Back to db's original post ... which I found a timely topic.

Just returned from 8 days in Quetico. We stayed in the interior as long as we could, then did a marathon paddle on next-to-last day to get to campsite near border for early morning departure. Pulled up to familiar island not long before dusk and found the comfortable old firepit (the high, three-sided kind perfect for cooking) had been destroyed by previous campers and reassembled into three creations -- a monstrous fire ring, full of partially burned green logs; a jumble of rocks, stuffed with partially burned green sticks; and a pile of "extra" rocks -- all erected right in the middle of the campsite.

We struggled not to be annoyed.

One, we do almost all our cooking over a fire, so it required a rebuilding session.

Two, this firepit had seemingly been there since the days of the pictographs, and destroying it had -- at least to me -- damaged the charactor of the campsite. I've always found the firepit to be the symbolic as well as physical center of camp. Stay in the Quetico long enough, and you get familiar with certain pits -- those with ledges for cups and spoons, those that "draw" well or that block the wind, those built around massive stones that signify the strength of Quetico as a place.

And three, we spent part of our night burning previously charred logs, not to mention the sock and other garbage strewn all over.

So, db, I hope this practice -- of eschewing the leave-no-trace philosophy in favor of one that encourages tearing down and remaking established campsites to fit your needs -- is not a trend. (And my point is NOT directed at previous posters who described tearing down, cleaning out and rebuilding, or those who deconstruct in order to "tame down" the bonfire-enabling monstrosities. More power and gratitude to them, I say.)

And as to the fire vs. stove discussion ... I say to each his own.

I personally like a fire, and have myriad memories of individual fires. Oddly, the most vivid memories are not of quiet nights and quiet conversation, sipping small-batch Kentucky bourbon and solving the problems of the world -- though those are indeed peaceful times that I treasure -- but of campfires on stormy days that emboldened me to proverbially shout my defiance to the elements.

How can I ever forget just barely getting to Blueberry Island in freezing rain driven by wind gusts that actually blew me sideways across the lake a time or two, and then finding warmth in a fire fueled by the only dry wood we could find -- shreds chopped out of the middle of a dead and decaying pine. The pot of hastily compiled chili has become almost a legendary dish in our minds, so much so that we pack chili ingredients every trip, whether we eat it or not.

Or the fire on a Russell Lake campsite, as we huddled over plates of smallmouth and steaming cheesy pasta, protecting them from the rain that rolled down our hoods and ballcaps like waterfalls.

Or the fire on Sarah Lake we had to relight after it was put out by hail that piled up like snow all around us.  

Or on Jeff Lake in late October, after a long slog through a beaver stream. That fire -- though small -- consumed an inordinate amount of wood, as we had to feed it seemingy every few minutes.

Funny how recalling those fires enables me to recreate meals, weather, camaraderie, even entire days -- not to mention thoughts and feelings.

Sig Olson said the campfires he'd built during years of roaming the wilds seemed like "glowing beads in a long chain of experience."

He said when he blew softly on those glowing beads, they'd burst into a bright flame of memory that allowed him to mentally recapture the scenes of his past.

I personally can't get that same effect with a meal cooked on a stove, tasty tho it is.

-- kypaddler