Early on Feb. 28, the unmarked Land Rover turned off the A831 near Erchless Castle onto the road through Glen Strathfarrar. It passed Inchvuilt and approached Loch Monar, the reservoir in the shape of a flying dragon. It turned southwest on the dirt trail into the mountains, leading to the remotest, ruggedest piece of land in Scotland to ever constitute a habitable county.
Once the Rover entered Kent, where rural pride led them to number every road in the official style, the washboard road had the audacity to start calling itself the C859.
Near the village of Althers -- which had post twice a week, telephones and its own little hydro power plant -- the Rover turned north on the C861. The driver had to gauge the path by the few landmarks available, because by now the rural road had been covered by snow. It passed the few shops in the hamlet of Bumpus and a farm or two, then east past the "haunted" land -- the place with a ruined castle by the swamp called Loch Alaetan, the Forsaken Lake, where legend said a giant squid lived.
As the sun dawned over the mountains, they stopped a mile beyond the haunted area. Kiki exited on the passenger side, stretching. "So where's your demonstration, Mitch?" she yawned.
"Follow me. Lift your feet; lots of branches and stuff under the snow."
They trudged and stumbled to an innocuous, unpainted survey stake. "Like the sign says back there, we're now officially trespassing. Adjacent to your mystery lot, this little sliver is registered land -- property of some ministry in the British government, but they don't exactly say which one. According to your photo, the railway runs from your mystery station down that path toward us here, then between these two big maples by the boulder -- and, for no good reason, stops. Come on, let's take a stroll."
Kiki saw nothing of interest, but she followed Mitch to the east, walking between the two maples...
... and felt a sickening lurch. It was like someone had put a shepherd's crook around her waist and violently yanked her forward. She was momentarily disoriented.
"Mitch -- sorry, I'm suddenly feeling nauseous. Maybe we can do this some other day."
"I should have warned you. Don't fret; it'll go away in a minute. Now, where are you?"
"What do you mean? I'm here."
"Wull, yes, but where's here? Funny thing about those two trees you just passed. Take another look at them."
She looked back. Weren't they maples, by a boulder? Not now. Behind her were two evergreens -- and beyond, an evergreen forest surrounded by a stone wall.
"Uh... Mitch, what just happened? Did I black out?"
"You're okay. Check your GPS."
She did. Surprisingly, it was working.
"Wait a minute. The map view says I'm in Glenfinnan."
"That's not all. Brush away the snow, and what do you find on this side of the trees?"
She slid one booted foot around, and hit something hard. Squatting down, she brushed the snow away, and saw a length of shiny rail.
Mitch smirked. "It suddenly starts by those logs between the trees, by the stone wall. It's an old siding of standard gauge, four-foot-eight, running a half-mile to the main railway line. And yep, we are in Glenfinnan -- not surprisingly, on a little sliver of government land, heavily posted with warning signs."
"It may be an old siding, Mitch, but it's not abandoned. If it was, the rail would be rusty. This track is in regular use."
"You noticed, Dr. Watson! I'll make a detective out of you yet."
"But... how did we get here?"
"Follow me back between the trees. Mind your breakfast, now."
She kept her eyes on her surroundings this time. With another yank behind her navel, the evergreens disappeared, the GPS went blank, and she was back by the boulder. It was easier when she was prepared for it.
Mitch folded his arms. "Okay, Watson. Now, brush the snow away again on this side of the trees, and tell me what you find."
She did, or tried to. She found the continuation of the same hard, smooth metal rail -- but saw only snow.
"That's impossible. It... It's there, I feel it, but it's... invisible..."
"Welcome back to Bumpus. See what's comin' off? It's Star Trek in Scotland! There isn't any track down the mountains; they don't need it! The train runs from your invisible mystery station to right here, between these trees, and teleports, like we just did. Teleports 37 miles to Glenfinnan, where the track continues. Still think they're not MI6 weird-science or something?"
"So it's just 'Beam me up, Scotty,' and a whole train goes back and forth?"
"Yep. Carryin' whatever's too big for the owls to carry, I guess."
"Oh, yes. The owls."
"I've propped a stake midway between the tracks every day for a week, and another stake in Glenfinnan. Twice a day, same time, they both get knocked down. In the early evening, they flop inward; early morning, they flop outbound. Ergo and therefore, one round trip a day. Prop another telltale stake on the other side of the two trees and it never moves a bit. There you are, did everything but buy you a ticket. Wanna see the nice train go by, little girl?"
"Maybe not while I'm standing on the tracks."
"You won't see it anyway -- it's invisible too, and silent. Ought to be departing Bumpus soon, so I'll prop up my stake, and we'll wait behind the boulder."
They crouched and waited. At one minute after the hour, he said, "Now, watch the special effects show."
At a distance, small branches overhanging the forest path became agitated, as though in a breeze. The powdery snow also stirred, as though pushed aside by a wide broom. The invisible breeze-and- broom came toward them, then between the trees. They squinted in blowing snow for a few seconds, then it all stopped. It hadn't made any sound.
"Breeze blew this way, notice," he said. "Snow blew off the so-called path, and my stake now leans east."
"Interesting," understated Kiki.
"More Holmesian detective work: The daily train is the same train as in your photo."
"How can you tell that, if it's invisible?"
"A few days ago, I buried a box over here, all mechanical, no electronics. An old spring-wound pen recorder, with an arm over by the tracks. Counted the wheels and how far apart they were. That, plus a chemical analysis on the branches over the track, showing 'em a wee high in sulphurous carbon soot. Result: you've got an old steam engine up front. And tell me, why is a steam locomotive like a baby?"
"I have no idea."
"Because it has a tender behind. Haw! Thought I'd throw that in, not important, pay it no mind. So anyway -- the engine, which is a 4-6-0, plus its tender behind, is pulling five carriages -- just like in the photo. It's for passengers, so figure one for freight and luggage, and four for people. Being steam, she won't draw power, so the railway electrical folk won't even notice. Down at Glenfinnan, I've witnessed the track switch operate by itself when the phantom turns onto the main line and heads south. That made me think -- if we could follow track switches flipping by themselves for no reason, and write down where and when, we'd know where it's going and how fast, right? That took a bit of doing. My trainspotters lost the path once, when it ran through a switchyard, but we found it again on the other side."
"How do you know it's for passengers?"
"I'm coming to that."
"Can we get to the bottom line, Mitch?"
"It makes an impossible run."
"How so?"
"A steam engine that size would be good for short rounds, maybe a hundred miles at most, and would have to stop for water and coal. It doesn't. Couldn't if it wanted to; BR doesn't have coaling stations any more. Also -- it would have to take a siding every time it met another train; it doesn't. Also -- it should take a day off for maintenance now and then; it doesn't."
"I'm not hearing where it goes, Mitch."
"London."
"LONDON?"
"Yep! Bumpus to London, non-stop daily. Imagine that, for a little butter-and-eggs town in the Highland! It goes into Kings Cross yard, and takes a dead-end siding between tracks 9 and 10. God only knows where it goes from there. Tight security at that end, so I can't walk the tracks to check it out. She chuffs out of London again at 11 the next morning."
"Now, you know all this just because you see switches operate? That's a little weak. Convince me, Mitch."
"Try this, then. When those scarf Saturdays are coming up, more than a few people stroll into Kings Cross station wearing those very scarves -- often wearing colourful robes too; easy to spot. Same four colour combinations on the scarves. Without exception, they choose the platform for tracks 9 and 10. Then, who knows. When the next trains pull out of that platform, the scarf-and-robe people aren't on either train. So where did they go? I can't tell. Every time we've tried to trail them, we lose them in the crowd. I can tell you, though, the same folk come back to the platform Sunday morning."
"Wow. Good work, Mitch. You're never conventional, but you always get it done. Did you buy a scarf for me?"
"Better than that -- I got a real one! A colourfully-dressed gent happened to, er, accidentally lose his scarf at Kings Cross. Same combination as Mr. Noonan's. It's in the Rover."
"Then it's time for me to flash my team colours around town, and see what response I get."