I Love My Svea

Twenty five years ago I sat in my living room packing away the last of my possessions as I prepared to fly away to a new life in a new city. I had postponed the packing of my hiking and camping equipment in case I felt the urge to go for one last trek before leaving the West Coast for NYC, but as it turned out, commitments had restrained me in Berkeley till the day of my final departure. Now all that was left to do was to pack these last few articles into my backpack and say goodbye. I had decided not to stuff my sleeping bag into its sack and use it as padding for a few pieces of gear that I wanted to provide with special protection. Among these was my cooking stove. Sealed inside a Ziplock bag to avoid spillage of any fuel that might remain in its tank, I wrapped it inside my sleeping bag and hoped for the best. Of all my hiking accessories, my Svea stove was by far my favorite, an understatement if one considers   the times it provided me with warmth, comfort and on one particular occasion, rescue. Although I most definitely am not  objectum sexual I still must admit that I loved that stove, really loved it. For this reason, on that day many years ago, I had no idea it would be so long before I ignited its flame and heard its soft but spirited purring once again. 

In the years that followed my tour at UC Berkeley, my Svea and I grew apart. Our relationship had cooled during my time in The Big Apple, given the lack of circumstances in which my Svea was needed. Not only was I not hiking as regularly but I had also, I'm ashamed to admit, given in to the temptation of new technology and trends. I had flirted with MSR's Whisperlite but found it too aggressive. All the pumping action required for pressurization soon became exhausting. Alcohol stoves, both homemade and manufactured, held a certain attraction with me for some time and I experimented with a few. Trangia's Mini was especially dear to me and I enjoyed our time together but was saddened to discover that, because of its fickle nature, I could never really commit. When times got tough, i.e. when the weather was rough, it always left me wanting. I came across ZZ's Sierra Zip Stove while reading the late, great Colin Fletcher's Complete Walker. Here was a portable stove that, according to Mr. Fletcher and soon confirmed by me, would burn anything in its furnace-like chamber. I was head over heels for a while but then turned off by it's messiness. Although it still lives with me, the time we share is scarce.

I rediscovered the Svea 123 close to a year ago as I inventoried old, unused gear, hidden away in a K-mart plastic bin, behind boxes stored in our most inaccessible closet. With each move It had been packed and repacked over the years, sealed in the same Ziplock I had placed it in 25 summers earlier. While I threw out everything else that was in the bin with the Svea, either because of deterioration or because I possessed new gear that replaced it, the stove's appearance rekindled the attraction and I decided to try to ignite it's flame once again. How could I ever have suspected it would be so easy.

After 25 years I was unsure of the Svea's reaction to my attempts at re-ignition. Would the years of abandonment provoke an explosive reaction to my present advances? I carried it outside and suddenly noticed that incredibly, the tank still had fuel in it. The white gas had not completely evaporated since the last time the Svea had been used! Apparently all the seals were intact. I unscrewed the cap and could clearly see liquid swishing near the bottom of the fuel tank so I introduced the end of a plastic straw into the tank and extracted a small amount. I gently poured the gas into the depression on the top of the tank and then tightly screwed on the tank cap. The flame from my lighter instantly ignites the gas and I wait for the fire to die out so as to allow the heat to complete the stove's pressurization. Now comes the moment of truth. I slowly turn the key that opens the valve while I hold my lighter near the stove's burner and listen for the sound of escaping gas. When it happens I flick the lighter and instantly my Svea roars. We have ignition! The expected sputtering, or blow outs never occur and I find myself muttering the words, "bomb proof", in amazement. After quickly filing a small pot with water I place it on the stove and sit nearby counting the minutes till it boils. The Svea looks and sounds as I remember it but I want to see if it can still boil water in five minutes. As I put my feet up, satisfied with the possession of such a dependable piece of gear, memories of putting my feet up as I sit by my stove, cooking my dinner among giant Sequoias, entranced by the purr of my Svea, carry me away.