I hoisted my backpack and stomped off after Grandpa Joe. The rocky trail continued across the increasingly windy peak. Then it went down before rising to the top of the next hill. As soon as my head was shielded by the rock behind me and shrubs to either side, the wind was attenuated significantly.

We stopped for a couple more breaks before reaching the campsite in the middle of the afternoon. I kept Grandpa Joe’s instructions on my mind. I kept my eyes and ears open for anything. I still didn’t really know what to look or listen for, but I was trying. Having him there to back me up made me feel better. I didn’t think it would be too dangerous, but who could tell the future. I chuckled. I probably could with the right skill.

The campsite was a small clearing by the side of the trail. It had easy access to fresh water down a short side trail to a spring at the bottom of a depression. Unlike the area with the shelter, there was no permanent fire pit. There were rocks that looked like they had been used to keep a fire in, but they were strewn haphazardly around the clearing.

“Eddy, can you find some good sized rocks?” Grandpa Joe asked.

“The ones all over the place?” I asked.

“Yeah. Those.”

I set about doing as he asked. The ones I picked out were about the size of my head. It took fifteen to make a solid circle. I filled in most of the gaps with smaller ones. Not every gap though. That would choke the fire, or so Grandpa Joe told me. While I did, he busied himself putting the tent together.

“Let’s gather wood,” he said when we were both done with our tasks. “Leave your backpack inside the tent for now.”

He took his hatchet and beckoned me to follow him. He took the trail down towards the water source. I went to pick up some dry wood I saw, but he stopped me.

“Get it on the way back up,” he said. “You don’t want to carry that wood down the hill just to bring it back up with you later.”

“Sure,” I said.

It made sense enough. I tossed the piece of wood in my hand up the hill and followed Grandpa Joe down the hill. At the bottom, he found a small dead tree still standing. He used his hatchet to chop away the wood near the base.

“Watch carefully,” he told me. “You want to cut away in the direction you want the tree to fall. Then you come back to the other side and a little higher to cut through. The tree will then fall towards the initial cut. This one isn’t that big, but I don’t want it landing in the creek. Wet wood isn’t good for a fire.”

“I see,” I said. “Can I have a go?”

“Let me knock it over first. You can help me chop it into pieces.”

“Ok.”

He finished cutting through the tree. At about fifteen feet tall, it was pretty small. I could probably have dragged it up the hill by myself, but Grandpa Joe insisted that the log be portioned out first. After he demonstrated how to cut a piece from the tree with the hatchet, he handed it to me and indicated where to begin chopping.

“Show me what you got, kid,” he said.

I raised my hand to start but he stopped me.

“Look at your other hand. Do you want to lose it?”

I looked down. My left hand was dangerously close to where I was about to strike. My heart leapt in my chest. My face burned as I moved my hand over enough to be out of the firing line.

I raised my arm again. This time, he didn’t stop me. I swung down with my stat-boosted strength. The hatchet dug deeply into the wood. The vibrations of the impact shook not just my hand but my whole arm. I checked my progress and noticed that I’d cut almost halfway through. Getting the head of the hatchet out proved difficult. I rocked it back and forth to get it out. I looked up at Grandpa Joe who motioned for me to continue. He didn’t need to say anything for me to know what I did wrong—and how to correct it.

I brought the hatchet up again. This time I made a less-forceful angled cut that liberated a handful of wood chips. I repeated this—varying the angle each time—until I was far enough through the tree to break the section off. He patted me on the back and took back the hatchet.

“Why don’t you collect smaller dead branches while I finish breaking the tree apart?”

“How small?” I asked.

“Get a variety. Most of it should be about as thick as your thumb.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I looked at my thumbs. They were about a third of an inch thick, so that’s what I looked for. I gathered some that were larger and some that were smaller, but after twenty minutes, I had a double armful of kindling.

“Can you bring that up and put it next to the rocks?” Grandpa Joe asked. “Then come back and help me bring the big stuff up.”

I struggled up the hill with the wood. It wasn’t heavy, but—without my arms free to balance—I struggled not to fall over while climbing. Step by step, I carefully made my way to the top. When I reached the campsite, I dropped the wood next to the fire pit. Then I scrambled down the trail again to assist Grandpa Joe.

The tree was broken into about ten parts. The top was no good—too small and rotten—but the rest was perfect for our campfire. He loaded my arms with the smaller diameter logs before taking the biggest ones himself. We managed to bring everything up in one trip. There was a scary moment when he slipped. He managed to catch himself just in time to keep the logs from rolling down the hill. I raced up the hill to drop mine off and help him. When I turned back to go help, I saw him cresting the hill with a smile on his face.

“You made it!” I exclaimed.

“A slipper situation back there,” he laughed.

Grandpa Joe dropped the wood where I had dropped mine. He began stacking the wood next to the circle of rocks so there would be fuel readily available to stoke the fire with. I tried to help but he shooed me away. I hovered around to watch but got bored quickly. Thankfully, he finished after only a couple minutes.

“Alright,” he said, “it’s time for me to show you how to make a fire.”

“Am I going to rub two sticks together?” I asked with a grin.

“Eh, you could,” he said. “But it’s much easier to use a modern fire-starter. You probably have a few skills in your back pocket that could light a fire, right?”

I checked through the list with Search and saw a few promising results. There was one specifically for the task as well as a couple that looked like they’d be able to set fire to something even if that wasn’t their primary purpose.

“Yeah,” I confirmed.

“Well, let me show you how to do it.”

Grandpa Joe built a miniature log cabin with some of the smaller logs. Inside of that, he made a tee-pee out of the kindling. Each layer got progressively smaller. There was a small gap to light it. In that section, he put a fluffed bit of something combustible.

“The only thing left to do is to generate the spark,” he told me.

With the fire-starter in one hand and his knife in the other, he dragged the back of the knife down the fire-starter. Sparks shot forward as he did. Then he handed them to me.

“Try doing what I did but into the cotton,” he directed.

“Ok,” I said. “Do I need to blow on it or anything?”

“You will, but not until I say so.”

I nodded.

I crouched over the fire pit. I placed the fire-starter against the cotton. I gripped the knife and slid it down the fire-starter. It bit into the material and scattered sparks downward into the cotton. I repeated the stroke twice before Grandpa Joe tapped me on the shoulder.

“Blow on it,” he said.

I removed the knife and fire-starter before carefully blowing onto the sparks in the cotton. They glowed red hot. The fluffed cotton started smoking. Then it caught. Flames licked the twigs above while I kept blowing to get the fire going. Every breath chased the flames away and made the sparks glow brighter before the flames returned. The way that Grandpa Joe had constructed the wood in the fire pit proved its worth. The little fire ate at the wood around it, growing in size with each bite. In only a couple of minutes, the fire was burning strongly.

“Good job,” he said with a smile.

“Thanks,” I smiled back. “What’s next?”

“Dinner!” he laughed.

“What’re the options?” I asked.

“Prepackaged freeze-dried food. Just add hot water!”

Grandpa Joe pulled a small kettle from his backpack. He dumped in most of the water from his water bottle before nestling the kettle between the rocks and the fire. Then he gave me two options for dinner. The first was beef mac and cheese. The second—and the one I ultimately picked—was pot roast.

The water took a long time to boil—the fire still growing. When it was hot enough, he cut open the both of our food bags with his knife. I poured a measured amount of water into mine and he did the same into his. I folded up the top of my food bag and left it leaning against a rock for several minutes.

Grandpa Joe had helpfully included a tableware set in my backpack. I stirred the goop with a spoon—and it was goopy. I blew the steam away and took a careful bite. It was… edible. The taste was rather bland. Still, I was hungry and so I ate it quickly. A granola bar for dessert was a definite plus.

By the time we finished dinner, the sun was beginning to set.

“Let’s clean up quickly,” he told me.

We walked down to the spring. I filled my water bottle—as did Grandpa Joe—adding a water purification tablet. He cut a few small slivers from a soap bar to clean our tableware with. He made it clear that using the soap directly would get it wet and make it hard to pack away afterwards. I scrubbed my bowl and spoon until it sparkled. Then it was time to go back up to the campsite.

I yawned and made for the tent. Grandpa Joe stopped me.

“We have one more thing to do before we sleep,” he said.

“We do?”

He nodded.

He uncoiled a long rope and chucked it over a high branch of a nearby tree. It took a couple tries to get right. When he was satisfied, he looped one end through each of our backpacks before hoisting them up about twenty feet. He secured the other end of the rope around the tree with a knot.

“Why do we need to do that?” I asked.

“Bears, mostly,” he said. “They’ll tear into the backpacks to eat our food if we let them. Suspending it in the air means it’s out of reach. They’ll be less likely to bother us that way.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of bears, there’s a rhyme you should always remember. If it’s black, fight back. If it’s brown, lay down. If it’s white, say goodnight.”

“Goodnight?” I asked.

“Because you’re probably dead. Polar bears are no joke. They do not fuck around. Thankfully, we’re dealing with black bears here. Being loud is usually enough to scare them off. If that fails, making yourself big and aggressive while making lots of noise will usually dissuade them. For brown bears, playing dead is the way to go. You might get injured, but you’ll survive. Never ever run from a bear. They are faster and stronger than you. And they can climb trees.”

“Yikes,” I shivered at the thought.

As I crawled into the tent to sleep, I hoped we wouldn’t have to deal with anything like that.