Woodstacking lends itself to folksy phrases (which I'll translate later). My favorite is the old dandy, "stack it loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." Perhaps it's because every step of the way—from cutting the timber, to splitting it, to hauling it, and, finally, stacking it—leather-gloved hands are handling the wood. And those hands have time to think.
Burning wood is said to warm you three times (splitting, stacking, carrying it inside to burn). In our case, it's four. We made a mistake of inexperience our first year, when we we ordered "seasoned" wood. It was supposed to have been dry, ready to burn, we thought. But it wasn't. Wet wood takes far more time (and cursing) to heat up. So, that year, we burned through far more fuel oil—our heating insurance. That lesson taught us to season it ourselves. That means we order our firewood at least a year in advance. We stack it once in a "fieldstack" back behind the house, where it dries in warm sunshine and cool breezes. By the time we're ready to stack it near the house, patience has turned what was green and damp a warm, silvery gray. Deep cracks through its ends, known as checks, reveal that it's ready to burn. Then, we stack it once more.
Well, by we, I mean Michael. He's got a knack for spacial relations and details. So we specialize. I haul it. He stacks it. And here's where the folklore comes in. He tells me that he learned a lot of what he knows about burning wood—from BTU output to stacking to fire-starting—from the astonishing Woodheat.org. (Go there.) Stacking wood takes ample patience and a fair bit of problem-solving ability. But one good trick is to bookend each unsupported pile with the familiar "Lincoln Log" pattern. It's bomber.
From there, you can get fancy. We left our stack ends wide open in the middle (using two logs per row instead of three) to allow for even more airflow ... we were also getting tired. In fact, this is a great way to ensure that your well-dried, well-built pile stays put through the coldest days of winter. As for the rest of the pile, we stack it straight on, piece by piece. And we nestle the logs together with gaps that are "loose enough for a mouse to run through, but not for the cat to follow." In other words, no gaping holes. But airflow is key. Remember: Dry wood = hot fires.
Woodstacking is a rite of autumn around here. But, log by log, it's also one that feeds a tangible, monetary, sustainable fire. Once finished, Michael couldn't help grinning and taking deep breaths of satisfaction every time he looked out the window at our pile of winter heat, waiting to be burned.
I'm off to bed, and feed the woodstove...
