Later that semester, firing kilns with him in the cool breeze of southern, California mountain air, while eating home baked cookies his wife Nancy made, I decided “this was the life”. Someday I would build a kiln of my own, but not just any kiln—a woodfire kiln. Life is a pursuit. What I should have been thinking was, “this is the pursuit”.

The intimate, telling story of my first wood-fire kiln building experience years later in Willamina, Oregon is not at all the “short and sweet” I originally envisioned.

My college professor, Nils Lou, was gracious enough to offer some land next to the wood shed, on his property. I was free to scavenge extra bricks onsite from the East Creek anagama. The rest was up to me. He allowed me to stumble my way through cracks in my design- safely, and I’m sure humorously watching from a distance.

My story is a long and muddy saga of multiple failures. The details, however humorous they may appear now, were nothing short of punctuated!&?@%:( It was all just a miscommunication. I am positive. It was forever ago, and just yesterday . . .

Steam hissed, billowing off my hair like a locomotive train. My cheeks blushed in front of the firebox as I peeped into the kiln through my soot-circled eyes. I was entranced by this alluring maiden of flame. “She” was elusive. Seducing me. Exciting me with ephemeral responses . . . a rise in temperature; toying with my emotions. It was a courtship, an epic battle, a quest.

Every firing, was a jeopardy game of questions requiring the correctly phrased response: what to do, how to react, when to react, if to react? Each firing my back was drenched in rain and sweat while splitting wood between stokes—I had not split enough wood to make it to the “end” of the firing, again. The kiln temperature dropped with every rise of the axe. I would not yield ground to this pile of bricks. I birthed those bricks (well actually I scavenged most of them), but I raised them from the ground with my own two hands and I could take them down if that’s the way it was going to be.

Yes, that is the way it was, over and over. Like I said, just a “missed” understanding. I just cut the wood on the wrong side of, “good morning” without sharing a cup of tea with the kiln. I wanted to go straight to a red,hot coal bed. I needed to woo her. She wanted foreplay . . . I had much to learn.

This article is to share my experience with others. I am not writing this as an authority in the “wood-fire” world—but as a beginner. I say “beginner” because I am a ‘young’ potter, and my continuing experience at beginning over, and over.

I have redesigned and completely rebuilt my kiln ten times in four years literally spending thousands of hours in conversation (verbal and visual) with “her”. I smile now, at my former ignorance, thankful for how far the two of us have come together, thankful for her patience. I, of course, do not want to “short” others of a similar experience however stimulating, though I would simply like to offer the kiln design I have realized as one flavor to consider.

The original thinking was to design a small, experimental, wood-fire kiln that could be easily modified. I wanted to create a kiln that would give anagama-like results, though small enough to be fired by a single potter (or two), it would favor risk taking, as it could be fired often. The initial design flaws were of an elementary sort—necessity demanding addition or subtractiion in order to come up with a functioning design. I wanted a big enough firebox, adequate size chimney, wide enough loading chamber, sufficient insulation, ample air supply (etc.).

The kiln was coming to life, and growing bigger with each reiteration. My buddy, Jerrold Martisak, showed up one firing with a 6 ft. length of corrugated culvert pipe wanting to see if a taller chimney would help move the temperature. I coated it in I.T.C. and it remained many firings until this last big change.

Most of my earlier designs would not even reach desired temperature. Cone 10 was as far away as the ice on Pluto—my expectations could not have been higher, but they were. Talk about a crash course in higher (temperature) education. I could fire the kiln all day and all night and be colder on the second day than I was when I loaded . . . well almost. “Almost”, that would have been a fitting name for the kiln, characterized by hot days and cooler nights. Sounds like a vacation spot—right in front of the firebox.
The kiln was basically a chimney and a firebox with a chamber between the two, and nothing more than a stack of bricks. I was impressed with how complicated I was making it. I kept playing with the chimney and varying levels in the loading chamber, though simply could not resolve the design of the firebox. Each part of the kiln seemed to have a mind of its own—musical instruments making sounds awkward, beautiful, obnoxious, loud, subtle, disinterested, intriguing . . . noises of their own, but not in unison and not music-- not yet.

The first design was a straight flat chamber spanned with kiln shelves, small firebox, practically no chimney. Subsequent designs made it evident that a certain amount of energy (wood) was necessary to bring a kiln up to temperature and the loading chamber should be of adequate size to justify the effort. I could safely double the size of the loading chamber and not need that much more wood to “complete” a firing. I found out that an efficiently combusting firebox needs air. I thought, “If some air is good. More air is better”.

I tried several different failed attempts at constructing “tricky” passageways to preheat air into the floor of the firebox—they just dwindled my brick supply taking up space in the firebox and filled with ash during firings. I wanted the ash on the pots. With every modification I seemed to be digging myself into the ground. Stoking the kiln in a half reclined position, on muddy knees one day, I told myself “This just isn’t working”. Someone had to point out the obvious. Why do laundry if I don’t have to? I needed a kiln I could stoke standing up.

I went to Nils with a brilliant plan, a scheme. This time, I was going to go big . . . another flawed design had a 6 ft. tall firebox (loosely modeled after John Neely’s “Train Kiln”). I spiced it up with a constricting brick “grate” system, a longer chamber, and topped it off with a slender legged chimney- I had flames spewing out the wrong end of the kiln creating a back draft that shot out the inlet flues singeing my knee hairs through the holes in my jeans. I bent over laughing (while trying to cool my knees off) while the flame ventured topside and proceeded to burn the roof of my kiln “shed”—thankfully it was mostly metal and there was a fire extinguisher nearby, how is that for knee slappin’ irony!

Why was this being so difficult? With each attempt I kept coming back to this original cube I had excavated out of the stubborn ground with the claw of a hammer and an axe (I wasn’t about to fill it back in, and I wasn’t going to lower my expectations). Maybe this cube of “nothing” was trying to tell me something—but what?

Considering the anagama firings I have participated in most recently (in particular Hiroshi Ogawa’s “Hikarigama” and Nils Lou’s East Creek Anagama—designed by Katsayuki Sakazume) I began to think of kilns in terms of the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities that made them unique. These kilns were obviously very different from what I had before me and there must certainly be a reason, and a reason mine wasn’t working. After doing some more reading on anagama kilns, I began to consider more directly how I might be able to incorporate some of their design characteristics in response to this ugly box shape I had built.

I took this small cube and enlarged it to become a 40 cubic foot firebox. I thought, I’ll put an anagama size firebox on my little kiln and show those big anagamas what a firebox is all about—that’ll do the trick . . . Yahoo, I came up with a kiln that would get hot (and my firebox is bigger than yours). After all this effort I finally was able to reach temperature . . . so what.

In evaluating earlier firings I realized, that although they were technically failures in reaching temperature, they resulted in pieces that looked quite different from anything I’d seen from these other kilns. Quicker and hotter, in this case, was not more desirable—just smoother and more . . . boring. I had lost the un-assimilated textures and the entire palette of color of my earlier “failures”.

I knew I wanted an anagama “look” from my kiln- though wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. I now faced the question I should have looked at more closely from the beginning!

Why was I building this kiln in the first place, and what was I hoping to get out of it? First, I wanted a kiln that could easily be taken down and reassembled. I wanted a smaller kiln that could be fired more spontaneously with less concern over the finished product and with more of an exploratory attitude. I also wanted a kiln that would be quick and easy to fire. I came to realize there are no shortcuts-- easy firings don’t necessarily produce desired results (and the reverse is true).

Fine-tuning here and there I realized that there wasn’t a specific answer, but more of a relative one. The size and volume of different kilns, in itself will dramatically affect the necessary relationships of fuel and air. The dynamics of how a kiln fires is related as much to the interaction between its design and loading pattern as it is to the wood and temperament of the potter flirting with the firebox. I had to seriously consider, how I wanted to fire my kiln and what response I desired. Was my kiln a short distance sprinter, or a marathon runner? . . . Both are runners, but of completely different builds.

I have decided that I want my firing to be as long and demanding as necessary to create a firing environment capable of nourishing an acute and varied aesthetic taste. My intuitive method of firing has expanded in relationship to how little I really know.

I think the dynamics of a kiln work with respect to the movement of heat within the kiln’s “contained” space much like the movement of liquid in a bottle. If a bottle of liquid is inverted not allowing the bottle to “breath”, the liquid pouring out of the bottle will not pour smoothly—choking (glug . . . glug . .). If a lower angle is negotiated however, the liquid will stream with varying tempo dependent on its volume. Similarly, the amount of wood(fuel) and air in a firebox moderates flow within the kiln chamber and chimney. As the temperature and “work” heat in a kiln continues over the length of the firing the kiln’s dynamics change.

The heat and pressure present at the beginning of a firing differ greatly from what you see at the end. I believe the heat being gradually absorbed through the kiln walls dramatically affects the working temperature and heat movement. This is evident in the changing rhythm of stoking patterns as the firing matures from the beginning campfire to the fire-breathing dragon out the stack.

I had a larger chimney before though found it unnerving to be using so many potential kiln chamber brick in its construction. “What a waste”, I thought. I would fire the kiln with the damper barely open and thought why should I not be able to use a smaller chimney and just open the damper increasing its potential. Dialed in correctly, I think you could eliminate a damper altogether. Why not scale back the firebox too?

I tapered the firebox to increase the venturi effect at the primary inlet flues and with consideration of the speed of the flame in the loading chamber; tapering for efficiency and hopefully to create that beautiful “lazy” flame. The firebox of the kiln is built and tapered so that the flame is at the top of the firebox before entering the kiln giving the fuel and air time(height) to combust before entering the loading chamber. I “shortened” the firebox by extending the loading chamber over the edge and down to the floor. Gentle stoking is now a necessity “place and slide”.

I added a small salting “flue” chamber on the back of the kiln tapering into a checkerboard exit flue pattern into the chimney. The roof of this salting chamber is a found piece of arched castable insulated with soft brick. The checkerboard pattern into the chimney is larger at the bottom and tapers to smaller squares extending the height of the salting chamber. These larger squares at the base hopefully, encourage downward circulation in the last chamber, while at the same time adding to the effectiveness of the chimney as they taper to smaller 2” squares at the peak of the roof. I wanted to create as much turbulence inside the kiln as possible yet have ample exit flue (volume) to push the heat through the kiln. I wanted a kiln that would fire efficiently yet still create “back pressure” inside the loading chamber.

The two exit flues of the main chamber are 6.5” x 9” which close to equal the area of the chimney’s 13.5” x 9”. The base of the chimney is four feet above the primary air flues of the firebox and tapers to 9” x 9” at the top. The firebox is 1/6 the volume of the loading chamber and the chimney is 1/6 the volume of the kiln. The inlet flues are roughly 1/6 the volume of the exit flues of the main chamber.

I mention these ratios as “fuel” for thought; only in the writing of this article did I literally take measure of what I’ve gleaned from my experiences. I think my kiln and I have certainly developed our own slang; a dialect of the visual savvy of flame. Each firing developing its own voice: fresh, foreign, and familiar (if only the shadow of fire). Each person brings to the fire, whether intentionally or by happenstance, an opportunity to learn or unlearn, a habit—to do something irregular.

Some friends have been firing the “Caboose” doing short 30 hour firings. The kiln can get to cone 10 or 12 in 10 hours pretty easily. My longest firing so far is 120 hours. I like to go slow and not necessarily steady. For example, 50 hours till cone 10 bends with a 50 hour soak and 20 hours slow cooling- that was the last firing I did--mostly by myself, and then I took a nap. Some of those 30 hour pots are looking pretty good after that.

I enjoy introducing wood-firing to different types of people- they do not always “perform” as expected. You can learn a lot about someone at a wood-firing. Some people say I am a hard one to figure out—especially when I am firing. People think I fire without rhyme or reason; they just haven’t spent enough time with me yet. I think everything makes a difference and I like to play around “stir up the coals”. I am always “playing” attention, seriously. I play hard when I am hard at play. I think firing a kiln isn’t a systematic ensemble of intentions—it is an intuitive and subliminal act of the senses with a little intellect thrown in.

Owen Rye once told me, “Maybe its not the kiln that needs to change, maybe its your expectations that need to change”. I think he’s right. You have to fire (and open the kiln) with a certain level of detachment, and insight. The woodfire potter being the fireman and the ‘pyro’ with the child’s eye transfixed by the flame, keeping in mind that kiln adjustments are like ice cream flavors-- sometimes she wants chocolate, sometimes she wants a beer.