I took a long cool swallow of my 12 oz. Budweiser. I tossed the last shovel full of dirt from the fire pit I was digging near the shore of our lot at the lake. Char had covered the picnic tables with plastic tablecloths and arranged the paper plates, napkins and plastic silverware on the flat area of lawn near our little green bunkhouse. Our two coolers, filled with ice and beer sat at the foot of the picnic tables.

It was about 6:30 PM and the shadows of the tall oaks that populated our lot were beginning to lengthen but the mid-July evening promised to be pleasantly warm. The lake was flat calm and the fading daylight cast its glow on the west face of Megunticook Mountain as it towered from the opposite shore. The glassy surface of the lake carried the echoes of the voices of summer residents and distant radio music. The smell of charcoal barbeques and campfires mingled with the near-still evening air. A small motorboat with an older couple trolling eased past the dock, its small wake making a gentle thumping noise as it hit our float. Schools of white perch broke through the shimmering reflection of the mountain and tall pine pines along the far shore.

I had arranged some chunks of dried maple in a tee-pee formation over some kindling at the center of the fire pit. I then stacked some smooth, softball-sized rocks over the maple tee-pee. The day before, Char and I had gone to Lincolnville Beach, hiking the rocky shoreline, gathering mounds of seaweed into large plastic garbage bags that now sat next to the fire pit. I envisioned cooking clams, steamed corn on the cob and lobsters on the steaming seaweed, replete with baked potatoes deep in the heat of the rocks, covering the whole affair with a huge canvas tarp to hold the steam and heat.

I surveyed my work, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and took a deep breath, doubt creeping in. This whole pit fire deal was a big, calculated risk. Among the staff at Tanglewood, I was known as the woodsy, outdoor “camping guy” after all, and everyone expected me to know what I was doing. If I failed and the pit fire cooking went awry, I’d look pretty foolish. If it came off well, it would be pretty cool, the party a success and my reputation intact. Truth be told, this was the first time I’d ever attempted it but I pressed on anyways, hoping for some beginners luck. I took a deep breath and another long draw on my Budweiser.

I grabbed some of “Bacteria Bill’s” strike-anywhere matches and scraped one over a rock. The crackling min-explosion at the tip of the wooden match sent a tiny plume of burning sulfur smoke into the air. I tossed the flaming match in the spaces between the rocks and into the kindling beneath them. It stuck to the edge of a piece of dry birch bark that was wedged among the cedar kindling under the split maple chunks. Gray plumes of fragrant smoke rose and mingled with the light breeze, creating a pleasant aura to the descending dusk. It wasn’t long before the fire was hot and the interior surfaces of the rocks began to glow a deep crimson. So far, so good.

Char had been busy wrapping the washed Russets in aluminum foil, now handing them to me one by one as I set them at the base of the hot rocks. As I placed the last of about a dozen of the big spuds, I heard the unmistakable sound of cars parking at the top of the driveway;doors opening, then thumping shut. The Haddencroft staff were beginning to arrive. Cars lined up in the field at the top of our lot, the tall grass brushing their doors as people piled out, laughing and talking. Most of them gravitated to the fire, like people always seem to, popping beers open, wrestling with corks and pouring wine into plastic glasses. One by one they plopped down their ice-filled styrofoam coolers and canvas tote bags filled with bathing suits, flip-flops and towels. It promised to be a fun filled,happy, summer night.