I have never ridden a four wheeler

The wind is howling in the eaves. I have not seen old Boreas blow this hard in a long time. The brook is near flood. My first thought is that the f-ing snake just might drown in his hidden hole. See, I never forget anything.

We have had inches of rain, and snow is on the way. It looks as if we will have a glorious freezing weekend. Christmas music is playing in the background as I write.

I had the weirdest dream last night. I rarely dream, or if I do I cannot remember them. I wish I had the skills to describe the setting. There were a group of us riding four wheelers in the mountains. They were painted in garish colors, mine like a tiger. The vehicles had chains on the massive tires to get more traction. We were high, near the timberline. The trail took a turn just ahead of us. A crevasse started in the heart of the bend falling away steeply, and the right shoulder beside us overlooked the drop-off. A stand of gnarled cedars stood lonely sentinel among massive boulders. Wisps of dirty snow occupied the dark corners. A Sheriff or Ranger had us stopped from taking the bend in the trail to the little hanging valley we could see across the shoulder of the mountain. The manifolds on the four wheelers clicked and popped as they cooled. I could hear the breeze rustling in the aspen below me. I could not hear what the official was saying. His hand was raised to the universal "stop" position. The gray sky blended with the snowy peaks in the distance.

Suddenly I heard a cry of pain, a scream of anguish, a wail of anger. The sound made the hair stand up on my neck. I felt a coldness through my body as my eyes were drawn to the right to the little meadow next to the trees. There, just a little lower, across the crevice, I saw him, it. Dark and hairy -- tall. Bigfoot moved from the trees, His roar was a scream, a howl, a sharp cord from an electric guitar played through a jet engine.

I woke.