was only about an hour out of Nashville when the landscape finally opened up. The monotony of green trees and blacktop started to buckle and swerve. Highways caved into cliffs as I grew closer to the Great Smoky Mountains, always lingering behind my rear view mirror on the horizon.

It was near sunset when I arrived. Clouds threaded through the trees and hovered over the stream, giving the impression that everything was about to catch flame. But I could roll down my window and feel a breeze, a moist cool, kind of like right after you’ve just stepped out of the shower.

When I checked in, the ranger took my ID and looked on the computer. “Huh, you’re already in the database,” she said.

“That’s right,” I said proudly. “I’m back.”

After hours of driving, my legs ached to hit the trails. I longed for a quiet night without the seduction of cable television, where I could read until the crickets chirped me to sleep. What I looked forward to more than anything, however, was the campfire.

To me, it’s the best smell in the world. It’s the smell of summer, of independence, of conversion—the richest, most wonderful smell nature has to offer. A rose? Feh. Gardenias? Puh-lease. Put those puppies on the a roaring fire, and then maybe we’d get somewhere. Also, I planned to roast hot dogs. And hot dogs are delicious.

Anyway, I was on my way to the campsite when a nice old man offered to sell me some kindling.

“Oh, no,” I said, waving him away. “I don’t need that.”

See, I kindling is for amateurs. Kindling is for people who don’t know what they’re doing, and I, my friends, am so prepared I should be a freakin’ Eagle Scout. I can make a fire from matches and a handful of dirt—all it takes is a little patience, a little pluck, a few strategically placed bursts of oxygen, and poof. After I docked and set up my tent (like a pro!), I began collecting twigs and dried leaves and tangled branches, humming a tune as I did so. I knew I was about to indulge in one of camping’s great pleasures—nurturing a tiny flicker into flame into a bonfire. Ta-dah!

Only, in my case, it was more like a wet, smoking pile of ash. The wood was soggy from the afternoon’s thundershowers, and wet wood smokes like crazy—kind of like me after a night of binge drinking. I blew on it and blew, sending a plume of white ash into my face and causing a minor spectacle amongst the campsite C, where the old couples and the happy families stared at me, curious and perhaps a bit pitying. That poor woman can’t even start her own fire. Bless her heart.

Grrr. I didn't need their sympathy. Didn’t they know? I’m a pro! How frustrating. How disappointing. How embarrassing. But there was hope.

I went back to the nice old man. “I changed my mind,” I told him, shelling out three bucks for an armload of kindling. I returned to my site and quickly built the biggest, roaringest fire around. Of course, it burned out just as quickly. That’s the thing about a big, greedy fire made with kindling and only a few logs of hard wood. But it was fun while it lasted.

And yes, the hot dogs were delicious.