The Ghost On The Trail
This summer, I began to wake up with the sunrise. Rather than lie in bed, I decided to start the day with a run. The trail nearby is one I’ve used a lot in the past. So most mornings, this is where I would go. By August, when summer started to fade, the trail was noticeably darker, with tree cover and no streetlights.
On August 14th, I began down the hill, past neighbors' houses, and past the school to the trail. It skirts the playground and traces the contour of the creek beyond. I crossed the bridge that marks the halfway point and turned back toward home. There, the branches hang low in an arch over the path. This is one of the darkest parts of the route, even though backyards line the trail on one side.
It was on this stretch that I was stuck in the back of the head. My whole body pitched forward from the impact, and I yelled a moment later from surprise. Something told me right away that it was intentional and maybe alive. I waved my hands above my head (with some initial hesitation), hoping it was gone. It was. I looked around, but saw nothing. It was like a ghost. It made no sound. Not even a breath of air as it came and went. It was as if an invisible hand had reached out and slapped the back of my head with its bony fingers.
As I ran home, I began to fear my day would be even more disrupted if, for some reason, I would need a doctor or a rabies shot. Bats are out this time of the morning, but surely, I thought, a bat is too small to hit that hard. When I got home, I confirmed what I thought were scratches on my head and neck.
Four days later, on another dark morning, I ran the same trail. As I approached the spot, I took a wide look around to see where my ghost might have made a path toward the trail. As I looked, I was struck again, this time from above. Bony claws grabbed at my hair and pulled some of it loose. I bent forward and again frantically waved my hands above my head. Just like before, I heard nothing. I stopped and turned around, and there it was. Not a ghost, a barred owl looking down at me from about ten feet away. It flew to another nearby branch, then, as if to hide, edged itself left a few steps into the silhouette of a tree trunk. I pointed and yelled, “I see you!” I kept it in my sights and backed away.
Later that day, I contacted the Department of Natural Resources, and someone replied. Though rare, owls do attack humans on occasion. This may be because the owl is extra territorial or wants to protect a young one who hasn’t yet learned to fly. Either way, the behavior is short-lived. The officer also provided some practical advice. He said that I had done the right thing by turning and facing the owl, that an owl wouldn’t attack if you maintained eye contact. He said that while it might seem strange, an owl might be deterred if I fixed “googly eyes” on the back of my head.
I haven't tried that yet.