When I was young, I had a tiny bit of experience with rock climbing on more than one occasion. And the very first occasion happened in Zermatt, Switzerland, the home of the Matterhorn. I was barely a teenager, and for some reason, my parents thought it would be a good idea to send their not-very-athletic-son out with an experienced mountain climbing guide. I guess my parents thought that I should be challenged to move a bit out of my comfort zone. Well, this big mountain of a man, with long, black beard, took me out hiking to some location outside of the village of Zermatt, and he taught me the basics of rock climbing. We were scaling little, tiny rocks, mind you, not mountains. But at the end of the day, the guide said to me, in his broken English, “You come back next year, and I take you up the Matterhorn. Those rocks are the same as these. There’s just more of them.” Thankfully, we didn’t go back to Zermatt the next summer and I never had to see that scary mountain man again. The