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The mist hung like a shroud over the a thousand upon a thousand rocks that made up the alien landscape of the summit. The land was barren and lifeless save for the moss and lichen, and even they struggled to exist. Just 1,000 feet down from the great summit of Ben Nevis, moorland grass and heather grew wildly, but here, at the top of the mountain, the most lively thing was the humans who had made the hike. They had journeyed sometimes thousands of miles to be there from all over the world, people of all ages and abilities. Some struggled, but most endured. Despite being the tallest mountain in Scotland at approximately 4,000 feet, Ben Nevis was not necessarily a very difficult mountain to climb. With a marked trail all the way up, it was no Mont Blanc. But its alluring accessibility had a way of luring unworthy aspirants. In fact, the authorities of the Ben Nevis park originally called it the “Tourist Track,” but after a few too many incidents of unprepared people performing poorly in the elements, they changed the name. My dad and I had come to Fort Williams, the closest major town to Ben Nevis for two purposes: checking out the Oban distillery an hour south, and hiking around Ben Nevis. After we had our fill of whiskey and beautiful scenery in that gorgeous town that is Oban, my dad decided he didn’t really want to hike, so I decided to up the ante and climb Ben Nevis the next day. Worse come to worse it was supposed to take 8 hours there and back again. It took me 5. The stone stairway halfway up the mountain felt old and primordial, as if built by ancient hands. While it was helpful on the way up, those little steps were hell on my knees coming down. After I got to that halfway point, the midges, tiny little jumping insects similar to chiggers, were vicious. I stopped only to take photos, lest the little midgey bastards overtake me. There was a beautiful loch and a source of a river up there. The water was pure and restorative. A little ways further up, the midges stopped and the stone stairs ceased to exist. Now it was just wild stone pathways, like large grain gravel, which was a real ankle-biter. I made sure to get photos and video when I could, but the mist dominated every scene. I kept going slowly but surely without rest. I eventually stopped 100 yards or so from the top of the mountain. The human-made towers of rocks known as cairns that marked the path felt magical. I made sure to get a few photos. At the summit, there was an outpost of handmade stone structures people had made with the rocks. Some were just windbreakers for the people who would often camp up there. Some had fallen to age, but a few stood strong. One of those structures was a tower-longhouse that was totally out of this world. It had been originally made for a meteorologist back in the day, but people had perfected it. It had a wooden roof that looked like the hull of a boat. A metal wall and door covered in stickers and graffiti tags served as its face. Now it was just a port in the storm for any would-be campers. It could get windy and cold at the summit. The place was filled with all sorts of adventurer-types. They were laughing and joking, occasionally asking for someone to take their picture. One shirtless French guy asked a Scottish guy to take his picture. “I’m not takin’ your picture, bruv. You don’t got no shirt on. You’re gay,” the Scotsman said. “I am not gay. I have 20 girls. YOU are the one that is gay. Take my photo!” Frenchie shouted proud and shirtless. “Okay, fine,” the Scot relented. They proceeded to become friends and the nucleus of the group of people chilling at the summit. I went up to the spot where they were standing to take a pic, and after that it was time to walk back down the mountain. I hadn’t even said a word to anyone up there. My mood was quiet and reflective, but things change quickly on the mountain. “Ok! Time to go to the pub!” I declared suddenly as I left. “Now that’s a MAN!” The Scot exclaimed.

The wind whipped across emerald fields and violet-hued heather gleaming in the midday sun. These vast stretches of life were interrupted by rocky outcroppings and crags of grey granite. The morning dew still lingered in the grass, clinging to our boots as we trekked through the Scottish countryside in search of a somewhat secret circle of standing stones hidden somewhere in the landscape. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” My dad asked, his doubt an ever present force. “That’s what Google says,” I replied. “Vince, you’ve been around your son long enough to know you’re in for a long hike,” Simon added. My dad shook his head exasperated. We had to cross the River Kilbride, which came out of the hills through a dammed reservoir, cutting through the fields like a gash in the earth. It proved to be a struggle to find a way across. The river was really more like a creek. We ended up just climbing down into a section that was fairly shallow and scrambling up the other side. Soon our efforts would be rewarded. On the other side of the river, behind a little cliff of rocky crags, was two standing stones, still standing as silent sentinels after 5,000 years. I made an offering of flowers at the base of one of the stones. There had once been three stones, but the other had fallen to time and the force of gravity long ago. When we first came to Scotland, we drove to Glasgow to pick up my friend Simon, only to find a worldwide cycling event had shut the whole city down, with our hotel literally at the heart of it. We had to walk with our stuff through the maze of people and interrupted intersections. The next day we woke up early before the bikes to get the hell out of Glasgow. From there we drove through the lochs of the highlands to Kennacraig, where we got a ferry to take the car to Islay. Islay is a whiskey-producing isle off the west coast of Scotland. It produces 1/3 of the world’s scotch. The peat from its boggy landscape is used to smoke the barley, giving Islay scotch its smokey flavor. The island is fairly large and isolated. Its population sits at just around 3,000. We stayed in the southern town of Port Ellen, home to the once-famous Port Ellen distillery, and to the port used to bring barley to the southern distilleries. That first evening, Simon and I tried Islay Wines, a lovely little operation in Port Ellen run by a Scottish woman who makes fruit wines with the native fruits of Islay. After that we had drinks at the bar, and walked to a restaurant in the countryside. The next day found us wandering the land in search of the standing stones. After we found them, we drove over to another standing stone, where someone had sacrificed a sheep on a hillock and placed its skull at the base of the stone. That’s old Gaelic for ya! We would do many hikes on Islay in between getting blind drunk on scotch and beer. My dad really appreciated the old stones of an older land. The distilleries were great, but for me, Islay is really about the rugged country, beautiful views, and putting a few more miles on your shoes. But all things come to an end, and after all the adventures, jokes about sexualizing sheep, and a few wee drams of scotch, it was time for us to part ways. My dad and I left Simon on Islay so he could catch a flight back to Glasgow from Islay’s tiny airport. As of writing this, my dad and I are aboard the Kennacraig ferry headed back to the mainland. The highlands are calling!

It happened suddenly. We were driving down the narrow roads of the village of Milton Malsor, with its ancient histories and thatched roofs, on our way to the Greyhound Pub. We decided to stop for lunch after a couple hours of anxiety-provoking driving on the wrong side of the road. My dad was driving because he was technologically-retarded, and absolutely unable to navigate using modern means. That meant that I got the white-knuckle responsibility of directing us through the great monuments to Orwell and Kafka that are British roundabouts. We had missed the pull-in for the Greyhound car park. My dad had to make a u-turn. He didn’t appreciate the narrowness of British roads, and the weakness of rental tires. Our adventure was interrupted with a pop. We were saved by the bell when a nearby company sent a guy with a mobile “tyre-changing unit” before all the garages closed. It had been an hour detour, and combined with bad traffic on the M5, we wouldn’t get to our destination in Northumberland until 9 p.m. Luckily, I had secured some snuff in London at a historic tobacconist. Snuff is fine tobacco that is snorted through the nasal cavity with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. The effects are unlike any other tobacco product, as it bypasses the enteric system entirely, passing through the blood-brain barrier to give the user a kind of “mind-high” that is eminently pleasurable to certain personalities. Apparently my dad is one such personality. He took quite a liking to it. “Okay! Fine! Give me a hit of snuff,” he would say every so often at regular intervals. The Airbnb was in Donkleysville, which was a literal farm outside of Kielder National Park. Very idyllic, with its stone cottages and peaceful sheep grazing on green hillocks, the respite from the harsh realities of London proved most welcome. The next day we drove to an old Roman fort at Housesteads that was part of Hadrian’s Wall. After that it was just a quick jaunt up to Glasgow. But Scotland is a story for another time…

“Did you ever do acid?” My dad asked. John just stopped for a moment mid-sip of his wine. His eyes gleamed knowingly, but he didn’t answer. From the low clamor of the pub, Lin continued the conversation in another direction, and we never got an answer. Of course, the answer had been given in his eyes. “Yea, I hear you used to be a bit of a troublemaker,” John told me. “He still is!” My dad laughed. “When I was younger we used to hate America, because of the [Vietnam] war,” John told us. “We used to throw stones at the American embassy.” We had come to London with plans to rent a car and drive to Scotland, with an ambition to hit some whiskey distilleries. So once our plans were settled, I thought it would be nice to visit John and Lin, some of my British family members, in London. And boy was that a good decision! My great-aunt, and replacement grandma, Doris had given me their information along with some items of import to our family history to give to John. After a lovely dinner we had a nightcap at the bar, and that was the end of our time with John and Lin in London. The rest of our time in London was spent doing walkabouts through the historic monuments and under the undying gaze of Big Ben. We also got piss-drunk with a Scouse guy from Liverpool with some interesting political views. “The queen’s been dead for two years, and I’ve been celebrating ever since,” he drunkenly declared. “Fuck the queen!” And that’s London for ya…

On Monday my dad and I went to Sintra and stayed at an Airbnb in the old town. We took a tuktuk up the mountain to the Moorish Castle and the Palace de Pena. Unfortunately, the Palace has changed and now requires an interior ticket even to just walk around the outside crenellations. It was packed like a sardine can, so we decided to just do the Moorish Castle after a little walk around Pena Park. If you want to know more about Sintra, or anything else Portugal-related, read my chapter “Amor de Fado: Love Lost in Lisbon.” Here’s a little taste of that: “Sintra! Oh, Sintra! That spirited mountain of the moon! Where Celtic fairy tales and the magic of old primordial flow as clean and clear as its sacred springs. Where the romance of Moors and the hotblood of Vikings intermingle with the penchants and passions of Bohemian Europe. Where if one climbs high enough, you can see the raging emptiness of the Atlantic beyond the warping woods and rocky terrain. Eternal rain and gorging springs create a vibrant verdant aura unlike anything else in dry Portugal. The volcanic springs that flow out of the mountain are so vivacious and restorative that they are said to have health benefits due to the abundance of minerals coursing through their clean waters. The Moorish fountains carved into the mountain are decadent and everlasting, like sacred shrines to the waters of life.” This is my third time in Portugal, so I’ve only been taking pictures of things I’ve never seen before. My dad is doing pretty well here, but he is struggling to adjust to the combination of being very hungover, smoking lots of cigarettes, and walking everywhere in Lisbon. We walked a little less than 10 miles collectively yesterday. He almost lost his phone when he forgot it at a cafe in Sintra. Luckily, he realized his mistake before we boarded the train for Lisbon. We had to walk back. He wasn’t happy. Last night we hit Clube de Fado. The music was lovely. Three different singers brought very different flavors to the night, but we enjoyed them all. It was a very special experience, but it wasn’t as lit as when Max and I went for two very important reasons: it being my first time then and the fact that Max and I got so ungodly drunk as to rip a hole in the space-time-continuum. Needless to say, my dad is a bit hungover this morning…

My dad and I will be boarding a Portugal-bound plane today. I will be uploading all the photos and videos to Instagram @zanezinkl707 I am going to keep this one short. We will be in Europe together for the next 32 days, traveling through Portugal, England, and Scotland. After that, he will be heading back to the States, and I'm flying to Warsaw, Poland. From there I will take the 16-hour train to Kyiv. I will be in Kyiv around Sept. 3! I am super-pumped to see some old friends there! Thanks again to everyone who supported Dying Man Adventures during this time! I hope to generate content worthy of that support.

Oh, if every city could be Lisbon, what troubles would wash away from the world! A warm summer’s night in Lisbon can cure even the sickest heart, if only for a moment. When the full moon rises over this city, the sparks of life fly freely! From Alfama to Bairro Alto, the sound of Portuguese rising into the night air has always comforted me. The desperate cry of Fado in the night pays homage to all that has been lost, while never losing that sacredness of the moment. Nothing could ever sound so sweetly. And how could it? What production of mere mortals such as we could ever equal the sweet sorrow of such songs? It wraps misery in a redemptive cloud of mystery. The world is strange. The sound of strangeness brings strangers together, if only for a while. And nothing says mystery like a winding alley in Lisbon… And here we are, dear audience. Here we are. Where else could we be, in this moment, in this time, for whatever it could mean? I would like to think that it means much, in spite of everything. I would like to think that beauty brought into the world redeems itself and everything around it in the waters of life. And boy, do those waters of life flow freely, in the hearts of those with the courage to look. I’ll think I’ll order the Caipirinha. And why not? In the year 2023, to not order such a fine beverage would be unworthy of the legends we were born to be. Loving and living legends, that is what this time demands. Anything less is just a waste of time. I don’t usually write drunk, but when I do my grammar’s perfect. And for all you folks who were wondering, you can absolutely bring body armor on the airplane!!! So long as you account for the weight… And isn’t that what life is all about?

Simon Lindsay shattered a little side window of his Honda Pilot with a rock. It was either that or wait 3 hours for AAA on his last day of camping. The decision was made quickly. Other people might have made this decision less quickly, but my friends and I are not other people. Simon stood in the hot sun overlooking Salmon Lake in the Sierra Buttes region, accepting his fate like the champion he was. Eric, Ben, and I; his comrades and blood-brothers of old, just stood there to witness it, and provide a little advice from time to time. Intermittent laughter erupted from us freely. Simon soon held a giant-goddamn rock, that had been handpicked by the group for its size and sharpness, like a battering ram. The Pilot's backseat windows had a little extra pane of glass that we targeted to inflict minimal damage. Shit, if I hadn't been there he would have tried to use his hand wrapped in a towel. What a bloody mess that would have been! He heaved the rock into the window. The first blow only produced a small white scratch. The second made a few cracks. Oh, but the third time, the third time was the charm. The sound of shattered glass was met with rebel yells of victory from members of the group. The alarm that followed shattered the serenity of this peaceful alpine lake. Passersby just looked at us with bloody stares of sympathy and wonder. We quickly cleared away the glass from the edges of the window, so Simon could reach in and unlock the car. He grabbed his keys that he had locked inside, and started the engine. The alarm did not stop, even after many attempts of turning the vehicle on-and-off. Eventually, after many attempts, we realized that the alarm would turn off on its own after about 5 minutes, provided no one opened any doors. We were going to have to drive back to our camp at Sardine Lakes, so that situation seemed untenable. I knew from prior experience that some cars have specific theft protection wires and fuses that might be able to be disconnected. We popped the hood of his car. Looking under the hood, the alarm literally shook my eardrums. Thank God his Honda Pilot had a little guide on its fuse box showing a map of the relays and the purpose of each fuse. I theorized we should take the horn relay, as it wasn't connected to anything critical besides his horn. "I mean, fuck it, it's not like you need your horn!" I told him. "Run it," he told me. I pulled out the fuse. Silence. Ah, silence! Sweet silence! You could feel the weight come off our shoulders. It gave us a moment to think. We had managed to quiet the alarm, but it was still technically going off. The lights were still flashing, and a clicking sound emanated from the fuse box. But the shrill shriek of the siren was no more. That seemed a fair trade, and soon we were driving back to the camp blasting rap out of our "stolen" vehicle. I'm not a big rap guy, but boy did it fit the scene! There was still a little worry that the flashing lights might kill his car battery, but they only went off if someone opened a door. I told Simon he should just leave his windows down and climb in-and-out through them. The rest of our group was waiting for us back at camp. We returned like champions coming home. Fucking legends. This feeling was only cemented when Simon climbed out through his sun roof in a Honda Pilot whose lights were still flashing quietly in the most janky of ways. Of course, he took a moment to raise both arms in victory atop his Pilot. Of course, he did! I expect nothing less. "What happened?" A girl, Grace, asked. "Did he really break his window?" Nadia, Eric's girlfriend, spoke with surprise. "Fuck yea, he broke his window!" I assured them. "Jesus Christ," Taylor, Grace's husband, shook his head. "Honestly, it was pretty metal," Eric admitted. We would actually end up piling in Simon's Pilot, alarm-and-all, many times throughout the rest of the trip. I always took the bitch seat, by which I mean the seat covered in bits of shattered glass next to the gaping hole in the window. I got cut on a piece of glass, but jumping in the icy waters of the Yuba River proved most curative. That's just a perk of being the toughest member of a group of wild sons-of-bitches! I mean, I did come up there once and hike around the Buttes with a broken leg. But that's a story for another time...

Today's the day to celebrate the rebels and outlaws still trying to keep this country wild! I'd like to think I'm one of them, wandering the world, spreading wild seeds and waiting for Spring. In the spirit of the founding fathers, today's a day to do something rebellious. Take a risk! Take a chance of free-living for a moment. Ignore the naysayers. Light your fuse! The only thing you have to lose is your chains! Juneteenth turned out to be a thing this year, and I think that's a good thing. Because aren't we all the same, just yearning for liberation and waiting for Jubilee Day? Whether you're a Black Lives Matter protester, a gun-totin' white supremacist, or just the kind of person who sits at home, today is a day for taking a moment to reflect on the "Good Fight." Don't let the toxicity of today make you forget what you're fighting for. Times like these are meant to be a reminder that there are still things left in this world worth dying for. As a wise woman once told me: "The most revolutionary thing a human being can do today is say, 'No.'"

This week flew by without much incident. I decided to focus on my other writing projects instead of making daily posts to the the blog. Other than that I've just been smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo, blissfully whiling away my last days of normality before heading back out into that wild world. I have also been working on giving thank you calls to everyone who generously contributed to the war chest at my graduation/birthday party. I thought I would use this post to talk about my summer plans. My last day of work in July 20. After that I'm heading up to the Sierras with the boys to Sardine Lakes for one last hurrah before making my Grand Escape. Then on July 29, my dad and I are flying to Lisbon from San Francisco, spending a few days in Portugal before flying to London. I will certainly be buying a carton of Portuguese cigarettes for the road. From London we are renting a car and driving on the wrong side of the road all the way to Glasgow, Scotland. In Glasgow we are meeting a friend of mine and driving together to Islay to taste the scotch and the sea at the place where they meet. After that we will part ways with that friend and drive up to Fort William for a few days. I want to hike around Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland apparently. After that we will drive to Skye Island for more scotch and highland action. Five days in the Skye will be followed by a drive down the Northern Scottish Coast through Inverness, Aberdeen, and Perth. Then we will be brave-heartedly trekking around Stirling, Falkirk, and Edinburgh. Hopefully we will see the William Wallace statue. We have like 7 days in Edinburgh at some Airbnb in Old Town in front of the castle. After all that excitement, my dad will be flying out Sept. 1 back to the States on Aer Lingus. It's his first time in first-class. I myself will be flying out from Edinburgh to Warsaw on a much easier flight. I have an Airbnb for the night in Warsaw. Then I'll be taking the 16 hour-long train ride to Kyiv and checking into my apartment in the Golden Gate area. To think I booked this all more than 6 months ago... This is gon' be a trip.

Yesterday, my Uncle Larry gave me his guardian angel. This was significant because he has survived more close-calls and near-death-experiences than anyone I knew growing up. He's lost more blood than most people have in their bodies. It was also significant because Uncle Larry is a storyteller, so until he finally loses his marbles, you can be sure that you're going to hear every f*ck-up that's ever happened to him between here and Yreka. That was really inspirational to me as a kid. I wanted nothing more than to have crazy stories like my dad or Larry. I wanted to be a great storyteller like them. I just wanted to have stories of my own to make me worthy to sit at that table. And Christ, I guess you get what you wish for! I'm worried that damn guardian angel was the only thing keeping all of Larry's spare parts together. But I'm honored that he decided to pass the f*ck-up torch to me. I will carry it proudly. There's no experience like a near-death-experience! Of course, after all the injuries and close-calls he's had, I think his angel might have been drinking on the job.

I am excited to announce the release of the rough draft of, "Amor de Fado: Love Lost in Lisbon" in its entirety! I spent the last few day making sure everything with it was up to snuff. I'm sure there will be a couple editing mistakes or redundancies, but it is a rough draft. Yesterday, the murder of crows that live by my house lost one of their brethren. They all began making a murderous cacophony when a vulture swooped down and started gnawing on the poor old crow. Of course, like all vultures, once he realized he was being watched by me, he stopped eating and flew away for a while. This potent symbolism surely means grisly things, but I am not troubled by them. You have the see the beauty and live in grace, even in the filth and the mud. Overpowering the smell of death with Life's vibrancy, and what not...