The trail was in lousy shape following Hurricane Isabel. I had run sections previously and walked the full length from the opposite end. I could see my preparation might be lacking the moment we turned off what I expected to be the flattest section where I wanted to make time, and instead, headed straight up the side of a muddy vertical hill. Ah well, it was turning out to be the first fall-like day of the year and I was glad to be out and moving. Anyone who does these sorts of endurance things can attest to the bizarre motivational daydreams you rely upon to get you the next step. Mine was simple. I imagined myself back with Krazy on a similar fall day in the early 90s, hiking out of a valley in the Shenandoah. It was a splendid early October morning, the colors already brilliant, the air crisp, and the whole day in front of us. There was just one problem. Our party consisted of my wife-to-be (five years in the future), myself and four smokers. And the smokers had just realized that they were out of cigarettes.

Drop back to the day before when we arrived from our various points. We had come down from Pittsburgh, Dan from Fredericksburg, Sean from Annapolis and Krazy and Monz from Lancaster. We had all packed beforehand and upon meeting at the Elkwallow wayside along the parkway, we immediately set out for the valley below, and a stream called Jeremy's Run. I could tell that everyone's pack was overloaded for the trip and as we took breaks on the way down, discovered the various victuals on hand; spiced olives and ripe cheeses, chocolate, pepperoni, various snack foods, and seemingly plenty of cigarettes. Although not a smoker, I was tolerant of the habit, and seeing the joy on their faces was enough for me. It makes them happy, I thought, and that's all right. On we marched, slowly descending, startling deer, enjoying the day, seeing no one else. We reached the bottom of what had been a very steep descent, and realized that dusk would come soon under the shadow of the surrounding mountains. We made camp in a flat, rocky area and I fired up my MSR stove for dinner. It was dark soon after the meal. It was a National Park and open fires were not permitted, so we settled in for a long cold night. Some of the bulk in the packs turned out to be whiskey and wine, and that provided sufficient cheer to get us closer to sleep. Sean was telling a story loudly, when Monz pointed behind our camp, saying "look, what's that coming up?" Someone fumbled a light in that directtion and in the beam we could see the broad head and glittering eyes of a mountain cat. It was visible for seconds before disappearing into the darkness. It was soon after that we downed the last liquor and made for our tents. In the stillness of the night, I suppose all were listening keenly and imagining the sound of a cat's paw ripping through the tent fabric in sudden pounce.

I awoke sometime around 3:30 after a cold hard sleep and realizing that I wasn't likely to get back to sleep, cleared a spot by flashlight, stoked my stove and brewed the first of many espressos using my Moka. Mokas are stove top espresso machines and if treated with love and care can produce enjoyable cups of crema-laden espresso.

I spent the next few hours like that, waiting for another soul to awake, or for the sun to peek into the valley. After others awoke, we were not long in setting off and soon were setting a fair pace along the course of Jeremy's run, crossing back and forth as the trail went. About an hour into the hike, I noticed the smokers huddling with some concern. I soon gathered that they were down to their last few smokes. Ah well, I thought, they'll be thankful to give their lungs a rest and in what better place?

I was wrong of course. They were not interested in enjoying their accidental liberation. They, and particular Krazy were becoming consumed with the issue. The pace picked up noticably. I didn't mind so much, except that the oranges and reds of the leaves were starting to blur past and watching one's steps at this pace was necessary to avoid a turned ankle. I soon found myself flying over creek rocks, my boots lightly touching the trail as the march accelerated. Around this time, I think the smokers concluded that the only answer was to leave the wilderness and find tobacco, because it was very unlikely they'd stumble upon a carton of Marlboro reds or Kent 100s behind the next rock. So it went. It was after a bit more of this, that I looked back and realized that we had lost Kirsten. Oops. This was her first time out hiking with me and the Winston Death March was surely unexpected. I doubled back and after about 45 minutes located her on a trail spur that we had missed as we sprinted past. We rejoined the group back at the cars a little while later and without much ado loaded up and headed for civilization, or the one small symbol of it that mattered; a gas station stacked with cartons of smoothe cool nicotine delivery units. When they were lit again, we realized we were finished almost a whole day early and decided to end the weekend back at Dan's in Frederickburg which was closest. Given the large packs on their backs, I still puzzle at the limits they set on the amount of cigarettes they were willing to carry. For many years after, I carried extra packs in my bag, just in case.