Harvard University

I nearly tripped on a rock when I recognized the smell. It didn't make any sense. Cigarette smoke? Here? In the middle of the Maine wilderness? By then, I had hiked almost 1,000 miles of the Appalachian Trail. My nostrils had been assaulted by plenty of bad smells: cheese gone bad in my pack, the flatulence of other hikers, the constant aroma of my sweat-stained clothes. Cigarette smoke was a new one. But what surprised me more was the sight of Angela, wrapped in a Mylar survival blanket, gripping her dislocated shoulder while holding a cigarette. She'd fallen in Mahoosuc Notch, a…