OK, so I wimped out this morning when I saw it was drizzling early. Asked Jack just to hold on, promising that we’d take our hike later in the day. And the rain did let up by mid-afternoon. But it wasn’t until after 6 p.m. that we managed to make it to the hill today. No longer raining but still overcast and sort of muggy and with a fairly stout wind.

Not a lot of birds. It was past a lot of birds’ bedtimes, I figured. And I heard only one or two or three on the way up. We climbed pretty fast. Got into the groove. I found myself simply sensing, experiencing the moment…

Breathing heavier, feeling the sweat bead under the brim of my cap. The wind sounds like whispers in the trees. Damp air, climbing swiftly. A slight pain in one hip. Jack farting quietly a time or two. The rush of the wind, I wince at the flick of a spider web or caterpillar filament against my cheek or arm. The feel of the damp air on my skin.

A change in the rush of the wind—now, on the open trail, the roar of the wind in my ears. A bird. Savannah sparrow. Hopping along the open trail before us, then flitting away into the grass. Mist at the summit of Ragged Mountain.

Goldfinches somewhere. The chattering, the squee and the chitter. The wind in my ears. The fog horn at the harbor.

A distant rush of car tires on Route 17.

The light going dimmer, dimmer, imperceptibly dimmer. As we climb, the view of the bay and the fog and the two islands. The rush of the wind in the spruces. No bird song or chip or flutter. The lean and sway of this drippy, gray-green world.

Diving into the lower wooded trail, the feeling of descending into darkness. The feel of the mud of the trail under my shoes. The quick peek back at me that Jack gives before we continue down the trail—just confirming that I’m still there. And our progression, our quick progression, through the dark, tall hardwoods.

The faint squeaks and titters of an unidentified passerine high in the canopy. The thrill of the darkening woods.

The whisper of the wind, the squee! of a waxwing. The sound of my own footfalls and the tread of dog paws. The whisper of the wind.

And a sudden loud crash in the leaves directly above us—directly above us—and in a flash I think back to all the old limbs, the deadfall, that’ve begun littering this trail over the past several weeks, and my imagining big oak limbs falling on me or Jack as we pass. A split second later, as the impossibly loud rushing rustle above us continues, I hunker down and look at Jack and think, “Sorry, buddy,” because I don’t know what else to do. A giant limb is falling right on top of us, and all I can do is make myself small and compact and hope for the best.

Adrenaline surges through my veins. Then just as suddenly comes a chittering sound amid all the crashing. And it occurs to me that maybe this isn’t a falling limb. I notice that Jack is looking straight up, and amid the frantic chittering I turn and look up and see the large dark shape of a big bird flapping away to the northwest, and another, smaller (but still large) bird-shape flying on faster wings to the northeast. A hawk or owl has attacked some other bird—could it’ve been a roosting partridge or young turkey?—and the battle above us was a loud one in the lush mass of hardwood leaves.

Jack and I rising again and continuing down the trail. The outfall of the adrenaline. The hum of a mosquito. The single chip! of another unidentified passering.

The thinking back on the raptor attack. The slight lightening of the sky as we emerge from the forest onto the home stretch.

The look at the clock. The mental note that the attack of the raptor occurred in very dim conditions this day at just about 7:30 p.m.

Feeling suddenly, enormously grateful.

Beech Hill List
Beginning at 6:15 p.m., I hiked all trails.

1. Cedar waxwing (voice)
2. Black-capped chickadee (voice)
3. American crow (voice)
4. American goldfinch (voice)
5. Savannah sparrow
6. White-throated sparrow (voice)
7. Unknown raptor
8. Unknown large fowl

Elsewhere

9. House sparrow
10. Herring gull