Jo and the Bo

"I can't wait to go fishing with my Dad," Joelle shares with her Great Grandma Alice (Bauer), a fisher(wo)man 95 years young who knows plenty having grown up fishing the Yampa Valley. "We are going to Saratoga."

Upstream from Saratoga about 10 miles is a beautiful stretch of the North Platte River that for two and quarter miles is split into two forks by Treasure Island - a place of timeless beauty and home to Bald Eagles, Owls, Moose, Mink, and hard fighting Browns and Rainbows.

We make camp on the edge of a spartan dirt parking lot situated half way between the islands head and tail which gives us ready access to nearly 4.5 miles of public fishing rarely rivaled by private water. Over two bowls of steaming hot oatmeal on Sunday morning, we consider the toughest question: Where should we Start?

Most people hop out of the car and plunk their line in the closest pocket of water. Armed (or confused) with 40+ years of local fishing knowledge dating to when my Dad and his friend and mentor Rusty Chandler first arrived here, the question isn't so simple or without historic consequence. I can close my eyes and walk every hole on the river from top to bottom on both forks. A friend or family member has named each notable hole: 

The Trench. Trifecta. The Honey Hole. Sluice Box. The Flats. Moose Crossing. House. Corral Pool. Where Chris Fell In. Big Cotton Wood. Above the Big Hole. The Big Hole. 

Those are our names for runs on just half of one fork, every one of which has a story.

My mind is made up on the last bite of Oatmeal. In the end there was only one place to start and it was obvious once I thought about it. First, we have to cross the two swinging bridges. They define Treasure Island as much as any other landmark. Second, it has to be the "Far Fork." As Manhattan can be narrowed to neighborhoods like "The Village" so can Treasure Island be narrowed into stretches like the "Far Fork" that has unique characteristics, memories, and, of course, is regarded for high quality fishing.

From the dirt lot, we head up river on a narrow dirt path that winds through thick willow growth along the river and open hay meadows of the old Platoga Ranch on our right. This trail always feels a bit like home. 

Mills, our trusted English Setter companion, quickly learns how to climb and descend the steep metals stairs to the deck of the suspension bridge. She doesn't linger on the deck like Joelle and I who are happy to bounce up and down on the jumpy old suspension bridge. We stop to watch silhouettes rise from the river bottom below us to take small bugs from the surface. Rising fish quickly changes our focus from bouncing on the bridges to crossing them.

Treasure Island greets you with a colorful forest of towering Cottonwood Trees, Willows, and waste high grass. We follow the narrow path to the far fork and make a right at the water's edge. We're headed 200 yards up river to the only place that really made sense to start our day - The Corral Pool. 

The hole takes it's name from an old wooden corral that sits on the far bank, across from the Island. Through the years, the corral has intermittently been full of cattle or, like it is today, empty and quiet. Until 2011 the current ran straight at the corral, turned against the bank, and head down river. A massive Cottonwood shaded the hole and a deep back eddy full of foam. It was a lunker hole among lunker holes. Abundant are my memories of learning to set a hook in a bony lip or recognize a take on a nymph swinging through the current. 

In the last 10 years, a group of us have taken to making camp on an island side perch over looking this hole. We lug our gear and wrestle heavy coolers over the bridges to this place because it is a million miles away from whatever was on your mind yesterday yet is only two-thirds of a mile from the parking lot. 

Joelle, Mills, and I cross in the rapids above the Corral Pool to fish back toward the island. Massive run-off from a late melting snow pack in 2011 scoured the Corral Pool moving the best fishing out from under the massive Cottonwood to the Island side bank. It feels weird to stand in shallow water where 4 and 5 pounds rainbows once sipped little flies. Today the Cottonwood provides a patch of camouflaging shade from the morning sun. Jo and I settle into the shade at the edge of the main current and get down to business. 

First up is a Sulfur Dunn left over from the hour of fishing we got in last night before dark. Jo's casting has advanced quicker than I can believe. Her new fly rod is compliments of a winning raffle ticket her Papa Mac bought at the Trout Unlimited banquet in Montana last fall. I crack up watching her make all the same casting mistakes I remember making as a kid. Don't break your wrist. Watch your timing. Rod tip up. Notably, she hasn't hooked herself once or made a bird's nest of her line. She is already way ahead of me. 

She flips the Dunn up into the current beautifully. It floats high and free in the current but is undisturbed by the many noses popping up through the riffle to sip little flies. We might as well be floating an oily rag. 

A swarming cloud of olive colored bugs with blue wings yields a clue to the breakfast of preference. 

"I know what those are Jo! BWOs (Blue Wing Olive). #16."

Like a pro, Jo rubs a little silicone floatant into the soft hackle and blue wings. Several false casts to dry the bug and into the water it goes. Nothing. I take a turn thinking maybe Jo's drift isn't quite right. A few casts and our BWO is attacked by grass hopper sized fish to small to hook. 

"Oh bummer, they are all little guys Jo."

Perhaps that is why I was so confused a few casts later to look up and see Joelle straining, her rod bent over in an arch. "Jo, is that a fish?"

"Yeah, I got one," she calmly informs me. From her voice you might have thought she was checking out a library book. 

"Really?" I say in disbelief as the fish I took for a snag takes off down the river stripping line from Jo's reel. "IT IS A FISH" are the words running through my not so calm mind. Joelle figures out how to maneuver the fish with her fly rod and which way to crank the reel to retrieve line. Soon she has played the colorful 13+" Rainbow back to her feet. Somehow I expected to be involved in Jo's first catch as more than a dumbfounded spectator and photographer. 

"Will you do it?" Joelle asks me less than anxious to actually handle her fish. No one would know from the enthusiastic expression on her face that the words on her lips when the picture was taken were "Eeew gross."

Skywalker Couloir

A Summer Ski with Princess Leia at 13,000 Feet
Story and Photos by Matt McDonald for Mountain Logbook

Hikers look at us sideways on the Fourth of July Trail in Colorado's Indian Peaks Wilderness. My brother Chris and I must look crazed with our A-frame loaded skis and stuffed packs on a sweaty summer morning. But when we reach the turn for South Arapaho Peak and look up at Skywalker Couloir, a long white scar sliced into grey rock, the naysayers have long since been dropped.

We make camp in the fading sun of the year's longest day. A resident marmot tries to crash the dinner party as we sip Patrón and watch the sky turn pink. A rock tumbles down the couloir, splitting into three as it crashes into the wall. "That could be your head," I say to Chris. We laugh and choose sleep over staying up for a glimpse of the Super Moon.

A flawless dawn draws nine hikers to the couloir. Over steaming oatmeal, I stare anxiously at Skywalker. Smaller snowfields would make for a fun day. But the couloir is magnetic, and Chris' growing ambition stifles my doubt. We opt for the switchback-heavy, two-mile hike and rock scramble to the summit. There, I zip a softshell over my T-shirt and descend into Skywalker via the steep Princess Leia chute. I catch my breath and scan for rock fall. But the force is with us.

I carve adrenaline-pumping turns down the 50-degree start, hop the rock track, and stop for a breather between narrow walls. The descent pushes 1,900 vertical feet—and I thought ski season ended. We ski the apron for 50 yards before rocks force us to downclimb the talus back to camp. In less than eloquent terms, I heartily thank my brother for not letting me bail.

After the victory feast—local IPA and succulent pork at Nederland's Wild Mountain Smokehouse & Brewery—a woman on the street hollers: "You've got the wrong season." Chris doesn't understand her, and I laugh. Apparently we're lost—just two skiers in June.

Final Call: Two Irish Originals

Friday, 29 June, 2012

What trip to Ireland is complete without Riverdance at the Gaiety Theater in Dublin where it debuted in the 80s (maybe 1984)?

Reading the Irish Independant while at Dromoland there was an article on the show's opening the night before, the beginning of a run through the summer season. We were shocked and excited to get 6th row tickets.

The intimacy of the Gaiety Theater made for a better experience than the humongous halls they were playing in on their US tour when we saw the show. The cast was very differnt, a new generation of performers for sure, but everybit as impressive. The show succeeded washing away the ho-hum taste of Thriller which we saw in London.

The area surrounding the Theater changed our impression of Dublin as well. It is a much more vibrant (and cleaner) part of town than where we stayed our first night in Ireland.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of Dublin is Laura drinking Guiness. Never a beer drinker, Laura thought the Guinness Draught poured at the Brewery was "not bad." Good enough that she had another half pint while at Dromoland Castle and before the show. Now she has a second drink to go along with Margaritas. Brewed in Ireland, St. James's Gate, does taste better, just to confirm the myth.

A few facts stood out at the Guinness tour:

• In 1749, Arthur Guinness signed a 9,000 year lease on the 4 acre property in Dublin where the St. James's Gate Brewery resides. Lease rate, £45 (less than US$ 70)!
• "Slainte" is the Irish toast, the equivalent of "Cheers"
• Guinness purchases 2/3 of the brewing Barley grown in Ireland every year, approximately 100,000 tons. So much for potatoes being the national crop and key to the Irish economy.
• Barley, one of the four ingrediants that goes into Guinness, in three forms: malted, unmalted, and roasted. The deep red (some say black) color comes from the roasted barley.
• The yeast used in Guinness is alledged to be a strain that dates back to Arthur Guinness himself. Since the 1800s some of the yeast from each brew is transferred to the next to ensure consistency.
• The original yeast strain is kept locked in the Director's safe at St. James's Gate. If something happened the yeast could be regrown from that stock in a matter of hours. 
• Doctor's used to prescribe Guinness for certain ailments including stimulating nursing mothers with milk production, giving rise to one of the early ad campaigns "Guinness Is Good For You"
• It is said Arthur Guinness didn't invent Stout, but he did perfect it.

Well off to catch a plane home! Hope you enjoyed the Final Call and keeping tabs on our European Adventure. See you soon!

Top Archer

Monday, 25 June, 2012

Demonstrating tremendous foresight, Laura booked our last three nights at a 5 star luxury Castle resort near Newmarket-on-Fergus, County Clare, Ireland called Dromoland. The grounds are a sprawling emerald green featuring a proper fishing lake, prestigous 18-hole golf course, tennis, and clay pigeon shooting. Most important it is to be the venue for the McDonald family archery championship - no mercy.

Side-view of Dromoland Castle

My first concern driving onto the castle grounds is which of the well worn clothes we will be able to wear here without being asked to go smell somewhere else. You don't show up at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs dressed (or smelling) like a back packer fresh off the trail. The same principle applies here.

Straight to business, Laura's first question upon check-in: What time is Archery available today?

The showdown is set for 4:15 in the afternoon. Just enough time for some light-lunch and tea while the suspense builds. Two-hundred yards from the front door of the Castle is a corridor of lawn through the forest with an archery target in the center. The girls spied it from inside the castle. That drama builds.

Joelle takes the early lead

With much of our three weeks spent touring medieval ruins, the girls are well schooled in where archers stand on battlements and how to shoot arrows at attackers through narrow slits in the walls. If that didn't do it, Hannah's fixation on Katniss, heroine of the Hunger Games whose weapon of preference is a bow and arrow, was more than enough motivation.

Joelle showing off good technique

An archer in-training, the result of a PE section at school, Hannah is up first and intent on showing us how it is done.

To everyone's surprise, including her own, Joelle takes the early lead on just her third round of arrows with a score of 49 including a 25 point bulls-eye. Photographic evidence reveals she even shot with her eyes closed. We'll assume it was intentional given her ability to use The Force.

Each turn consists of six arrows. The bullseye is worth 25 points. The second ring is 10 points. Each adjacent concentric ring away from the center is worth one less point until you get to zero which is the whitespace outside (and off) the target. Joelle's score makes getting at least one bulls-eye critical to contending for the title.

Nice venue for a family shootout

Arriving upon a good method for aiming, I put up a 46 on a tight cluster of arrows in the red but unfortunately nothing in the inner three yellow rings that score the highest. The score is good enough, however, to move Hannah to third place, last since Mom conceded claiming photographer status for the event. We said "no press" for the event but let it slide.

To the absolute dismay of her sister, Joelle continues to lead after several rounds. Lots of scores are close, but none are better.

"Two more rounds each and then we'll be out of time" our official score keeper indicates. The pressure builds on Hannah, the most verteran archer in the group and most determined to achieve Katniss status. Instead of pronouncing the name "Cat-Niss" as intended, Joelle and I are merciless about calling her "Cat-Nip."

"Come on Cat Nip. Let's see what you've got" Joelle and I rib her as she steps up with her next-to-last handful of arrows. With deep focus, she pulls back her first arrow and lets it fly. It strikes dead center on the horizontal axis but is high and lands in the red ring.

"Nice start Cat Nip, but to win you need a bullseye," we crow at her.

Bullseye Focus

Hannah pulls back her second arrow with the same focus and determination and lets it fly. From her business-as-usual reaction you would never know she landed it dead center scoring 25 points. Hannah nearly locks it up putting her third arrow on yellow as well for another 9 points and a score of 41 with three arrows to go. She finishes strong with two arrows in red, but leaves the door open with one errant three point arrow on the targets outer rings. Her final score, which stands as her best, is 59 points.

Joelle and I have two cracks at eclipsing her mark. Jo puts up another round in the 40s but alas can't get the 25 point arrow needed to make a real go of it.

When the first arrow of my last round finds yellow for the first time, everybody is paying attention. The next arrow is just off yellow in the red ring but showing a good strong cluster. All it takes is one arrow in the center and this contest gets interesting. When the next three arrows all land in blue, the third color from the center, the score is 33 with one arrow left. Not even a 25 point bullseye will win it. The last arrow lands harmlessly in black and confirms what Hannah suspected all along, she's the Top Archer.

"And you're last place Dad!" Joelle is quick to point out.

I'm grateful we didn't have to shoot our food for dinner tonight. Win or lose, I still get a Guinness for my efforts.

The Top Archer

"A-B-E"

Monday, 25 June 2012

"We cheer for two teams - our own and whoever plays England," explains the proprietor of Levan Castle, our last stop in Scotland. “We say A-B-E , ‘Anybody But England!’”

The Union Jack of Great Britain flys everwhere in London
ahead of the Olympic Games

Originally from Czech but living and working in London, Jan and his wife Lidia moved to Gourock, Scotland ten years ago. “The opportunity to buy a 14th century castle for the same amount we could sell our house and escape London would have been a crime to pass on.”

Their political views like so many people in these parts come through in their football (soccer) allegiances. “Czech first and A-B-E.”

Our first night in Dublin we did what most people probably do – tour the Guinness brewery at St. James's Gate and eat at Brazen Head, the oldest pub in Dublin dating to 1198. The Pub is full of Italy and A-B-E fans as England and Italy drop the ball on their quarter-final match in the Euro 2012 Tournament. When England’s first scoring chance sails high just a few minutes into the game, I let out a big “Ohhhhhh….”, the only person to do so. Italy and A-B-E fans turn and stare at ‘that guy’ like I’m a Yankees fan in a Back Bay pub full of Red Sox fans with a few pints back.

Notably, Brazen Head pours Irish beers, Heineken, and Coors Light; no English beers in sight. Of course, they also don’t take Pounds or fly the Union Jack. The Republic of Ireland made their sentiments clear when joining the Euro while their neighbors to the north remain aligned with Britain. Better to be quiet about your football sentiments at Brazen Head.

As Italy buries the final penalty kick to resolve in their favor the scoreless tie in which the match ends, fireworks go off in downtown Dublin. Now that is dislike - A-B-E!

Checking out of our hotel the next morning, the hostess who recommended Brazen Head asked how we liked it and if we watched the match. “What did you think of the outcome?” she queries as if she knows the answer and can't wait to agree.

“I was pulling for England. I wanted to see them play Germany in the Semis,” I explain.

“Really?” she responds with a quizzical look and glances at our hotel registration card to confirm I am in fact from America.

There is ample evidence the Scots still don’t feel a whole lot different.

The flag of Scotland flying in the
UK's Capital for Outdoor Adventure

Fort William is advertised as the UK's Capital for Outdoor Adventure yet the only flag we saw flown there, and throughout the rest of the Highlands, was that of Scotland.

Ever heard of Scottish Pounds?

Me either until the ATM in Fort William spit out 10 and 20 Pound notes absent the familiar picture of Queen Elizabeth II that defines English Pounds Sterling. Turns out Scottish Banks, at least four or five of them, issue their own Pounds with distinctly Scottish symbols that are used interchangeably with English Pounds.

Four versions of the 10 Pound Note, three of which are
from Scottish Banks and absent QE II

The two countries also have separate school systems, police forces, and separate English and Scottish regiments in the British military. The history of the Scottish Greys and Grey Dragoons is rich and distinct from other British military units.

Other examples abound, but sports allegiance is really the best barometer. It is fascinating to see how divided many members of Great Britain remain though they will compete together under the Union Jack at the Olympics.

Personally, I think it is great and healthy to maintain your heritage and identity while working together as a nation. Facts be known, if I had to support the New England Patriots to retain my American citizenship, we would be staying in Scotland – A-B-NE!

Running of Ben Nevis

Thursday, 21 June, 2012

“Winds are from the northeast today. Clouds and rain will be back in tomorrow. ” The words of the chatty host yesterday at Urquhart Castle ring loudly in my head an hour and thirty minutes into the ascent of Ben Nevis. In five minutes clear views over Fort William, the Lochs, and onto the horizon are gone. Visibility through the thick cloud bank is no more than 20 yards. The winds are whipping. It is decision time: push for the summit or turn-back.

Big views to the horizon one minute...

Last night I knew a successful summit of the tallest mountain in the UK would require an early start. Two days of good weather pushed in by winds from the southwest noticeably shifted yesterday. The host at Urquhart Castle explained the weather systems of the Highlands to me while talking fighter jets. No question, there will be a narrow weather window in which to summit Thursday morning.

...the view up the trail 5 minutes later

An early start I got, but broke every rule in the book, namely: Go to bed “run ready.” With no food packed the night before, uncertainty over exactly how to get to the trailhead and navigate the lower trail sections where lots of other trails cut through, I was anything but ready.

“Morning logistics probably cost me an hour and the summit,” I say to myself still debating whether to push on. The forty or so people from the tour coach that started behind me turned back long ago. Three more parties have flipped around while I debate myself.

“I’m not real good with a map and compass in clear conditions,” a woman opting to descend says on her way passed. “Don’t want to walk off an edge I don’t see.”

Her reference is to the 1,000+ foot drop off the north face of Ben Nevis. The cliffs make "Big Ben" a coveted destination for climbers and feared by day hikers. As the route across the final boulder strewn portions of the ascent becomes less clear, most people cling to their compass and map. With neither in-hand, I’m counting on good trail sense.

I make a deal with myself:

1. If the trail’s route becomes unclear to the point you couldn’t back-track, turn back;
2. If the gusting winds become dangerously sustained, say over 30 mph, turn back;
3. If it starts to rain turning the mountain to slippery slick rock, turn back

Strange looks come from two more parties on the descent. Clad in long pants, burly hiking boots and gators, heavy coats, hats, tightly drawn hoods, and armed with hiking poles, they clearly think I’m nuts, headed for certain death, modestly clad in shorts and a long-sleeve Nike dry-fit running top. I run like this in colder weather all the time. “What’s the big deal?” I say to myself.

Cobbles of Lower Ben Nevis

The lower steeps of Ben Nevis are mostly paved with rocks like a cobblestone staircase. Heavy rains of the Highlands have no doubt washed out the trail many times requiring reinforcement of the trail bed. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but doing the math later that night proves it is more staircase than path. Rising 4,406 feet over a 5 mile ascent works out to an average grade of 16.6%.

The top 1/3 of the trail is less obvious now and beginning to disappear into the clouds. Just when rule number one starts to become applicable a large hulking dark form appears 20 yards ahead. It stands stone still.

“No Bear stands like that on a wind exposed ridge,” I assure myself. It’s a stone carim, built like a castle and tall as man, and ready to withstand more wind than I hope to ever see. Another 20 yards and there is carim and another.

“Hard to keep the trail?” not so much. This is the best marked trail I have ever climbed. All the hub-bub in the guide book looks at once suspect.

Ben Nevis Snowfields

Another quarter mile and something quite familiar in the Colorado high country but unexpected here comes into focus through the clouds. “It’s the Ben Nevis Glacier,” a woman on a rest break responds to the unasked question written all over my face.

Now I am feeling under geared. The woman and her two companions trudge straight up in their hiking boots, gators, and poles without issue. But it is noticeably soft, more snowfield than glacier, meaning I won’t slide off the mountain – good news.

Three weeks ago I selected the Vasque Velocity trail runners for exactly this ascent, this moment. Traveling as light as possible across Europe for a month meant selecting one pair of walking/hiking shoes to do it all, including the day I would ascend Ben Nevis. I tested fifteen pairs of shoes in May as part of Mountain Magazine’s summer trailing running shoe test. Comfortable walking the cobbles in medieval Bayeux, climbing the stairs of St. Paul and the Eiffel tower, navigating the subways in Paris and London, the shoes must now perform on what I brought them to really do – conquer whatever Big Ben throws my way.

On comes the rest of what little gear I have in my pack. Patagonia rain pants and rain jacket – don’t want to slide down a snowfield on bare skin. That feels like skin over a cheese grater.

One problem, “Where's my hat?” One of the few key pieces of gear I was counting on when I decided to push for the summit is inexplicably absent from my pack. Not quite as bad as a fisherman dropping their fly box in the river but really close. It is the first bumble of the day that truly worries me.

It is cold now. The winds are sustained. The temperature has dropped and the visibility is still poor. I am not even sure how far it is to the summit. The sign at the trailhead said plan for a seven hour round trip. The guidebook said 7 miles up and 7 miles back. But there is no way. One and a half hours into the ascent and standing on a snowfield, Big Ben must be about out of boulder field, right?

The Vasque's deliver. Crossing the snowfiled proves uneventful. The second snowfield is more interesting in that you can just make out the mountain dropping away on the left side. Note to self, keep the snowfields on the left! 

The ruins of an old stone structure come into view. It looks like the old observatory from the photos I saw, but that is supposed to be near the top. Another 100 meters and the ruins of two more stone structures come into focus through the dense clouds.

"Is this the top?" I call out through the winds to a heavily clothed hiker sitting against one of the old stone walls.

How about the expansive views from the Summit marker?!

"Yes, don't get blown off. The summit marker is right there" he says pointing to something 20 yards away that is invisible through the clouds.

The GPS has the route at 5 miles on the nose. Thank goodness it wasn't the 7 miles listed in the (worthless) guidebook.

The second you stop moving, you start freezing. Exposed to operate the camera for a few quick pictures, my hands are quickly numb. Running the last twenty mintues in a rain suit soaked me from the inside out. The only other guy guy at the summit looks concerned for a moment as I strip off all my base layers to "air out" and change into some dry skivvies. Without a hat, it's still a lot of heat loss out the top and hard to stay warm.

Requisite Summit Pic

The worry turns to the most excitement I have ever experienced for a knit hat when it appears amongst the packing material around my two water bags. Forgot I put it in there to keep them from bouncing around. PHEW!

The carrot cake purchased at the gas station this morning, aged under shrink wrap at least two years, is awful great. It was mildly better than the freeze dried coffee I spilled on myself driving through a round about while shifting the manual transition in our renta-rolla-skate-of-a-car. Of course that is the roundabout with the pea-sized sign for the Ben Nevis visitor center I was supposed to see and didn't while minimizing spill damage. Cripes....could have skipped the (worst ever) coffee and summited while you could see something more than clouds and your rain jacket get turned inside out while your trying to put it back on.

Thirty minutes of downhill running later and it's down right balmy again. Back to shorts and the dry-fit top. It still looks like a bad day on Mt. Washington at the Summit but the rest of Scotland appears to be having a great day.

Forty-five minutes on the descente and all is clear  

It is on the descent the 16.6% grade makes itself known. Legs are quivering like a bow string with a mile left. One hour and twenty-nine minutes of squats and lunges is the descent. Once fatigue set in, the stone staircase became formidable, even dreadful. I would much rather run up three-times than come down once.

"You're so lucky" a couch potatoe on the ascent yells as I run passed headed for the valley floor. "I did have to earn the descent" are the playful words that come out of my mouth, a complete lie of course. The descent is Big Ben's way of taking a piece out of you. That guy will figure it out soon enough.

Laura's achilles has been "ok" for a few days now. She is walking around without the gimp and the joy of random shots of nerve pain. Now it's me. The girls make some remark about us not both being able to walk normal at the same time. Two days later and my quads feel worse than after running the Boston Marathon.

"You didn't have to do it in 3:22," Laura reminds me as I stumble around. But she knows I had to run it in at least half the recommended seven hours for the round trip. That's just me.

There is a small epilouge to this tale, or there will be anyway.

Since Laura physically couldn't do the climb and the girls wanted nothing to do with it on a day sure to be stormy, I borrowed a rock off the summit and carried it down. Just like the Hawaiians believe you will be cursed for taking black sand or a lava rock home as a souvenier, it is considered poor form to take a rock off the summit of a peak.

I borrowed the summit rock. It is the girls responsibility to return to Ben Nevis and place it back on the Summit. I intend to go fly-fishing nearby and tip a single malt on the rocks while they do so.

The 4,406 foot summit of Ben Nevis as viewed from sea level

Glenfinnan Viaduct

Thursday, 21 June 2012

How does one of the most distinguished landmarks in Scotland lose its name? A landmark so famous it appears on the Bank of Scotland’s 10 Pound note?

Put it in Harry Potter.

Catching a glimpse of the Harry Potter Bridge

The girl’s faces are crammed against the glass of the Jacobite Express as we approach Glenfinnan. They aren’t alone. All the passengers are pressed against the glass hoping to catch a glimpse of the “Harry Potter Bridge.”

Dobbie the Elf sealed the doorway to platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross hoping to keep Harry from returning to Hogwarts for his second year believing it to be too dangerous. Harry and Ron “borrow” the Weasley family car, a light blue Ford Anglia 105E modified by Ron’s father to also be invisible. The pair achieve lift off and speed past Big Ben and head north out of London to catch the train.

Glenfinnan Viaduct from the Jacobite Express

The temperamental car nearly gets squashed by the train and Harry almost falls out high above Glenfinnan Viaduct. The scene makes great use of the tall arches of the bridge to create a dramatic fairy tale back drop suitable for the Hogwarts Express and forever changing the name by which the viaduct is known.

Having already seen the Ford Anglia at Warner Brother's Studios outside London, King's Cross and the St Pancras Hotel (where they lift off), and Big Ben, we, of course, had to come find the Harry Potter Bridge.

The Jacobite Express goes past the western most station in Scotland and turns north to the fishing village of Mallaig. The ride is two hours out and two hours back with a fantastic dinner stop at the Fish Market overlooking the Bay. The quality and freshness of the product brought to the pier is evident at dinner, but also watching a crew just returned unload their catch onto the pier.

Our only disappointment with the experience is no Thestrals awaiting our arrival to pull us in a carriage off to Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Fresh caught Prawns at Mallaig