Fireplace Imposters and an Evening in Hotel Honda

It’s the first snowfall this morning in my magical Colorado…at least here at approximately 9,200 feet, anyway.   The snow capped mountains in the distance speak of a winter wonderland having taken her leisurely time at sharing the white gold with those of us at more humble altitudes.  The snowflakes are big and plump from feasting on the buffet of moisture on their way down to the aspens standing on their tiptoes in anticipation.  It’s a chilly 38 degrees.  Just cold enough to inspire a sincere appreciation for fleece in multiple layers regardless of the restricted articulation of multiple joints and the necessity for adequate time allotment to disrobe when nature calls.  The pitter patter on the glass and the jolting trickle of frigid rain down my face was a fitting wake-up call this morning to bring last night’s events crashing into my fuzzy, smoke filled consciousness.   In the truest sense of ‘this is all a test’, Monday night falls perfectly in-line with the humorous and ironic series of happenings over the last few months of my existence.

Pellet stoves are a unique little invention in the world of mountain home heating.  Instead of the traditional, cave man style of burning logs for warmth, these plug in, temperature controlled contraptions are fed helpings of ‘pellets’ that truly resemble rabbit food.  In theory, this method provides a more efficient and less labor intensive method of heating homes purposely located in regions where freezing to death is possible.  Excited to fill my new place with the quintessential mountain ambiance, I carefully followed the instructions of pellet feeding and the use of a starter log to initiate the ‘roughing it’ experience.  With disproportionate pride over my success at making artificial fire, and being entranced at the orange, blue and green flames that only modern chemicals can produce, I mentally pounded my chest and sauntered off to unpack my overstuffed suitcases.  I believe the shriek of the smoke detector and my sudden inability to breathe coincided perfectly with my realization that regardless of living at this elevation, dark clouds should form outside the home, not in it.  In hindsight, I probably should have employed the lessons learned in all those annoying elementary fire drills.  I instead, however, donned my proverbial suit of frantic action and most likely resembled a Charlie Chaplin-esque character as I ran to and fro in no particular direction with hands flailing.  Muttering expletives in between inhalations of the smoke now billowing from the belly of this pellet eating beast, I managed to open every window and door before returning to the stove with absolutely no idea what to do next.  Realizing that I must put the fire out, I opened the door of the stove and was frozen in horror as the burning starter log rolled out onto the wood floor.  Smoke quickly became the primary content of my lungs while I jumped up and down on flames as if I were the tribal chief of fire walkers with a minor in salsa dancing.  The Charlie Chaplin routine commenced yet again as I frantically searched for my water jug only to return finding that the open door of the stove provided a new found source of oxygen for flames to join the billowing smoke.  Thanks to the graceful exit of the starter log when all this began, the door couldn’t be shut due to pieces stuck in the door jamb.  In MacGuyver like fashion, I realized that only a Chinese Wok could solve this mounting emergency.  Armed with the smallest shovel ever invented and said Wok, I scooped the evil starter log into the metal bowl, cleared the door jamb, shut the door of this asshole posing as a fireplace, and doused it all with my water jug.   Having far exceeded the allowable consumption of pellet stove smoke, I retreated to the cold, pitch black, night air with my Wok carrying the evil dead log.  After several minutes of breathing in clean air, I made several trips in and out setting up fans, donning multiple layers of socks, pants, and shirts, and grabbing my sleeping bag and blankets for an evening in Hotel Honda.  There is much to be said about the versatility of a 1990 Honda Civic and I am grateful for her ability to serve as a place to slumber offering protection from the elements and mishaps.  Even if the door doesn’t quite seal tight enough to have kept out the rain this morning, I still love her.  And even more, I love where I am… both mentally and geographically.  I can’t imagine any other place I’d rather almost die of third degree smoke inhalation, be teeth chattering cold, and wake up to the most beautiful snow fall ever.  So with no source of heat other than a 9x9 space heater for awhile, I will love my life no less…just a bit chillier. Good Morning, Colorado.  It’s a beautiful day J