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leaves. I discover why we packed two pairs of underwear: a backup for when you shit yourself from either nerves or lapping up buggy puddles. The gaze of angst widens. Our troupe of civi li zation refugees continues zigzagging through big sun desert, continually gaining or losing altitude via washes and slot canyons, and intermittently ducking through spiky brush. We fa ll into routines of duct·taping blistering toes and ergonomica lly stripping and tying·off clothing onto our belts as the sun demands. (Duct tape is handy for taping up sore feet, removing cactus·thorn blisters, and taping your shoes back together. No need to pack a whole ro ll, wrap some up around two pens.) During the breakout sessions on knife use and making fire without matches, our guides remind us these were "the big leaps for humankind." We combust fire from carved sticks. This is making a bow·drill by whittling a baseboard, a stringed stick cum bow, and spindle. Then imagine a mad pyro·fiddler spinning embers by wailing hurriedly back and forth with the bow on a handmade paper-towel holder tipped on its sid e. The turning spindle-poin t creates smoking friction with the baseboard. You plant the resulting ember into your fine- kindling birds nest, blow, then appreciate matches for life. Ear wax and nose oil lube the moving parts. A rock chisel puts the finishing touch on my fire machine. Breck explains rock chisels work best to modify wood because "you need a harder pecker." Still no food. The mood swings from chatty to solemn. As the course mandates, and to prepare you for a true surviva l situation , guides are intentionally elusive about any future itinerary information, and maintain an unsympathetic attitude toward individua l difficulties. They act only as sa fety nets in the event of a real emergency. This is no Mountain Travel-Sobek guided adventure. Mini-pond libation continues, for longer perhaps than we mini-mart consumers had bargained for. Five- minute breaks collapse into instant group naps. Climbing out of Canyon Number 90 on Day Three, my supposedly high-tech mountain-sneakerboots herniate by flapping shoe-sole rubber like an 18- wheeler losing retread. Branded into the sole are various decals indicating the miraculous ability of each engineered area-intricate parts which had promised to turn me into a wilderness trekking machine. Soleless, I plod on, now wearing the equivalent of hospita l slippers. Feet still flapping, I contemplate wearing sandals for the next eleven days. My thoughts are interrupted when one of the suits becomes unable to ca rry his pack, so the kid from Iowa lugs it. Then, both business-types become the Gatorade brothers by kneeling simultaneously to vomit lime-green antifreeze. Yakking up bile plagues some people under extreme exertion circumstances without food. The human body expects scheduled snacks or Big Macs and not getting its fix will secrete superfluous bile, causing nausea. The sneakerboot blowout however, was abnormal, so I duct-tape my soles back on. In the midst of slicing tape sections to mummify my "boots," I glance away at the heaving-again Gatoradors and plant my knife a half-inch inside my thumb. Mommy flashes into my mind-nobody else notices her. This simulated desperation is starting to feel real. I remind myself: no t rip in