DISCOVERING FIRE

PART ONE

I remember riding elephants in the jungles of Sri Lanka on my first journey to India, where a magical moment appeared as an omen for what was to come. Many years later, I traveled through time to the eighteenth century as an explorer and experienced something most unforgettable. I discovered how to make fire.

I unearthed many different things as well during the years I spent immersed in historic re-enactments of the French and Indian Wars. It really was the closest thing to true time traveling I have ever known.

It just so happens, that much of the history of that particular period occurred throughout the region surrounding the place where I live, on the northern east shore of Lake George in the Adirondacks. My camp is about ten miles from the historic fort in Ticonderoga, New York.

Before I could partake in any of the organized events, I had to choose what role I would assume, and needed to dress to fit the part. There were many options to ponder, and I decided to align with the French.

Primarily because the cuisine was far superior to what the British had to offer. The fact that I had made friends in the French camp, weighed into my decision. They gave me some things that would help complete my kit. I bought a 1753 French wedge tent made by master tentmaker, Peter Marques, who journeyed from New Hampshire to Ticonderoga, where the Grand Encampment was held each year, for three days in June, July, or August, depending on the moon.

The idea of wearing a soldier’s uniform was not at all appealing with all the warm, itchy wool, and so many buttons to keep polished. And the boots, forget the boots! But I found a niche in-between, and became a “Coureur de Bois,” literally meaning, “runner of the woods.”

So, after making moccasins, leggings, a breechclout, and hunting frock, I bought a hand-made great-coat and a tricorn hat. Then my outfit was nearly complete. I assembled a 1750’s French Charleville musket out of parts procured along with lots of other gear and accoutrements. I had searched antique shops looking for more essentials, finding iron pots and pans and some old utensils. I ended up appearing like Hawkeye, from the story by James Fenimore Cooper, The Last of The Mohicans.

I was invited to partake in a special, autumnal event taking place on Lake George, for the week after Columbus Day. This five-to-seven-day period, was for re-enactors only.

They would engage in tactful challenges in the areas within certain boundaries indicated on the hand drawn, parchment maps we were issued. No spectators would be observing our maneuvers.

At the big events during daylight hours, the battles were played out on the fields, surrounded by throngs of spectators, which detracted from the authenticity. But in the evening and late into the night, when the tourists had all gone home, something in the air changed magically.

It seemed as if time shifted, and we were transported back to the period we were portraying. There were no anachronisms to be seen. There was not a clue of anything out of place. Everything looked, felt, sounded, and smelled authentic. The mouthwatering aromas drifting through the air were enticing and the tastes being offered, tantalizing. I heard music from the different camps melding strangely at times, when the native drums kept the beat to a distant harpsichord. Flutes and fiddles often added to the shifting medley. Underneath the same starry skies as seen so long ago, left me wondering what year this really was. Until the noise of a distant car horn vanquished my fantasy.

I wandered into the natives camp, drawn by the heartbeat of their drums and was taken back again. Dark, red-skinned warriors wearing feathers, beads and loincloths danced, chanting around the blazing fire. Others sat and watched from their blankets. They offered ale to me, and asked if I wished to join in the dancing or smoke the pipe of peace.

I chose the latter. Later on, in an elevated state of mind, I wandered down to the shore of Lake Champlain, by the light of a waning moon. A chorus of frogs and crickets surrounded me, in a place where little had changed throughout the centuries. I saw a shooting star, and felt it was an omen of some merit, but I always think that.

It was early in September, when I began to plan more seriously about what I needed to get together for the upcoming event on Lake George, in mid-October. It would take place in the Narrows, among the groups of small islands, midway on the lake. I would paddle from place to place in a birchbark canoe, loaded with all I needed to survive for the week. It would be cold and I kept that in mind as I gathered my gear.

I wanted to make some tools to enable me to start a fire and opted to try the bow-drill type of apparatus. This included the bow, which was crafted from hickory with a rawhide bowstring. I used a birch dowel as the drill, and cut v-notches, to hold the tinder, into a foot-long pine board. A flat wooden disc with an indentation kept the top end of the drill stick in place, so I could apply downward pressure as the drill spun around, driven by the back and forth movement of the bow. The bowstring wrapped once around the stick. The tinder was made of charred cotton rags and finely shredded birchbark, which was held in the notches of the pine board.

It was time to try it out. I started pumping the bow back and forth, spinning the stick rapidly, while applying more downward pressure. Smoke began to billow thickly. I was getting excited and kept the action moving as more smoke continued to fill the room. Puzzled why it didn’t create an ember that would kindle the blaze, I tried again with the same results; lots of smoke, no spark. Something was wrong.

The following week, I took my new fire-making tools to show my friend Tom, who was also drawn into the re-enactment scene. He lived in a historic house, which was once a tavern and a brothel during the late 1700’s in White Plains, New York.

When I arrived, there were a few other cars parked in the driveway. Tom was in the hot tub along with his girlfriend, Clara and his brother. Michael was visiting from northern California, where he served as an active Navy Seal, and UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) diver.

I went inside to change and joined them in the cedar hot tub Tom and I had built together a few years before. I was handed a cold beer as I got in. It felt great to just relax in the soothing warmth, after my four-hour drive down from the lake. We soaked for a while as we caught up on things, before going into the house.

Tom was interested in the fire tools, so I set up for a demonstration on the living room floor near the hearth. I started pumping the bow back and forth as thick white smoke began to fill the air. I pumped the bow faster, still nothing but smoke, so I stopped.

Tom laughed and said he’d show me how it’s done. He took over and started working the bow, as more smoke billowed up. Clara had seen enough and went out to get some fresh air. Moments later, Michael walks in and laughs when he sees what we are doing.

He confidently tells us “boy scouts” to move over, as Tom resigns and goes to look for his army survival manual on the bookshelf. “I’ve done this before, it was part of our training,” Michael says, as he starts the bow moving, pumping faster, the speed increasing. The air now quite thick with smoke stings the eyes. Suddenly, the bowstring snaps, and the stick cartwheels through the air, across the room hitting the switch on the TV, turning it on.

We all stare at the screen as the picture comes into view. There before us, an old woodsman is using the same type of fire-making tools I had made. He begins to pump his bow back and forth. Only five strokes later he gets an ember and a flame is kindled. We are all totally dumbstruck at what we just had seen on some PBS nature show. We laughed until we ached. Most people have trouble believing this is true.

Then Tom opened his survival manual to the section on fire. It said, “If you are in a situation where you have to start a fire by friction, you’d better hope that one of your sticks is a match.” I heard Tom read that, and thought; are you fucking serious? You may be reading this lost in some wilderness, as you’re about to die from frostbite, so what are you supposed to do? Freeze? Put a few waterproof matches in the book!

Later I discover the birch dowel was too hard, and should have been a softer wood like pine or cedar. I tried that and it did actually work, but decided flint and steel were more efficient. The whole kit fit in a small watertight tin. But I kept the old fire-making tools as a reminder of one of the most truly, serendipitous moments of my life.

The eighteenth century re-enacting was a major turning point in my life. I realized none of this was being captured from the viewpoint of one in the midst of the battles. Also, the variety of activities of life around the tent sites and campfires, appeared as visions back in time. So I started documenting many of these special events.

Delicious foods were prepared and cooked on the open fires and in dutch ovens, waiting to be recorded. It was a feast for the eyes and the famished, as well as the camera. Another odd synchronicity was that some of my video footage was often accompanied by an appropriate soundtrack, coming from a fine collection of antique instruments, played by some remarkable, talented musicians.

I was recording these events on video tape. The VHS camera I used was well concealed in an old canvas sack, its lens looked out from a precise aperture, and slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I captured the action in the midst of the battles and got some amazing footage from a lot of different angles, as I blended seamlessly into the settings. As it turned out, many of the participants wanted a copy of the tape. I was now in business producing films, which was more lucrative than selling books at my shop in town, Dragonfly Books & Crafts.

The next year I documented the Tricentennial event at the historic fort in Chamblis. It included eighteenth century fireworks, featured as a grand finale in my film. Parks Canada commended me for the work.

I went on to Quebec City, for another historic event, making a new and exciting film, Take The Castle By Storm. The following year I traveled to Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island for three days of activities around the historic site that was a living time capsule. The residents all dressed in proper period attire, making the experience more authentic, while going about their daily tasks of life as it once was, centuries ago.

A fleet of historic sailing ships made the voyage to rendezvous, as eyes were upon them passing in the night. I experienced certain moments, when I felt I’d traveled back in time to the vintage village by the sea.

Years later in Newport, Rhode Island, a gathering of Tall Ships sailed in from around the globe. Some of the same vessels I’d seen in Louisbourg had voyaged there to join in the festivities. I went aboard a few of them, and felt a deep connection. Thus completing another circle.

PART TWO

Years before I participated in any eighteenth century events, I traveled through Europe and beyond. I drove overland through Turkey, Iran Afghanistan and Pakistan, all the way to India in my white VW van, Snow Bear. She is now in hibernation at home, in the Adirondacks.

During my time in India I visited my stepbrother Conrad, who had been living in New Delhi for a number of years. While I was there, he arranged for me to meet with a shadow-reader. This was something new to me, as I’d never heard of such a thing.

On the appointed day, he drove me and his girlfriend Pia, to the place where the psychic professor lived in an apartment complex. Pia never had her shadow read either and was interested in finding out more about this unusual practice.

The problem was the cloudy sky and drizzle, the sun nowhere to be seen. I was wondering how this could even work, on a day like this? Pia and I went inside and upstairs to the shadow-reader’s chambers. We were both quite impressed with the walls of books, mystical art, and objects that were featured prominently in his extensive collection.

Mr. Chandra soon appeared, welcoming us. When he extended his hand in greeting, I noticed a watch on his wrist, unlike any I’d ever seen. It was pure gold and rather large, it had dials within dials, and little hands pointing to strange symbols on its face, along with many buttons, that were inset with sparkling gems around the bezel’s case.

His assistant, Vikram appeared, carrying a long stick about seven-feet tall. It was covered with inlaid-silver symbols, lines in fine increments, and other demarcations; it was a rather elegant ruler of sorts.

With a notebook in-hand, Mr. Chandra led us down the creaky stairs, outdoors into the drizzle. We walked a ways in the parking lot and then he stopped, asking who was to be first. He seemed to be oblivious to the cloudy sky, as his assistant stood by patiently.

I said, “Ladies first,” looking at Pia, her dark locks now wet with misty droplets. Chandra told her to stand on the line he pointed to, as Vikram laid the stick down, one end at her heels. Just then, miraculously, the clouds parted, only long enough for the sun to beam through casting her shadow clearly. Vikram called out something I was unable to decipher, as Chandra checked his watch making notations in his notebook. He looked at his watch again and wrote some more as the sun disappeared within the clouds and the drizzle returned. You can’t imagine what I was thinking. Pia was speechless.

Then Chandra looked at me, indicating I was to stand in the same spot where Pia had been, so I moved over. The sun was still hiding out of sight, but then once again the clouds parted, as my shadow was cast and measured. Vikram gave the reading to Chandra, who continued making notes, checking his watch frequently. I was quite amazed, and thought the clouds must be clearing. But that was the last we saw the sun for the remainder of the day. Chandra said we were done here, and invited us back inside for some hot tea.

We sat amidst colorful cushions and pillows as we waited for our tea, the scent of incense in the air adding to the mystique. Vikram served us jasmine tea along with delicate, crispy wafers. We were both in a state of awe, reflecting quietly on our strange experiences.

Chandra came out of his study a short while later, asking Pia to come with him for a consultation. This gave me time to explore his most unusual collection, and I let my eyes do the wandering as I sipped my warming tea.

About a half-an-hour passed when Pia reappeared, looking like she had seen a ghost. I could tell she had experienced something she did not really want to talk about, so I poured her another cup of tea.

Moments ticked-by slowly, then Chandra came out for me. I followed him into his study, where the space was filled with more books and objects adding to his most fascinating collection.

He sat at his desk, his notebook open, reading what he recorded during my moment in the sun. He looked up and spoke, “Well, Mr. Jon, it seems that you enjoy spending time in nature and are drawn to the mountains. You will have two children and one through a marriage that will not last. He also told me other secret things and I wondered how he knew. There will come a time when you will travel to many distant lands. I see you were born in September, an Earth sign, but you’re also drawn to water. Your favorite color is blue, as it is also the color of your birthstone. Your lucky numbers are three and nine. You have artistic talent which you will continue to develop, and you will also become a filmmaker someday.” I was engulfed in a state of wonderment.

At this point, I was curious how much Mr. Chandra had heard from Conrad, who was an award-winning filmmaker himself and made the film Siddhartha. Maybe he just said I would become a filmmaker because it seemed likely, since Conrad was. I learned from Conrad he had told him nothing, but knew from experience the man spoke wisely. He must have some kind of cosmic connection that much was certain. I still wonder to this day, how he knew the sun would come out as it did, or that I would become a filmmaker.

We thanked the professor for his time and insights into both our lives. Feeling enlightened, we almost floated down the stairs and out into the drizzle. When Conrad arrived in his classic red MG, we climbed in. There was silence, but Conrad had a contented look on his face and knew our experience was far more than we had expected.

Snow Bear was waiting for me at the customs station in Amritsar. I would return there in a few days to continue my journey. But that’s a story for another time.

My experience with the shadow-reader in India, foreshadowed my career as a filmmaker years later. When I first began documenting the eighteenth century re-enactments, I remembered Mr. Chandra’s great insight after my brief moment in the sun. This seemingly small event turned out to have a deep impact on the direction my life was taking.

Each passing day I give thanks for the small things in life, which may grow and blossom when nurtured with care and love.

THE END