Campfire Anne and the Squirrel Inferno

It was ‘Nature Night’ at Camp Mossy Hollow — a.k.a. ‘The Week We Pretended Not to Miss Indoor Plumbing.’

Our mission: build a fire using only flint and steel. No matches. No lighter fluid. Just raw human grit and questionable judgment.

I, clad in socks two sizes too big and a hoodie that smelled faintly of wet dog and existential dread, took this assignment very seriously. I scoured the woods like a tiny, bespectacled archaeologist searching for fire-starting relics.

That’s when I found them: dozens of perfect, crinkly brown bundles nestled beneath an oak tree. They looked like nature’s own kindling — lightweight, dry, slightly fragrant (like old attic + forgotten granola bar). I gathered a whole armful. Primal. Authentic. Probably edible? (Spoiler: not edible. Also, not kindling.)

I arranged my masterpiece — twigs, leaves, and my mysterious brown bounty — then struck the flint with the solemnity of a medieval blacksmith performing sacred rites.

POOF.

Not a gentle whoosh. Not a polite fizzle. A full-blown greasy orange BOOM, followed by smoke so thick and black it briefly turned twilight into apocalyptic noon.

“ANNE SET THE FOREST ON FIRE!”

— shouted by Liam, who was mid-bite into a marshmallow he would never finish.

Counsellors sprinted like Olympic sprinters fleeing a rogue badger. One dropped her thermos; it rolled downhill, still steaming, as if even the container was evacuating.

Within minutes, the Fire Chief arrived on his bicycle — helmet askew, clipboard dangling, expression frozen somewhere between ‘seen it all’ and ‘please let me retire before lunch.’ He surveyed the smoldering remains of what was once a squirrel’s five-star nest (complete with acorn-shell decor and one very confused-looking tuft of grey fur), sighed, and doused it with a single, contemptuous squirt from his industrial-grade water bottle.

His parting glance? A slow blink. A tiny, weary nod. And the unspoken words: “You again?”

Turns out those weren’t leaves. They were squirrel nests. Full of fur, debris, and the quiet, furry dreams of woodland retirees. My attempt at ancestral connection had instead initiated a tiny, smoky war with local fauna.

Now I teach English. To children. With strict Bunsen burner protocols. And yes — every time I reach for the striker, someone whispers, “Careful, Campfire Anne…”

And I smile. Because sometimes the best lesson isn’t about subjunctive verbs or comma splices.

It’s about checking your kindling before you summon the ancient spirits… and possibly the fire department.