I’ve never seen a good western that doesn’t have a scene of cowboys gathered around a campfire as the sunsets.  A roaring campfire is the perfect end to a perfect day. 

Last night, we needed a perfect end.  The day had been far from perfect.  It had been rather rough in fact.  We arrived in Yellowstone with a broken furnace and night highs in the frigid 20’s.  By the time my beloved husband arrived, we were all sick. Very sick.  Bubbly green noses sick.  So sick, in fact, that I had a difficult time appreciating my husband’s insight.  If everyone was so sick, why hadn’t we stopped at a hotel?  Had I used the phone book to find an RV repair place?  Had I considered replacing the battery, since the propane furnace has an electric starter?  No, as a matter of fact, a hotel never crossed my mind.  I figured my knight in shinning armor would eliminate the need for an overpriced repair guy.  And why in the world would a propane furnace have an electric starter!  I bit my tongue as my triumphant husband installed the new battery and flicked the useless furnace back to life. 

After a long day of relinquishing total control to my better half, I found an irresistible opportunity when it came time to build a campfire.  Luck would have it that my beloved boyscout could not get the fire going.  He huffed and puffed and added more newspaper but it simply wouldn’t burn.  He muttered something about wet wood as we lovingly teased him about his fire building skills.  Motivated by our taunting, Chad had the fire roaring within a half hour.

The friction returned the next day when it came time to find a picnic spot to grill some burgers.  To Chad’s credit, he got the fire up and going with no difficulty but we still had our fun.  A word to the wise, do not discredit your husband’s survival skills least you find yourself nominated for collecting firewood.  He handed his City Girl a hatchet and pointed me in the direction of some felled trees. 

Girl scouts taught me how to bat my eyes and sell cookies but our troop taught me nothing of survival skills.  My husband didn’t need to know this.  I just survived three very intense weeks on an undertaking few people would have considered.  What was a little firewood?  I confidently grabbed the cutter thingy and marched just out of sight while my son questioned dad’s choice.  “Does Mom know what she is doing?  Dad, I think this is a man’s job.  Besides you know what happens when you give a zookeeper a hatchet.”  To which Moose replied, “Yeah, you get a Johnson Chronicle.”  That did it!  My pride seriously injured, I was determined to return to camp with more firewood than they could burn.  I just had to figure out how to use the little axe thingy and we would be in business.

It turns out that trees are a lot stronger than they look.  I chopped and chopped and chopped and blast it if that little branch refused to let go.  Refusing to return empty handed, I began to jump on the branch.  We were back in business!  The branch snapped right off.

I made a show of chopping and quietly jumping the branch off as my little pile of branches began to grow.  Chop, chop, jump.  Chop, chop, jump.  I have a healthy respect for anyone who can swing an axe thingy and hit the same spot over and over again.  If my notches were within a six inch distance of each other, I was doing great.  It wouldn’t do to retrieve branches chopped to death so many branches were sacrificed in my attempt to disprove my hubby. 

Every fire needs a few good sized logs so I decided to tackle something a little bigger.  I found a slightly thicker branch and got to work.  Chop, chop, jump.  Chop, chop, jump.  It wouldn’t break.  This was becoming a point of pride so I set down the axe thingy and decided to concentrate my efforts on jumping.  I’m not exactly a petite little thing so surely it would break under the full force of my weight.  I guess I should have felt flattered but my frustration only grew as the branch refused to break.  I started jumping more aggressively.  The whole tree was bobbing up and down but the stupid branch refused to break. 

I jumped harder and harder.  The tree bounced higher and higher.  I jumped. It bounced.  And then it broke.  Have you ever been so involved in the process that you forgot your goal?  Well, I was so wrapped up in jumping on the branch I kind of forget to think about what would happen when it finally broke.  It went crashing down and a very surprised City Girl followed. I managed to catch myself but only by stepping into the biggest bison patty you have ever seen.  There is a reason cowboys wear boots.  Sandals are not proper camping attire.  I howled silently as I jumped around looking desperately for anything to wipe my feet on.  Moving towards a stump to clean off, I stepped right into an ant hill.  Not only am I covered in bison muck but I now have a zillion really angry ants crawling up my legs.

Pride cometh before the fall.  I refused to give my situation away.  Drew rounded the corner and I drew my inner strength to stand there and smile.  Everything is great.  Look at my pile of firewood.  I have one more branch to collect and I will be right along.  By the time I am done lying through my teeth, an army of angry little critters have marched up my leg.  I invent a new rendition of the Macarena as I am slowly eaten alive.  Try as I might, those little suckers would not die.  Never underestimate the power of a bite, even if only from a itty bitty ant. 

Never again will City Girl challenge the survival skills of her husband.  I cannot use a little axe thingy.  I will buy my firewood from a cute little stand for $8 a bundle.  I will wear my trendy sport shoes so I can stomp bison patties without feeling the squish between my toes.  This city slicker can’t wait to get back to civilization with my sweet Starbucks!