A guest post by Jennifer’s brother, the inestimable Jonathan Carden, who we previously introduced here.

. . . .

I CLIMBED A MOUNTAIN.

Not figuratively. I literally climbed a mountain.

Here’s the problem with any story that starts with those four words: all of you naysayers come shooting out of the woodwork, giving me lip and questioning my integrity as a writer. You know what? FINE, it wasn’t a mountain like Mount Everest…BUT it was like 1500 feet high.

See, here’s the deal. I’m not what you would call a climber. I don’t have a “climber’s build.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m not like Chris Farley fat. Hell, I’m not even Jack Black fat, but people don’t generally look at me and say “Hey, go climb that tree…you look like a climber!”

(Unless they’re jerks and are taunting me)

Anyways, like I was saying, I’m not a climber. So you’re asking yourself, “Why’d you climb a FREAKING HUGE MOUNTAIN, I mean, a HUGE mountain, if you’re not a climber Jonathan?” Well, I went on a camping trip with a few of my friends a few weekends ago, and, well, they’re more the climbing type than I am…also, they lied to me.

There is a subtle but crucial difference between a “hike” and a “mountain climb.” The main difference being the odds of me cutting (actually, change that to gashing…yeah…gashing) my hand on a rock while hanging on the side of an open faced cliff are greatly increased on a “mountain climb.”

[quick side note…I didn’t ever actually hang from an open faced cliff, but I did cut…nay…gash my hand on a rock when I slipped on another rock while climbing.]

So, when they said, “Are you ready for the hike Jonathan?” I readily answered “No.” Which is not nearly the emphatic “I WILL KILL US ALL FIRST!” that would’ve been screamed violently had they said what they really meant: “Are you ready for the potentially lethal mountain climb Jonathan?”

Yeah. So we climbed.

I swear, my friends are like Tolkien-Faun-like-beings (half-men / half-goats for all of you non-Tolkien readers out there). They kept doing the thing where they would go way, way ahead of me, and then they’d all stop and rest / watch me fall UP the mountain while spit dribbled down my chin. To my credit, I did have a bleeding hand. BLOOD! REAL BLOOD. GASHED!

I saw a snake. NO ONE ELSE SAW IT. I saw it though. TWICE. On the way up and on the way down. Probably not even the same snake. There were probably hundreds of snakes. They probably smelled the blood from my hand with their tongue. That’s how snakes smell; with their tongues.

When we made it to the top, everyone stopped to bask in the sunlight of our achievement (and the actual scorching sun). Another thing you should know about me, I’m not what you would call “tan.” I might not even have the capability of being “tan.” I have two reactions to the sun: (1. I burn (2. I stroke.

As you might’ve guessed, this story has a happy ending. I lived.

- Jonathan “Who’s Bear Grylls?” Carden