“245 unread messages” my Blackberry tolled. I had turned the dreaded workhorse on after a week, dreading its weary proclamations. How I had cherished the days without glaring at its tiny, but unforgiving screen. My camping backpack laid heavily on my shoulders- a double bagged bolus of sulphur-reeking Vibrams and muddy bathing suits. I suspected getting the smell out of the Vibrams would require elaborate chemical warfare. My arms and legs were covered with gashs, nicks, tears, welts, and oddly shaped bruises.