Posted in Fiction, imagination, Inspiration, Stories, Writing, writing life, tagged camping, fiction writing, Stories, travel on November 2, 2014|
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The smell of smoke from a real campfire is different from the smell of smog or cigarette smoke. In the city, those are the only types of smoke I get – but today I’m sitting before my campfire, which my sister built from gathered wood and newspaper, peeling a stick so I can toast marshmallows with it. Above me, I can see a thousand stars and bats fly overhead in swarms. As I look up at the night sky I imagine I’m a pioneer.
Shops like BCF and Anaconda encourage a belief that to venture into the bush, one needs the latest top-notch equipment. Super-strength chairs, microfiber jumpers, expensive and oh-so-fancy sports shoes. Yet here I am, sitting in the dirt, in old jiggers and the same woolen jumper I’ve been wearing all week. We toast marshmallows – which, according to my sister, means burning them to a crisp. ‘It’s burnt and tasteless,’ she says. ‘I like that in a marshmallow.’
To me, the bush isn’t about high tech and fancy. To me, the bush is what we are doing right now – sitting with family and friends, rejoicing in the simplicity, while smoke from a real campfire fills my nostrils.
Sam
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growing up writing 