I hold the flame near the burner. Click, click, click. The smell of fuel stings my nose. My stomach growls. Just then, my cousin Andrea returns with a bucket of water.
“Still not working?” she asks.
“No.”
“We could drive to Trelingua,” she says, “and see if they have camping stoves there.”
“Or, just eat the gumbo cold.”
My legs ache from hiking. I want to sprawl on a boulder and watch the sun sink behind the rusted Chisos Mountains, not drive forty-five minute to Terlingua to see if they sell stoves.
A man with white whiskers moseys over from the adjacent campsite.
“Trouble with the stove? Continue Reading…
