About to get a tad judgy and critical here. Yesterday evening a young family (Mum, Dad, Toddler, and Grandma) set up across the way from us. Just before 7pm Dad started a fire in the fire pit. Well, that’s not quite accurate. He attempted to start a fire. The campground warning signs indicate that the locale is dry, with a Moderate chance of brush fire, the bundle of wood he picked up from the shop would have been bone dry, he had tons of newspaper, and the campsite’s firepit has a low metal ring with air holes around it.
Easy, right? Crunch some newspaper, set on some kindling, arrange three or four split logs in a criss-cross or tent shape, and light a match.
From our dining table we could see this all playing out. At first the lack of flame and smouldering was just mildly amusing. But after watching him futz and fuss for hours (yes, I say hours) straight, generating nothing more than smoke (most of which seemed to go straight into Grandma’s face – his MIL, perhaps?), it became truly painful to watch.
Now I’m no Bear Grylls or Grizzly Adams, but even I, a city dweller my entire life, understand the basics of a campfire – the need for oxygen, the need for patience, the need for structure. I know it sounds like I’m droning on about this poor guy and picking on him, but I mean really, the photo below was taken over two hours after he had started the fire, and this was it at its peak.
They should offer lessons, or pamphlets showing the best fire layout.