My slightly sweaty palm gripped the computer mouse; right index finger, quivering, poised above the button. A small white arrow hovered over the word "Submit" on the screen. I had been debating for months to go digital and now the moment of truth had arrived. With just the slightest bit of pressure, a complete new dimension of photography would enter my life possible changing it...forever.

I took a deep breath. CLICK! Almost immediately an e-mail arrived with the scheduled delivery by UPS. Uh oh! There was a problem. I had a doctor's appointment the same day as the arrival date. Maybe it would all work out. Maybe I would be home before the delivery. Maybe, just this once, I could get a break. Yeah, right!

My worst fears were realized when I spotted the note on the door. I had missed the UPS guy. The note explained that a signature was required and that another attempt for delivery would be scheduled the next day. The problem was that I had to leave town the next day. I frantically called the 800 number thinking they might be able to contact the driver and maybe he could come by again. Naturally I had to suffer through a long and detailed list of menu messages but eventually a nice lady told me she would get in touch with the local office and see if anything could be done.

"They will call you within the hour," she said.

An hour goes by; two. No word. I call back. Naturally I get another representative and have to go through the whole story again.

"I'll just give you the local office number and you can work directly with them."

"Great!" I call.

"Sorry," says the man, "but that driver is overloaded today. There's no way he'll have time for another stop at your place. But, I can give you his next scheduled delivery point and you can meet him there."

"Let's try it. I got to have that camera," I say.

"OK, go to Highway 51, go west to 256th street, take a left, go to Coyote Trail, follow that for about a mile and half, (and this is where I lost him) take a right on something, something, then a left on whatever and he'll be there in 20 minutes."

Now at this point I must explain that I do not live in, near but not in, a large city. A street named 256th does not mean there are 256 actual streets from whatever point they start counting things like that. It merely means that the city planners ran out of neat names like Coyote Trail and thought it much less taxing on their brains to just start dishing out numbers thus giving them more time to think about more serious matters such as raising property taxes. In this part of the country, a street with a name like 256 is not really a street at all but more than likely some type of country road which may or may not have a passable driving surface; that, of course, could be improved with a tax hike.

Speeding down good old Highway 51 in my Honda Accord muscle car with 15 minutes to go, I catch a glimpse of a sign saying 229th and knew I was getting close to my first turn. Another 10 miles pass. There is no 256th street. With only a few minutes left before the rendezvous, I call in on the cell phone.

"You're where? Oh, I meant the old Highway 51. If you hurry you can still catch him. Go across the Lake Keystone dam and look for something, turn somewhere, then go north (or was it south) to someplace."

I make an illegal U-turn across the wrong Highway 51 and break all the speed limits racing to the dam where I find...a traffic light! What? There's never been a light here before. Turns out there's construction, one way traffic. The light is red of course. Is there any damn traffic on the dam? No. But, I wait anyway while seriously thinking about breaking just one more law. After an eternity, I go again and finally find Coyote Trail but can't find the something, something intersection. I call in.

"Well, you've missed him but here's his next stop. Go east 3 miles to (and I am not making this up) Dip Creek Road. Wait for him at the Y."

By this time I'm so far back in the country, I'm not only lost but wonder if I should start looking for food and water. This was the type of backwoods where, I am told, hoot owls perform unnatural acts on the chickens. Unbelievably and with a great deal of blind luck, I find French Dip road, pull over onto some gravel and wait. No UPS. Actual vehicles, I find, do travel this road but most are driven by hard-looking, bearded men in old mud-spattered pickups, staring at me as they pass, no doubt on the way home to check their meth labs or possibly this year's crop of marijuana. Some stared, some scowled, some gave me gap-toothed grins. I don't know which was the most terrifying. For a minute there, I thought I could hear the faint sounds of banjo music. I call in again.

"You just missed him. Go west 1 mile and ¼ mile north."

Slamming the Honda into gear, I sling gravel and head west. No sign of UPS. My cell phone rings.

"Did I say west? I meant east."

Another screeching mid-road U-turn and finally, there sits the most beautiful brown truck I've ever seen. He has my camera.

"Mister, I sure thank you for waiting on me," I say. "Now, tell me just one thing. How do I get home?"

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