looks and sleeping bags and lack thereof...

Our fire smelled like cedar and oranges. I love the way a fire beats back the darkness with its glowing heart. Something about it just screams "home" and "safety". It was getting cold again, and Bec, Almo and I were all gathered around our cheerful blaze, eating arapas, chips, and campfire bread-with-black-beans, respectively. There was a couple camped through the woods, not far away, but they were the only light in sight.
From our peripherals we noticed a sudden influx of bodies in their campsite, and then this new group began to thrash around in the woods between our sites. One or two of us may have uttered disparging comments on the apparent ineptitude of such a group, but on the whole we ignored them.

You know that feeling on the back of your neck when somebody suddenly moves into your...field of security? So here come three collegish guys strolling up to our campsite, asking, "Can we come sit by your fire?" Utterly pathetic. We all shared a Look, then I shrugged and said, "Sure, why not? Come on over."
(For your reference, The Look is translated, "Dangerous? Maybe. Evaluate. Nothing we can't handle. Besides, it could be fun.")
Ended up being nine of them. One girl. Amazing odds, right? Climbers, up from the Carolinas. They couldn't build a fire because all the sites were full and they didn't have a fire ring, so we shared warmth and names and stories. They were pretty impressed with our "legit" ness, as they put it. We were pretty appalled at their lack of preparation (one guy didn't even have a sleeping bag), and Becca stated at one point, in a very serious voice, "You are going to die." I agreed silently, knowing that I hadn't slept the night before for sheer cold, even in my bag. This guy didn't stand a chance.
We ended up giving him an extra blanket and coat to make sure we didn't all wake up to a skinny frozen snowcone. We three of us, in our tiny two-person tent, were warm and snuggy.
The next morning resulted in a considerably tired, chilled looking guy giving us back our stuff, which evolved into an exchange of phone numbers and a mutual agreement for the groups to contact when we make climbing forays into each other's territory. And then we saw them later that night for a moment at Olive Garden, an hour from Foster. What's with this karma thing?
I love this aspect of camping. I know a lot of people don't understand what is so invigorating about it, but... if you get beyond "communing with nature" in the dirt and grime, and smokey smellyness and bruises and sore muscles and charcoal in my tea water and icy feet that make sleeping impossible and small creatures getting into my potatoes and sunburns and rope burns and into the breeze and challenge of a smooth expanse of rock and enjoyment of a warm sleeping back and toasted food and pushing yourself and innovating on the fly and spending your time with the most important people and wading rivers and, just maybe, sharing your fire with strangers, then...well, you just might get it.
'Course, you come back exhausted and unable to move, like me, but it's still worth it. Makes you appreciate a shower, at least. I looooooove me a good shower.