You are clinging to a sheer shake face, many feet over the ground. You grab for your next handhold or toehold as you gradually advance toward the top. All of a sudden, a little voice identifies with you "will be you completely out of that minimal bitty thing you call a brain?" The answer obviously is yes as it were. You have nibbled by the enterprise travel bug and there is no cure. Whatever you can want to do is continue nourishing the bug until you are excessively old and dim (hey hold up a moment, I am getting old and dark myself) to keep it up.