The Owl

John was driving the Suburban again and we were once more heading into town from the Garcia headquarters. It was the worst time of the day to drive. The Garcia was east of town, so we drove into the sun going to work and drove into the sun coming home. I remember some days where we stayed at the ranch till after dark just so that we could make it home easier. Following another pickup made it worse, especially on a still day because the dust would linger, making headlights absolutely worthless. 

We were dealing with the dusk that evening, though. We had to get home for scouts, a dance, a game, or perhaps John just had a hot date. I don't remember. But I do recall that it was the time of day when it was dark enough to use headlights, yet light enough to make it impossible to see the light coming FROM the headlights. 

We had just driven through Davis Wash, a concrete-covered, dry river bed that made your stomach do a flip-flop when driven through it at any speed above 30 mph. It was the final crossing of its kind before home and signalled that we were less than half an hour from home, unless one were stuck with Earl; then it meant another hour or more. We had pulled out of the wash, and John had hit the gas, knowing we were in the clear. No cops and no traffic. Clear sailing, and that old suburban was built for speed. It could get up and go! 

Suddenly, the view was completely blocked by a flash of white. The headlights briefly caught the full form of a great horned owl as he leapt from the road in front of us and flew into the air to avoid the oncoming collision. His wingspan was enormous, and the reflected light nearly blinded us. John had his arm resting on the ledge of the open window and said he felt feathers brush past as a giant, razor-like claw grabbed at the window frame above the mirror.

Then he was gone, like a wraith in the night. 

John had stomped on the brake, and we slid for what seemed an eternity before stopping in a cloud of dust. We looked at each other through eyes the size of dinner plates as both of our hearts beat rapidly. We could not speak for a few minutes and when we could, it was pretty much gibberish as we tried to determine both what had happened and exactly what kind of creature tried to attack us. When we had finally regained our senses, we both saw a scratch or two near the window that we were sure did not exist before. As scary as the incident was, neither us, nor the bird, were injured. However, I am sure that all of us had a hell of a scare! 

It wasn't until many years later that I learned of the myths and traditions of the nearby Navajo tribe. They viewed owls as an omen of death or tragedy. I could definitely understand why. I thought for sure that we were headed that route the evening we nearly killed that great-horned owl.