Earl procured a piece of property while I was working on the ranch. He made a deal with the local power plant. The plant needed a right-of-way for a proposed railroad through Earl’s land. In exchange, he got the land of another recently bankrupt rancher. Part of that land included the Sherwood Place.
The Sherwood Place was a collection of fields and a large set of corrals. Several outbuildings and a few large barns dotted the landscape. At the back of the property stood a very large, metal, teepee-like structure. After asking a few of the old-timers, I found that the property was the site of an old box factory during the Second World War. The teepee was the incinerator barn. My teenage mind began working on a plan. A dangerous pastime.
I began collecting feed bags. I would often put out 40 to 50 bags of feed per day so I had a lot of ammunition. The pile continued to grow every day and was soon over my head. The pile was at least fifteen feet in diameter. Then Dad made the mistake of asking me to destroy a bunch of boxes containing old legal files.
I took the files out of the boxes and scattered them over the pile of bags. The empty boxes were tossed on top. Just lighting the pile would have been enough but I was a closeted pyro!
I moved the truck a very safe distance away, at least a hundred yards! I then removed the two five-gallon gas tanks from the truck and carried them to the barn. I poured at least eight gallons of gas into and on top of the towering pile of paper. The rest of the gas was used to make a safe trail out at least halfway to the truck. I ran back to the truck because I forgot the matches. I should have realized that the gas vapors would be getting stronger with each passing minute, but my ADHD fueled brain ignored this fact
.
With a small prayer to the god of fire, I dropped a match on the snaking line of gasoline. The flames raced toward the barn. Several yards before reaching its objective, the flame leapt through the air surrounding the inverted metal cone. I felt a small thump of pressure as the vapors ignited and the inferno erupted.
There was an opening at the top of the barn covered in thick chicken wire to catch errant bits of paper, but it didn’t stop the orange flames from shooting at least fifty feet in the air! It looked like I had opened the Eye of Sauron above the tower near Mount Doom. The heat, at fifty yards, was unbearable, and the metal teepee was glowing orange.
Within 10 minutes, the volcano of flames and the inferno within had subsided, but the fire burned on for at least another hour, consuming the gas that had leached into the ground beneath the former pile of paper. In the end, there was no evidence of boxes, bags or sensitive legal materials. Only a ring of blackened earth at the end of a trail of charred weeds and rocks.
I should have learned my lesson or feared the inevitable—police cars and the ATF roaring up the lane—but instead, I did the only sensible thing I could think of.
I began collecting more bags.
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