Bonfire Backfire

As I was thinking this one over, I dug through some of my older posts (something I find helpful to see if I will be retelling an already told), and I came across this fantastically written beginning. If I do say so myself—and I do.

My first job with Thunder Ridge started off with an interview that went something like this: Them, “What can you do?”
Me, “Tie knots, burn things, and blow stuff up.”
Them, “Perfect. You’re hired.”
Them again, “You don’t need to blow anything up.”

And like that, I was introduced to the world of the BSA—when (in my opinion) what it did was pretty good. I really enjoyed what I did. I worked hard in my program area to help teach survival skills and knot tying to teenage boys. It was a good time. That last one, knot tying, I just dived into full force. For some reason, I couldn’t get enough knowledge about ropes, rope making, history of rope, knots, knot tying, knot theory, and so much more about ropes and knots that even a die-hard fanatic would say, “Okay… You need professional help.” and walk away. But I loved it! I truly did.

Now, that last stuff is all true. I really did a lot of stuff with ropes and knots. The only unforeseen problem was the waste. Yes, waste. Something I had knot foreseen. (see what I did there?)

See, one of the requirements for the Pioneering Merit Badge was to construct an ‘H’ frame and pass it off. The structure is basically simple; there are two vertical support poles attached to two horizontal support poles, with two diagonal support poles crossing in the middle. All of which are tied together. Simple, right?

Now, the waste. Because I was teaching hundreds of Boy Scouts a week, it was easy to lose track of who completed what. Also, sadly, not every camp attendee was a Boy Scout. Some were boys in Scout’s clothing. In other words, some of them cheated. The first time I caught it. I ended it. Once a frame was turned in, I kept it. No ‘sharing’.

This resulted in a large stockpile of H-Frames. If I untied them all, that was a lot of untying with a lot of rope bits. If I just broke them up, that was just a lot of nature going into the dump. I felt there was a better way. My solution: Fire.

As I type the word “Fire’ I am aware that there are three forest fires raging around my community. Not great. However, decades ago, when I worked on that mountain where the camp was, there was rain. There was moisture. Campfires were the norm for the outdoors. The campers had fires. The staff had fires. I used fire.

Friday night was the last night that the campers would stay. My junior staff and I would head out to our program area, pile up the H-Frames, and set them alight. We would add to the pile as the need arose until all the frames were gone. We could do this because we had all the firefighting supplies we needed for the size of the fire we maintained. Also, everything we burned was burnable. Nothing that could cause a problem. Until that one year…

I think it was my third year that the incident occurred. I do know that when it occurred, I had the same staff that I had had from my first year. We all worked together well and knew what was needed to make it all work. I liked them a lot. They were good and reliable. There was also a lot of new staff that year (it tends to happen at a summer season camp with low pay), and one of them did it. By accident.

This new staff member had heard about my program area’s end-of-the-season bonfire. We did it on the very last Friday night of the season. All the stuff we had built required rope and stuff. All that stuff had to be taken down. Cutting it down was easier. Bagging all that burnable stuff made… You know what? No, of course you don’t. Rather than explain the complexity of ‘why’ I chose to burn rather than ‘dump’, to speed the story along, just accept that fire was the answer.

The last Friday of the season would have me and my staff burning that week’s H-Frames and all the scraps of rope and bits of burnable stuff. It took hours. It was also a lot of fun. We would talk and reminisce about the season, share, and have some last-minute fun.

It is important to note that I did not allow other program areas to add stuff to our controlled fire for a couple of reasons. The first being, they would not burn it. They just wanted us to burn it. In other words. Take care of their mess for them. They just wanted to dump a large pile and let it burn. Well, that kind of recklessness can lead to forest fires. I would not be a party to that. The second was, I did not know what was in their garbage bags of garbage. There might be something in there that would not burn, and then I would have to deal with it. Or, worse. It is the ‘Or, worse’ to which I draw your attention.

The new staff member that I had mentioned earlier was a wonderful fellow. Bright, chipper, energetic, kind, sunny, pleasant. It made you want to vomit. Yup, one of those people. You couldn’t hate him if you tried. Anyway, his area generated a lot of burnable trash. They had to haul bags of garbage weekly. Almost every other day. And he had heard about my bonfire.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No.”

“Just tell me why?”

“NO.”

I had to explain to him all the reasons, two of which you have already read—unless you scrolled through and didn’t—and many more in the hope of dissuading him. They did not.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Please…”

“NO.”

Eventually, I became more deliberate. I explained that his garbage had garbage. Mine did not. Mine ‘trash’ was biodegradable-burnable. His had all manner of unknowns. Including empty spray paint cans. Those were the biggest no-nos. He understood.

“What if my staff and I go through it?”

“No.”

“…multiple times…?”

He was not going to let it go. I relented under extreme conditions. He accepted.

The deal was that their trash would be gone through, multiple times, by different members of his staff, to remove any dangerous objects. And, if I, for any reason, said “no” to a bag, there was to be no arguing. Also, he had to be around to supervise the burning of his trash; he could not leave his mess for us to clean up.. He agreed. As a result, the loads of garbage to the dump from his area greatly diminished. Once, I picked up a bag and heard the rattle of a spray paint can. “No-o-o. Not that one.”

“Sorry.” And life went on. Until the final week.

That last Friday it happened. The fire was going well. The ‘required’ fire staff was manning the fire. One of my junior staff was sitting on a log, near the fire, eating ice cream, when it happened—the first time.

I have reflected upon that night countless times. The moment, countless times.

There was an almost bang. It was as if a ‘pop’ and a ‘bang’ combined. Too loud for a simple pop, yet too quiet for a colossal bang. But the result was memorable. “AHH!”

My staff, who was sitting on the log, was screaming. His leg appeared to be on fire. There were also scattered bits of fire all about. My other Junior Staff grabbed the nearby water bucket and poured it on the flaming leg. We could see by the firelight that it was melted plastic. Melted plastic garbage bag. Apparently, there had remained a spry paint can in that bag that we all missed. The heat had caused the bottom to burst off, due to physics being a real thing, and when it did, it launched whatever was in its way, out of its way. This included a large chunk of melting plastic. We sent him to medical, and fortunately, it was a mild burn and mostly some lost leg hair. But if there was one, there might be more.

I sent everyone from the other program area away with the rest of their garbage. This was the very reason I did not do what I was doing that night. The unknown possibilities of someone else’s possible negligence. Wow. That sounds so micromanagy. (I know what I wrote) But it’s true.

Those that remained kept their distance, and the empty water bucket was refilled. Now that all of the fun was gone. The few of us left behind kept our distance, and some did not want to be a stationary target. They kept mobile. For my part. I had seen the mess. Made some calculations. Then found my vantage point. It was there that I stayed.

You can find many accounts of Divine Intervention. Honestly, I don’t care if you believe in it or not. I have seen enough and experienced enough that there is no doubt in my mind that it is a real thing. God tries to help us. We hear those voices and either listen to or ignore them. Some of those results will either prevent tragedy or just make life better than it already is. Regardless, I heard that voice.

It felt more like a prompting. Like a gentle push to get me to move just a step to my right. As I faced the fire, I had become hyper vigilant. I was watching every subtle change that took place as material was added and as old fuel was consumed. The prompting came again. I needed to move a step to my right.

For a third time, the prompting came. Now, one might wonder what took me so long. Well, I was trying to understand if the event was going to happen one step to my right or if I needed to make a step to my right. The first two impressions were clouded by my concern for my friends and the forest. Ultimately, I took that one step to the right.

There was another pop/bang. It was louder. It was bigger. It was worse. It was immediate.

As soon as I moved, the same garbage bag exploded with another spray paint can. The opening it created was larger. The flaming debris was larger. The result was scarier. And, the fireball that was launched whizzed past my head by mere inches, mere moments after I moved. In fact, I hadn’t even finished coming to a halt of my motion when it happened.

I had turned my body to minimize the potential target. Once I felt I understood the prompting, I think my military training kicked in. I felt the heat of the fireball. It appeared to be about three inches in diameter. The tail on it was at least ten inches long. But there was no visible trace of where it ended. By the time all those in attendance had gathered their senses and turned toward the destination of said fireball, it was gone. No smoking trail. No fiery, residual glow. Nothing. But we all knew it had happened. We all saw it.

The next morning, when everything had cooled and with the aid of a fresh morning sun, we found what had sailed past me the night before. The object was located just a few feet behind where I had been standing. It was clearly the bottom of a spray paint can. It had cooled clumps of melted plastic all over it as well as smears of red paint. This told us a few things. The first explosion was indeed a paint can and not a sappy log, which we initially thought. I have witnessed explosive fires where a log had a pocket of sap or moisture that overheated and blew small bits of shrapnel.

Second, given the approximate fifteen feet the bit had traveled, the warped shape of the projectile, and the amount of cooled plastic coating the distorted disk, the impact alone would have probably hurt. Not to mention the fiery liquid plastic coating that would surely have splattered upon making impact with my face. Yes, the whole thing probably would have resulted in at least some scarring, if not vision loss.

Normally, I would wrap up my tale with a nice moral or a ‘feel-good’ moment. Not this week. No, this week’s story is because the Fourth of July is almost here, and despite a few close calls with detonations and such, I still enjoy them. I look forward to the Fourth of July every year. No, this week’s post is more about the fact that I had a story I had yet to write down. It involved fire, explosions, summer, and a close call. All things I enjoy (well, maybe not the ‘close call’ part, beyond that whatever it was that was trying to get me didn’t get me yet. that part I thoroughly enjoy).

So, I guess what I am getting at—once again, a short story made long—is that I hope you have a safe and enjoyable summer, and if you are an American citizen, celebrate your nation’s independence by blowing up a small portion of it! God bless America. (but be safe about it)