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Hello Anne,
Bow Drill Musings
I love making fire with friction. Given the choice, I’d take a bow drill over a lighter or matches any day. This skill has been instrumental in both my emotional and physical well-being. I know not everyone feels the same, and that’s okay. But here’s my story:
When I first learned friction fire, it felt nearly impossible. I practiced every day—multiple times a day—for an entire month before I finally got a coal. My ears rang constantly with the high-pitched squeak of the bow drill. Those who know, know: that sound is deafening.
At the time, I was struggling with arthritis. My body protested: No! I can’t put that much pressure on my wrist. But I kept trying anyway. And the more I practiced, the more it hurt. I remember thinking, Why am I doing this? Why would anyone start a fire this way? What’s the point? I doubted whether I would ever use this skill again.
Yet, I kept going. I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I could do anything, no matter how difficult or painful. I didn’t want my pain to dictate my life anymore. So, I pushed through.
It was a cold, wet March day in Western Washington when it finally happened. I had stuffed a large cedar tinder bundle in my pocket to keep it warm and dry. The tipi structure was ready, waiting for ignition. Everything was set up for success—all I had to do was make fire.
This is when I learned to breathe through frustration. I had already burned through a notch, dripping with sweat and feeling defeated. As I sat by the fire pit, watching my classmates succeed, my internal dialogue turned dark.
I took a deep breath, pulled up my britches, and tried again. This time, I slowed down. I corrected my structure, took another deep breath, and let go of expectations. Bowing back and forth, I kept my breath steady. As I increased speed and pressure, my body began to shake. I counted to ten, then stopped, backing out of the notch carefully.
Smoke.
Exhausted and in pain, I watched as wisps of smoke curled from the notch. A coal! Now, I just had to transfer it to the tinder bundle and bring it to life.
I tapped the coal into the bundle, tucked it in to keep it warm, and began blowing gently. My hands trembled, my arms ached, but I didn’t care. I was going to get this fire.
Poof!
The cedar bundle erupted into flame. Heart racing, I shoved it into the tipi structure, using a stick because I was too afraid of getting burned. I placed the door on the tipi and watched as the fire grew.
I had done it. Finally.
Today, I can start a friction fire in ten seconds. But it wasn’t just about making fire. Through this struggle—pushing through pain, self-doubt, and frustration—I worked through things I hadn’t even realized I needed to. It became my therapy. If I wasn’t fully present, the fire let me know. No focus, no coal.
But when I showed up, when I gave it my full attention, the fire responded. And that changed everything.
With Kindness,
-Brianna Larson, Folk School Coordinator
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