By Hart Van Denburg

The rough and ragged northwest edge of Scotland leads with its chin into the turbulent mayhem of the North Atlantic Ocean. It is a land where stoic little whitewashed cottages cling to life on precarious perches, tucked between dour and misty granite mountains and deep, dark fjords. And it is there, a few hours south of Cape Wrath, hunkered down on a chunk of granite at the end of the long and winding road from Lochinver, that you'll find Achiltibuie and the Summer Isles Hotel. On a map it appears to be the very end of the world.

Dad and I spent a week there once long ago, casting for trout and salmon in Loch Osgaig and nameless mountain streams the color of whiskey that tumbled off the Coigach peaks. Each evening we'd sit for dinner among friendly ruddy faces, tuck into plates of venison or pheasant, and then retire to the parlor with strong black coffee. As the sun slowly set we'd play backgammon and watch silently as the distant ferry from Ullapool carved it's way across silvery gray seas to Stornoway on the far away Isle of Lewis.

For all our ambition, though, we had little to show. That was our habit: we had dutifully and cheerfully toured the great rivers of Britain for years, whipping their waters to a froth, usually coming up empty handed.

There was the week at the Nethybridge Hotel on the Spey in Scotland's Grampian Mountains. I remember thick and buttery oatcakes, the rain, and the way fishing guides wore neckties and heavy wool sport coats. I also remember a distinct lack of fish.

Another time, as rank beginners, we took off for a week on the Taw River, deep in the English West Country hills. The best fishing there was at night, so there we were by flashlight, splashing and cursing and hooking ourselves and the bushes and the guide -- and damned few fish.

There were other streams, other fish stories -- I once caught a salmon as long as my arm on the Wye in Wales -- but Achiltibuie stands out.

For one thing, it took a lot work to get there. Dad had rented a van with a camper top, driven 12 hours north from the house near London, and picked me up from school near Inverness. From there we headed north to camp at John O'Groats, the most northerly part of Scotland, a rocky headland overlooking the often seething waters of the Pentland Firth. The place was deserted, just an empty parking lot with a heart-stopping foghorn mounted atop a lonesome, weathered lighthouse.

As it turned out we had arrived at John O'Groats on the one windless day allotted the northern Scottish coast for the month of June. The views were lovely indeed. But just past midnight we awoke in the van to what sounded like a freight train roaring past, loaded with a pack of irate soccer hooligans. A wee blow was up and we were sure we would blow right off the cliff and into the sea. The next day's drive to Achiltibuie was a long one indeed.

And once there? No fish, of course. Day after day we would cast dry flies and wet flies, early and late, on glassy tarns and rushing rivers. Each evening the innkeeper would cheerfully walk from table to table in the bustling dining room, inquiring of his guests' success with rod and reel. And each evening he would shake his head at us, politely smile, and offer that perhaps we should have been here last week when the fish were really biting.

Then there was the drive home, and the hitchhiker we picked up in the pouring rain south of Ballachulish at the mouth of Glen Coe. With each word he spoke a language that sounded like a cross between a guy clearing his throat, a barking dog, and all Three Stooges arguing at once. Undaunted, my father spent the better part of a morning trying, in every rusted and fragmented foreign language he knew, to strike up a conversation in our rolling Tower of Babel. It seemed useless. Buenas dias, gutten tag, bon dia, bon jour: none of them worked.

The miles rolled away, the rain fell, the confusion mounted. Then my linguistic radar started picking up little blips. A Scot. He was a Scot. And he was holding forth in the ripest Glasgow brogue I'd ever heard. We the let him off by the side of a highway in Glasgow and bust our guts with laughter.

Those were good years, a good time to be a kid who idolized his father and happily followed him anywhere with a fly rod, learning to fish and learning to adventure.

Now, from where I sit, I can look across the room and see my old fishing vest draped forlornly on a coat hangar. Above it is my custom-made split cane fly rod. Dirty brown rubber waders and boots dangle from a peg in the wall. And even though I live less than a half-hour from some of the finest trout streams in the Colorado Rockies, my old equipment hasn't left the house in years.

One day, if Dad shows up with his rod and a full tank of gas, maybe I'll get a permit and head out.