Using my headlamp, I rummaged through the meager contents of my pack: emergency kit with fire-starting materials and medicines, water bottle, snare wire, folding saw, orange marking tape, cord, garbage bags, a 20-ounce tarp, a 20-inch square of closed-cell pad. I worked the pad under my butt, then removed the waxed paper from the last half of a peanut butter sandwich. I made it last, taking tiny bites and sipping water. When it was gone I rewrapped the crumbs for breakft and shone the light on my thermometer. Twenty-five degrees. I took off my blaze vest and wrapped it around my thighs. Five-fifteen. This late in November, it would be 14 hours until dawn.