The rain came and the smell came with it. The temperature dropped, our altitude reducing the steam heat to an oily cloying mass of moving air that felt so intensely like spider webs that I constantly brushed my hands across my face to get rid of them. It was full dark and Stevens manned the Starlight Scope, relieving Zippo from scope tripod duty because the team had fashioned our half full packs into a sort of raised mound for the Starlight.
“What in hell is that smell?” I asked no one in particular. “It’s like the mosquito stuff, but worse.”
“It’s snowing,” Stevens whispered, looking through the scope.