I met Miguel last summer on my drive through San Francisco.
We drove 14 or so miles down a pot-hole-studded dirt road, looking for a place to pull over and camp out. Finally we found this long U-turn, and pulled in there, hiding my car behind a stand of trees in hopes that it would not be spotted. Our first day there was no rain. It still took Miguel nearly two hours to get a fire started (well, it is a rainforest) with our damp wood, damp sticks, and damp moss, while I dissected onions and stuffed them with hamburger. As difficult as carving the onions was, I preferred my "woman's" task to that of starting the damn fire.
The second day, just after we got back from our hike, it began to rain. The clouds weren't going away, and it felt heavy. "We better do something," I said, "it feels like it's going to pour." So far, we'd been able to lean under the giant tree behind us, and it kept half of the table dry, but rain was falling faster. I grabbed my tent tarp from the car and we started stringing it up. In minutes, the sagging places in the tarp were filled with puddles. Luckily Miguel had twine and patience, and we had a fairly protected eating-place.
Branches like the weak arms of beautiful ladies, soft green moss dangling from their wrists.