My husband is off to spend the weekend in the woods, hiking and camping with a group of his friends. The forecast: hot and wet. It will be a time to grunt, slap backs, and hack down mighty oaks for firewood with a pocketknife. There will be lots of smacking at insects as they buzz in and out of the ear canal and tickle the back of the neck. Sunscreen will not be worn and the men will come home moaning for aloe and Solarcaine. When they do get back they’ll be stinking to high heaven because during their time of seclusion they will not change underwear or shower; that way, if anyone gets separated from the group they will be easy to locate using only the olfactory senses. Water will be boiled over a fire to make coffee. When someone realizes that a can-opener was not on the “to-bring” list, a machete will be brought forth to open the cans of ground beef hash and baked beans. The privacy of a bathroom door has been exchanged for a wide tree trunk, and a patch of uneven ground dotted with rocks in just the right places so as to poke an annoying finger into the spine has taken the place of freshly laundered sheets and a comfortable bed. I just hope that the forecast is wrong: it will be hard to enjoy my extended sleeping quarters if the thunder is crashing madly about me, and images of lightening strikes are flashing before my eyes.