We've lived here for 10 years and I had never cleaned the chimney. I vaguely felt some guilt and worry about it, but it was about like putting off a prostate exam. However, last year the downstairs wood stove put out so much smoke that it became unusable. The time had come.
I removed the pipe behind the stove. It was embarrassingly clogged up with creosote, as was the horizontal ceramic pipe leading back to the chimney. I cleaned up all that mess with Sally's chimney brush, flinging bits of creosote all over the den. Then it was time to climb onto the roof.
I dread getting on the roof, because I'm afraid I'll fall off. I don't fear death so much as I have gotten to the age where, when I hurt myself, the injury is permanent. So I very shakily get up on the roof with Sally's chimney brush gathered in my arms, unable to shake the worry that one false move will start me sliding. The grit of the shingles holds steady until I get to the steeper part by the chimney, where I slide back.
I shout down for Nan to throw me up a rope that I can tie to the chimney, and eventually we get a rope around it. The rope does help, because now I can lean back and get a better angle against the shingles, so my shoes don't slide. However, I cling to the chimney with one arm, holding on for dear life, while I shove the chimney brush down into the hole. There is a small round pipe going to the downstairs, which we use a lot, and a larger square pipe going to the upstairs, which we use much less often.
The chimney brush gets stuck in the round pipe and I can't dislodge it. I send Nan in to see if she can see it from inside downstairs, and she comes back to say that even with four four-foot sections of pole, it still hasn't reached all the way down. But meanwhile I push and pull until I get it moving and it starts to come back up. I then lean over to scrub the larger square chimney, which really doesn't look bad from the roof, and the brush just rattles around and I'm not accomplishing anything.
I begin to feel more secure that I may survive the chimney cleaning. The big chimney can wait another year, or ten. I untie the rope and work my way off the roof. The last hurdle is how to situate myself to get back on the ladder. Somehow, I keep my balance and my footing, and I make it back to the ground. I really don't like doing things where, with one false move, I could maim myself.
It only became cold enough to light a fire a week later, so it was time. I gathered some kindling, and we still had a stack of very dry firewood on the back porch. I lit the kindling, which showed an ominous disinterest in lighting. I added more kindling and finally got a fire going, but the smoke started backing up, coming from six different places in the newly cleaned and re-installed pipe. After pacing, cursing, trying to adjust the fit of the vent pipe, it became clear that the chimney was still clogged. I would have to get back on the roof. Whatever I hadn't reached with the brush was still clogging the chimney.
The next day I purchased three more sections of fiberglass rod for the brush, climbed back on the roof. Nan tied off a rope for me so I'd have better purchase for the steeper part of the roof. The chimney was still embarrassingly clogged up. The longer brush got to areas of impasse that were totally blocked. I had to pull the brush out and remove it, then break through the creosote with rod itself. Then I reattached the brush and fought it all the way down the length of the chimney, holding on for dear life. But I finally got all the way--Nan could see the brush from inside. I could also hear the creosote falling with every movement of the brush.
When I'd done all I could, I came back inside, and Nate helped me scoop out the loose creosote from the flue behind the stove. We hauled out a whole bucket. It had warmed up considerably, but we still got a frost that evening. Cold enough for a fire. Oh, what a joy it was to light a fire in that clean stove and see it pick up such a good draft. It burned so well that Sunday morning there were barely enough embers left to rekindle it. Just enough, though.
Sunday morning I had some pretty cool bruises on my arms and legs, and the good kind of soreness from doing physical labor that I hadn't done in a while. I'm less scared of the roof after my second trip up there. It all worked out. There was no need for all that cursing.
