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The reminiscence from my childhood: the night fire on the Baikal shore. The tea is boiling out from the can, but we, who are sitting around the fire place, can not move charmed by ravingly moving flames and the sound of the invisible breakers. I do not know why, but I recall these moments all the time.

The fire in taiga brings about quite different feelings. The wood is different (on the shore the sterilized by water wood looks like mammoth's tusks), the smell of fire is also quite different, and tea is with mosquitoes. And nevertheless, it is perfect bliss to stretch oneself near the little bonfire with a can in which the water starts to hiss, and then, to swallow burning tea and bite a simple sandwich while spitting out cedar needles.

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