Typically I light my pipes with my favorite Kiribi lighter, but I have lately been remiss in resupplying my butane needs and find myself without. I like a challenge, however, and accept this situation as a test of my character and ingenuity.

With my lighter sparking but no longer emitting its precious flame, the game begins. Not to worry: having spent a large portion of my life in Army Special Operations, attending two different survival schools, and spending countless hours in the field overcoming adverse conditions, I am more than up to this challenge. I will faithfully document my efforts, blazing a trail and leaving a roadmap for others to follow.

Where else to get fire? My first thought is the firepit in my backyard (let's keep this between us, by the way; no need to involve my HOA). I reach for one of my favorite pipes, then a thought occurs to me, and I wisely select one of my homebuilt pipes that I'm not afraid to let experience some minor rim charring.

I know, of course, that the trick will be keeping the tobacco in the pipe as I turn it upside down over a roaring fire to light it, so I pack it extra tight. No worries, we are after a lit pipe, not a perfectly pristine one, right?

Using my substantial experience in building and lighting fires, all government-sanctioned training, of course, I arrange a wealth of dry wood in the appropriate manner. Perfect. I will be able to stay warm in the winter chill while smoking. I reach for the nearby Bic lighter I store with the firewood and set about applying it to the waiting tinder.

Two things become immediately apparent. First, I could have just used said Bic lighter to light my pipe, and second, it too is out of butane. I ponder the neatly arranged firewood for a long moment, experiencing a twinge of regret at packing my pipe hard enough to survive the anticipated barrel-roll maneuver that would now be unnecessary or at least unproductive.

Adapt and overcome. As the oft-repeated words from my past surface in my mind, a new plan is already forming. I leap up and discover that my firmly-packed pipe cannot, in fact, retain its contents while performing awkward aerial acrobatics over the unlit firewood. That's a step backwards.

Flame needs three things to exist. The fire tetrahedron consists of fuel, heat, and oxygen. A tightly rolled paper will make for excellent tinder, I decide, and I know the air in my kitchen contains 21% oxygen (I live at sea-level; your mileage may vary.) Of course, there is a device in most modern homes that effortlessly creates a large amount of heat, and I smile to myself as I turn the oven selector knob to "Broil."

In goes the paper towel, and I hum happily to myself as I pack a fresh pipe, imagining the flame I will soon have flickering just above the rim.

"Why's the oven on?"

I jump at my wife's voice, and my humming turns into a chuckle. Not a nervous one, mind you, but a pleased-with-my-own-ingenuity-and-ability–to-keep-certain-possibly-concerning-information-from-my-wife-in-moments-of-crisis chuckle. You know the kind.

"You're not baking?" I give her a confused look as I calmly reach over and turn off the oven.

My confusion is contagious, exactly as I hoped, and she stares at me like I am an alien creature (a regular occurrence, and one to which I am well accustomed.) But the reprieve is only momentary, and she opens her mouth to interrogate me further. Whatever clever obfuscation of the facts I had planned will never be known because one of my progeny chooses this moment to interrupt, distracting her.

I leave the paper towel in the oven, the potential energy of that plan of action ready to be released as soon as my wife is out of the house. In the meantime, my mind searches for the next most likely source of heat in our home, and an epiphany strikes me: There is a tiny blue flame that burns eternal, safely ensconced in the base of our water heater!

Out in the garage, away from the prying eyes of certain overly-responsible parties, I kneel by the appliance, placing a hand against its side to thank it for the blessing it's about to bestow. A small metal flap rotates out of the way easily enough, and I can see the treasure within. All I have to do is get my pipe close enough. And kind of sideways, so the angle is right.

Temporarily obstructed, but secretly delighted, by the renewed need for pipe acrobatics, I reenter the kitchen, discretely retrieving my well-packed adventure pipe.

Back at the water heater, I run into a problem. No matter which way I twist my pipe, the hole will not accommodate; I can't get close enough to the pilot light for my plan to work. Not one to be stopped by meaningless warning labels, I immediately attempt to remove the maintenance plate for unrestricted access to the appliance's internals.

It turns out a screwdriver is required, which is a slight problem, as evil gremlins have been systematically hiding my screwdrivers for some time now. I intend to construct some traps, just as soon as I light my pipe. My typical workaround is to borrow one from my wife's personal toolset, which she claims she needs — she doesn't believe in the secret war with the gremlins. It's a point of contention that I deem unwise to pursue so I will have to wait until she leaves the house before scavenging the necessary implement.

Still in the garage, I search for a solution to my problem. Not a screwdriver, as I am quite confident they have been stolen by gremlins, or maybe the aliens my wife sometimes mistakes me for, or perhaps granted cloaking devices by the same. Yes. Definitely that.

I spot an old military backpack in the corner, my trusty rucksack, and remember there is a survival kit inside — a survival kit with waterproof matches.

Bingo!

Saved by my own foresight and preparedness a decade past, I triumphantly dig past an assortment of knives, not-at-all-moldy camouflage uniforms, expired emergency rations that are perfectly fine, a battered survival handbook, and finally locate a small tin near the bottom. There are exactly three matches left in the kit, possibly due to pilfering by an unknown pyromaniac during a particularly boring field exercise, but three is plenty for my current purpose.

Tossing the backpack atop a nearby assortment of tools, I move outside to light my pipe. I strike the first match repeatedly but to no avail. A distant memory emerges of going through an entire kit's supply of government-issued waterproof matches trying to find one that actually worked, but I push it aside. There is no time for distraction in my current predicament.

By the time the second match has flamelessly disintegrated, I start to wonder if these matches are designed to work only when wet. Given the name, this line of reasoning seems sound, and I confidently thrust the final match into a puddle before giving it a try.

Time and memory are tricky things, as it turns out.

After further consideration and a bit of a hands-on refresher, I am confident that waterproof matches or not, water is not a necessary element for starting a fire. Definitely not part of the fire tetrahedron.

I stare accusingly at my old Army backpack, but my fierce disapproval of its inadequacy has no visible effect. I spot the survival manual peeking out of the top and am struck with a new idea. I seize the backpack.

This was the test all along. I am sure of it.

In the backyard again, I extract paracord from my pack, along with a handy folding multitool. Next, I secure a couple of choice branches from a nearby oak tree. Not my neighbor's tree. A soft piece of pine from the previously laid fire provides the last element I need, and I confidently set to work.

I bend the more supple of the two branches into a bow and use my ninja knot-tying skills to stretch and tie the paracord between the ends. Shortening the other branch to a foot-long length gives me the hardwood "drill," and a bit of gouging with a field knife makes the appropriate divot in the softer pine. Perseverance and a positive mental attitude are now the only things standing between me and flame. No butane, electric oven, pilot light, or screwdriver needed. I feel free of modern contrivances. I feel strong.

Four hours later, I lie flat on the lawn, the sum total of my failed efforts to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together, a triumphant learning experience in front of me.

Exhaustion could be viewed as a negative, but there is great peace in certainty, and, in that sense, my recent acquisition of unshakable certainty that I will never produce fire in this manner has left me in a Zen-like calm.

The effort has connected me to a similar peaceful conclusion in my past. When they taught us how to accomplish this task in survival school, my big takeaway was that I didn't need fire after all.

Sometimes that's the best way to solve a problem, just re-prioritize. I close my eyes, satisfied with the discovery of this hard-earned truth. I reach absently for my nearby pipe; I like to celebrate breakthroughs like this with a contemplative smoke.

"What are you doing out here?"

My eyes pop open, and I see the you-know-which look on my wife's face.

It pains me to explain myself, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made to maintain marital bliss. "Making a fire so I can light my pipe."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "I found a paper towel in the oven earlier..."

"That's weird," I say evenly.

She extends her hand. "Look, I was cleaning around your desk and found your old lighter."

A smile of victory overtakes my features. The gremlins have returned their most valuable hostage!

Maybe I'll forgo the traps, for now.