I woke up just as I've done every day this week: sore and tentative from the surgery. This morning I had greater mobility earlier than in days prior simply because my body is healing from the invasive procedure. I woke and came downstairs, not thinking anything of the pellet stove because - come on, in 10 years the thing hasn't given us any problems apart from the occasional difficult start.
Today was another matter.
I came downstairs, breakfasted, fed and walked the dog, read a little (one of the minor advantages to sick leave is the ability to indulge - today it's Sky's the Limit) before coming back upstairs. But when I reached the bedroom, the place was shrouded in a thick smoke. Shrouded, not engulfed. Instantly I knew something was wrong with the stove. Perhaps the fan had shut off, since the automatic temperature feature would kill the stove if it went out. But no. The stove was full. I discovered this when I cracked open the front door: pellets lay shouldering in the burn tray. But these were barely more than ash. What could have caused the volume of smoke that I was choking on even now? I felt the hopper - the reservoir where fresh pellets are gravity-fed into the auger vestibule, which "corkscrews" the pellets forward to a drop off, where a second auger corkscrews them forward. Their final destination is the burn tray, where they ignite by direct contact with other smoldering fuel.
The hopper lid was hot to the touch, which it shouldn't have been. Separated as it was by a narrow feeding chamber, it should have been warm, but not hot. Gingerly I lifted the lid to find thick, dark smoke pooled in the chamber. But that was it. Once I opened the lid, the inrush of air fed fresh oxygen to the thing, and the pellets went up.
Now, by "went up" I don't mean they ignited in a swift WOOSH, as does gasoline-accelerated fuels. It was a polite incineration, no more than a little "puff", followed by a humble, happy little blaze.
By now I was very worried. The surgery prevented me from taking any swift action. I couldn't run or shout without pain - I could barely speak above a whisper without feeling the tension and soreness. The problem was that pellet fuel produces A LOT of heat, especially the premium fuel we prefer to use I our house. It's dense and efficient for heating large spaces - at least compared to softer wood pellets. In a few short moments, the flame would spread, and the hopper - which remained almost half full - would be a veritable furnace. In a few short minutes the entire hopper would be aflame, and it would probably take with it most of the wall behind, the slanted knotty pine ceiling, and start working on the roof before we could tai professional assistance.
So calmly - calm enough to surprise myself - I grabbed the cup I'd been using to shovel small doses of fuel in and started heaving pints at a time out. (Remember, I can't lift more than 10 lbs!) for a brief moment I considered shutting the entire stove down to stifle the air vacuum, which was helping feed the fire with its sustaining oxygen. But I quickly reversed this decision when it became apparent that 1) the house and my face weren't going to melt away and 2) the possibility of serious smoke inhalation and damage would rise. I was already choking on smoke as I worked, the tears almost pouring from my eyes.
I tried to pile the pellets on some plastic, and I managed to empty the hopper mostly. But soon I reached the hotter levels, where pellets weren't alight, but they were hot enough that they presented a real risk of ignition. (One or two of the. Even melted some of the carpet fibers, as I discovered later.)
At this point, I was containing things. I poured a bit of water from a bedside bottle onto the flames just to douse them, which I later learned is a bad idea. Then I picked up the phone and called my dad. I thought he was at work, but luckily he was in his bedroom office, directly below mine and Lydia's second floor studio. He hauled ass when I told him the situation, and we quickly shut down the danger. He brought a metal ash bucket for the hotter pellets we couldn't salvage, and I found an oscillating fan and cracked a few windows to start clearing the air.
Disaster averted, and not much loss. We have to replace the lower auger and then clean out the feeder chamber, but that's a $50 part we can do ourselves. It could have been much, much worse. And coming close on that mansion fire in Anne Arundel county, this plays on some community anxiety we've felt recently. Just goes to show that, even when the routine has been safe and effective for over a decade, things can go awry.