A mile deep in the Unegama Wilderness Area and he already felt used up, a wet nurse with a dry tit who had a half-dozen snapping, hungry mouths to feed. The real journey still lay ahead, all thirteen miles of it, not counting the half-day hike to the launch point. Wednesday had broken at forty degrees and died at seventy, Indian summer in the mountains. All of them would be sweating by the time they reached their campsite at the headwaters.

The thrill is gone and still you walk. Alone.

Bowie was in the lead, and the group had fallen into a single-file march, though the trail was several feet wide. This part of the trail was clearly marked, with little change in elevation, and there was no practical need for Bowie to take point. He’d done it as a psychological tactic, wanting the group to know who was in charge.

Even if the trip went smoothly, a time would inevitably come for quick decisions. Probably not of the life-and-death variety, despite Farrengalli’s blowhard attitude and big chin, but the remote heart of the wilderness was no place to debate the pecking order. Farrengalli had fallen to the rear of the group, probably fantasizing about all the Vietnam War movies he’d watched.

ProVentures’ patsies, Bowie had taken to calling the members of the group. Like him, they each had a reason for being there, mostly having to do with a mixture of moxie, money, and a little bit of madness. Vincent Farrengalli, a loudmouthed Italian from the Bronx, had immediately set Bowie’s pulse two degrees above where it needed to be. Farrengalli was trouble, mostly because he was the least qualified to be on the trip. ProVentures and Back2Nature Magazine wanted him for his dark looks and brashness, which amounted to handsome publicity whether the trip was a success or failure.