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I'm writing this because I don't want anyone telling me I imagined it.

I know what I saw and I know what it tried to do.

This happened in late October, on a stretch of forest road along a high ridge I've walked

a dozen times.

It's an old logging road that drops into dark pines, then crosses a creek and climbs to

a broken fire lookout base.

I go there to tire out my dog, Rook, who's a 60-pound shepherd mix with a good nose and a calm head.

He's scared of fireworks, but not much else. That afternoon, the sky was flat and gray with a weak

sun pushing through. It felt like the woods were waiting for snow, even though it was still

fall. I figured two hours out and back, home by dinner.

I parked at a wide pullout with a gate across the road.

There were no other cars.

Rook did his usual happy circles at the tailgate, while I clipped his harness and the 20-foot

line I used when we hike.

I had a small pack with water, a first aid kit, a headlamp,

bear spray, and a cheap folding knife. Nothing heroic, just the normal stuff. It was quiet

in a way that makes your ears ring. Even the usual chickadee chatter wasn't there. I noticed

it, then told myself the cold front had pushed the birds down.

...