Campfire Grrrl
At Maine?s annual Becoming an Outdoors-Woman weekend, I came face-to-face with my inner woods weenie.
By Elizabeth Peavey
I am on my hands in the mud, a steady September rain pelting my back and dripping from the brim of my hat. Under a small canopy of folded tinfoil, we have managed to assemble what we hope will be a flammable nest of sodden pine needles, dead leaves, birch bark, and dryer lint. In my numb fingers, the waterproof matches refuse to light. Someone calls out for a lighter and, suddenly, another pair of hands are working beside mine. The lighter goes at my match, which explodes and ignites a bit of bark.
