Towering Pyres

Wow.

That was quite a clean up last night at the Garfoot's Company Creek house. 28 adults and 10 kids showed up for the "fuel reduction" session.

I arrived "late" just before 6 to find a small army of workers mowing down vine maples near the house, and beginning to dig into the piles of wooden treasures collected by Phil Garfoot. Before long there were 4 large piles burning, saws running, Mike's backhoe loading, and kids playing.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one with Phil foremost on my mind as we dug through his collection of cherished driftwood. There is no way Phil would have approved burning many of the pieces, but the inevitable ravages of time and weather had taken its' toll on much of it. As the flames reached to 30' on a couple of the fires, I imagined them a Viking Funeral Pyre, without the ship or lake under them, and it seemed a fitting send off for the pieces beyond saving. We did sacrifice thousands of ants to the fires who had not finished reducing the wood to dirt.

As the evening progressed, wood pile sorting continued, and much was saved. Things got moved out of the house too; an acknowledgment that this work was all about honoring Phil and his family, not just protecting the place from wildfire. It was an evening of no dollars and all sense, with people helping people, no "isms" attached. Where else but Stehekin could you combine 28 adults, 10 kids, heavy equipment, chainsaws, and four huge fires, and get away with it? Can you imagine the number of safety rules violated? No yellow shirts? No hard hats? I saw adults stand by to block kids when saws were running, I saw 6 people haul off a piece of wood just too gnarly, beautiful, and so "Phil Garfoot", to burn. I did see a few safety glasses, pairs of gloves, and ear plugs. And I saw plenty of the usual bunch of hard-headed Stehekinites, to make up for no plastic lids. We did experience one injury. Brun and Mindy's little Josey sustained a "Smashed" finger while running wild through the house with a gang of munchkins.

So this was not an end to Phil's collection, it was another page in his story. My son will probably remember the scene in bits or pieces; he'll certainly keep hearing the stories. And in that way, Phil keeps living on.

Towards the end of the evening, right before school night bedtime deadlines started pulling parents away, I looked at the three youngest of Phil's grandkids sitting on the porch that was cleared off for the first time in 30 years. They were lined up in little camp chairs looking at the fires roaring 30 feet high. Josey was talking up a storm, pointing and waving her arms, her "smashed' finger completely forgotten, the bag of ice melting on the ground. MaCayla sat between Josey and Ian, looking from one to the other, while Ian sat with a jar full of worms in his lap, proudly displaying one very stretched out specimen to all who passed. Brun bustled about saving more gnarly wood, stacking it further from the house, wondering aloud about becoming his father. And the place? It looked great. It looks all Phil. Still plenty of huge, curved, burled and weathered wood in piles here and there, to be used in the house, still, or to sit looking like a monument to Phil, or to be eaten by ants.

And it seemed to me then that Phil would approve. The place will be alive with his kids and grandkids, and beyond. And Phil, being the voracious reader that he was, would be happy to see the new chapter being written.

cheers, bob