Last weekend I was out near dusk riding my mountain bike. The last glow of the sun produced a silhouette of Columbia Mountain etched against an orange background. I got a little nervous. You've heard the stories. Whippoorwills call when someone you know is going to die soon.
Owls are omens of mystery and danger.
And here I was . . . Squeezing the last drop of water out of my bottle, I continued climbing up the mountain, deeper into the woods and away from civilization. I eventually reached a ridge and rolled into a small clearing where the light was a tad better. I smiled with relief. There, standing where it had been pitched earlier beside the small creek, was my tent looking snug as any home.