Seasonal living with wood stoves

Today is the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice of 2023. We had a snow dusting a few nights ago, the kind that used to portend weather to come, though it's possible that this will be the only snow of the year.

For a few days we've had temperatures cold enough to justify keeping a wood stove burning continuously. We're well past the awkward days when the house is uncomfortably cool, but it's still too warm outside to run a stove. For a week or so we were in transition phase when I would remove the ashes and lay a fire before bed for ease of early morning lighting. By noon it was no longer needed. Now the continuous fire phase is upon us, but as with snow, it is increasingly uncertain.

In past years of reliable winters, we would stay in continuous burn phase for weeks on end, the Waterford Stanley cookstove ravenous for wood, and chores revolving around keeping the boxes stocked. This is the kind of weather I look forward to, when winter forces a break from the otherwise relentless pressure I put on myself to get stuff done. In my mind I call this season “mending harness,” in reference to bygone days when this was a task put off until the dark days of winter. For me mending harness season consists mainly of hauling wood, chopping ice in the stock tank, or in the very deep cold carrying buckets of warm tap water from the house to the barn.

The absolute best mending harness season is filled with snow, especially that which prevents travel. Sleet and freezing rain are welcome too, though their effects are shorter lived. Storms bring near total release from all responsiblities outside of keeping all animals including humans fed, watered, and warmed.

Lately winters have resembled three months of mud season. During such times chores focus on anti-mud activities such as hauling wood chips to mud holes and nervous procrastination of replacing fence posts. I've been known to mop the bathroom floor and remove barn cobwebs with a broom as I practice avoiding the latter task.

The last true winter here was 2013, when snow covered the ground from January into March. A family of Kiwis was visiting us at the time, eager to see more snow than their home island offered. They were not disappointed. The storms arrived frequently and heavily, the river froze over, and the wood stoves saw heavy use.

Most winters the big stove sits idle and we make do with the cookstove. Ironically the big stove, a catalytic-converter-equipped Dutchwest, is significantly s smaller than the hulking Stanley, but it's the size of the firebox we refer to. When it comes to pumping out heat, firebox size matters. The Dutchwest, when running right, will drive you from the room by creating a condition known as naked-hot, for reasons easily imagined. It becomes difficult to comfortably sit on the couch without feeling the need to push yourself back into the cushions as far as possible. Only when the real cold arrives and the mercury doesn't leave the teens for days do we have need of both stoves.

Eating locally available food is one of the major ways people seek to live seasonally. Providing heat from our own labor and local wood ties us to the seasons as well, though it is a privilege often unavailable to many. When we moved into a house without a furnace, installing woodburners made the most sense. If taken care of they will last indefinitely, and as long as there is wood, there is heat. The average home buyer might not be able to secure a loan for a house lacking central heating, making wood stoves a luxury to many. I rarely recommend ripping out existing infrastructure for the sake of self-sufficiency, but when replacing a defunct furnace in a house you intend to remain in indefinitely, a woodstove might be the way to go.

In recent years wood burners have received their share of criticism — some of it deserved. George Monbiot (of course!) joined the fray about a year ago with an article in The Guardian in which he showcases his skill in attacking anything associated with a self-sufficient lifestyle. He rails against the personal and ecological health hazards of wood stoves in his usual petulant style. If the horrific toxin release he descibes indeed occurs when he opens the stove door, it can be easily explained by the operator being completely ignorant of how to properly clean and run a stove. Bad smells, black smoke, and toxic clouds can be simply remedied by knowing what you are doing (and by not being an urban techno-modernist propagandist by trade.)

That being said, wood stoves are not appropriate everywhere. If there is not an existing supply of high quality local wood, or if you cannot be assured of providing this for yourself in the foreseeable future, a wood stove isn't a good option. Nor is it in densely populated areas where weather conditions hold smoke close to the ground. We are far enough from our nearest neighbor and situated such that smoke isn't a problem — at least we've gotten no complaints thus far.

The fad locally is forced air outdoor wood furnaces, which look like little metal sheds in backyards. They have the advantage of providing wood-fired central heating without taking up valuable house space. Proponents boast that they will take any wood regardless of size, quality, or moisture level. Several are in our vicinity and they produce lots of smoke which tends to hang around close to the ground where it is emitted. I conclude that burning properly seasoned wood in a set up with a house-high chimney makes a lot of difference if your aim is to avoid smoking out the neighborhood.

Wood as fuel promotes a connection to the land not only because of the rituals involved in keeping the box stocked, but from getting to know the wood itself. During the winter of the Kiwis, 2013, we coincidentally had osage orange to burn. This legendary wood is super dense and according the internet wisdom produces a whopping 32.9 million BTUs per cord. To put this in perspective, black locust puts out 26.8, white oak 25.7, and sugar maple 24. Surprisingly, black walnut is only good for about 20.

The serendipitous availability of osage orange during the worst winter in the last 15 years gave me even greater regard for the tree. Each log seemed to burn for ages. The house stayed warm with little work. Granted, I was not involved in the initial cutting and splitting of the wood, which was no small task. I don't remember how that particular wood came to be in the wood shed. Perhaps the tree came down in a storm, or was too close to overhead lines when the power company came through to trim. It undoubtedly served a purpose in life and was then deeply appreciated in death, though rotting in the woods would have been a noble end as well.

Currently we're burning red maple (18.7) with a little black cherry and ash (both about 20). The stove eats the wood like candy, but the ease of cutting and splitting these lighter woods balances out the work. A good bit of mulberry (25.8) lies waiting in next year's pile, along with tulip poplar logs (17.1).

There are more storms now, and a plethora of firewood to be had for free. If violent and more frequent storms are the new reality, it behooves us to insert ourselves into the cycle — of carbon, energy, life — and divert some of the yield toward meeting basics needs. When we use natural gas for heat, as we also do each winter, we are burning 300 million year old sunlight. In doing so we are participating in a cycle of sorts, but it is an inconceivably long cycle of which humans are an insignificant part. When I stuff the stove with maple, tulip poplar, and cherry, I'm burning 30 year old sunlight. I can fully participate in the cycle by returning their ashes to the fields and nurturing the saplings that are emerging there. That's the type of seasonal living we need more of.