized that Camp Bradley was (and still is) a tinderbox. One stroke of lightening, and the entire camp would be reduced to ashes and dust. So, being always willing to help the camp out, I spent several hours on Sunday gathering wood from around Camp Merlin. The troops generally leave at least some firewood behind, and so I looted Roughneck, Dagger Falls, Sea Foam and Sunbeam of all they had, and made a huge pile next to my tent. I also gathered loose stuff, including an old rotten log about a foot across that an old wilderness survival instructor had carved his name into. Then I gathered branches that were still covered with pine needles, and completely covered my fire-pit with them. And that fire pit is six feet across.

After the staff meeting on Sunday evening, I lit the needles, and it went up like a torch. I threw most of the wood on, and the flames starting reaching heights of about 15 feet. People started to notice, and gathered round to admire the eternal beauty of flames nearly three times their height.

The camp director came back in the happy truck late that night, around 10 or 11. We could hear him coming for a good five minutes before we could see him, so we all knew bad things were about to happen. He stopped right in front of my camp. He said something very forgettable, and he made us get a fire barrel, which we should have done before. And he told me not to do it again.

I did it again the next weekend. Except this time, instead of putting the wood on a little a time, I put it all on at once.; The flames were higher the second time, around 17 to 18 feet. And we burnt Collin's old chair too. It went up in a puff of smoke.

Well, the camp director came back at about the same time he had the previous time. When we heard him coming, everyone melted away into the forest. Collin said "I'm out, like a thief in the night," and stealthily crashed back to his tent. They all could not afford to get in as much trouble as I could. I was indispensable, and the camp director knew I knew it. He stopped right in front of my fire, just like before. This time he was raging pissed.

"Matt, this is too dangerous!"

I had nothing to lose. "I really don't think it is!"

"Well it is, and if you don't agree with that, you'll just have to..." he trailed off. I wasn't going to be fired, and I had won. "These trees," he said, hugging a tree that was about 20 feet from the fire, "These trees can spontaneously combust!"

Thoughts about the combustion temperature of healthy lodgepole pines relative to that of fat camp directors crossed my mind, but I said nothing. He made me cool the fire down, but let me keep it burning, and made me promise not to do it again. I didn't, at least not there.

The next afternoon, I gave Collin back the remains of his chair. I just walked by his porch, set them down, and walked off without a word.

"Thanks, Strother."

"No problem."

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