While kayaking down rapids on a snow-lined river one early spring day a number of years ago, I snagged a partially submerged log, flipped over, squirted out of my boat and somehow managed to scramble up an icy bank, shivering.

My companion Alan, who stayed upright, raced ashore and quickly started peeling bark from white birch trees and gathering sticks for kindling.

"You need to get warm!" he urged.

He then extracted a book of matches from a waterproof bag, and in minutes I was huddled on a rock alongside crackling flames.

After thawing out half an hour later, I pumped out my kayak, climbed back into the cockpit, and Alan and I resumed our voyage.

I sometimes shudder to think what would have happened if Alan didn't have those matches or if they had gotten wet. At the very least, I would have been way more miserable.

These days, I usually carry two lighters when camping, especially in winter, but having a backup doesn't always ensure the ability to achieve ignition when you really need it. I decided to try to learn to start a fire the old-fashioned way, by rubbing two sticks together.

I started by talking to a Boy Scout who had achieved the highest rank of Eagle Scout.

"Nah, we just use a lighter," he said. I then called his Scoutmaster.

"Sad to say, nobody does that anymore," he said.

My son, Tom, who paddles, hikes and camps year-round on Washington State's Olympic Peninsula, relies on a piece of flint that he strikes with a knife to produce a spark, which ignites cotton balls coated in petroleum jelly.

"Sometimes, my hands are too numb to strike a match," he explained.

As much as I applaud Tom's resourcefulness, you still have to have all that stuff at your fingertips. What if you were stranded somewhere with little more than the shirt on your back?

On Dec. 31, 1999, when Tom was in grade school, he and I used a magnifying glass to intensify a pinpoint of sunlight on a piece of paper, causing it to catch fire.

We then used the flame to ignite a campfire that we kept going past midnight. Thus we used the rays of the sun from the 20th century to start a fire that extended into the 21st century. Pretty cool.

You can also use a clear plastic water bottle or even a plastic bag filled with water to magnify sunlight for starting a fire, but at our latitude this time of year, it's a dubious proposition, especially on a cloudy day.

I went online and watched several videos demonstrating how to start a fire without matches. Most involve using your palms to rub sticks with increasing rapidity and forcefulness, while a few employed makeshift spindles held together with string. They looked flimsy and complicated.

I finally settled on one simplified process that calls for rubbing a pointed stick in a grooved log. In the video, the stick eventually started to smolder, forming a glowing ember that the narrator dropped into a handful of dry grass. Next he waved it around to accelerate oxygen flow, and voila: Fire!

I got to work.

First, I broke off a dead tulip poplar branch about 3 inches in diameter and snapped it into two pieces, one about a foot long and the other about 4 feet. I chose that species because the forest around our house is filled with poplar, which is strong yet soft enough to carve easily and, best of all, is perfect for kindling. Then I ground a flat strip about 8 inches long on the larger section by abrading it against a granite boulder.

Next, I broke off a piece of shale and used the point to gouge a groove in the flattened section. This took about 20 minutes. I spent another few minutes gathering dry grass to build a nest to receive the glowing ember.

After stabilizing the large branch in a shallow trench I dug in the ground with a rock, I clutched the small stick like a dagger and started rubbing it back and forth briskly in the track.

After about 10 minutes, I switched hands. Ten minutes later, I grabbed the stick with both hands. My arms started to feel like overcooked linguine.

I thought I smelled smoke, but it may have been coming out of my ears. I stopped to feel the tip of the stick. Moderately warm, but nowhere near ignition level.

I went back at it with increased vigor.

This went on for just under an hour. No spark, no ember in the grass, no crackling fire.

If I had to rely on rubbing sticks together, there's no question I would have wound up frozen stiff, just like the ill-fated protagonist in Jack London's grim 1908 tale of the Yukon, "To Build a Fire."

So I gathered the scraps of tulip poplar, carried them inside and tossed them in the wood stove, where they burst into flame.

For my next camping trip, I'm bringing three lighters, four books of matches, a few shards of flint, and maybe a blowtorch or two. The Scouts may not have taught me how to start a fire with sticks, but I have learned to abide by their motto: Be prepared.