Since early morning we had been picking and navigating our way along the upslope of the Bromley Pass. Our goal was to reach the summit by nightfall and sleep there in the shelter of the ranger station. By midday, and halfway there, we could just begin to make out the tiny speck that was our goal for the night.

Early afternoon brought a chill to the air and through it one could see that the harsh light from the sky was beginning imperceptibly to dim. Stories told at other times and other places held that the Bromley Thing liked to surprise unwary travelers by springing out suddenly from some hiding place beside the pass, although there was some speculation as to whether it preferred the number one, or leader of the group or, rather, the number 10, bringing up the rear of the group.

I tend to think of myself as a number five or six.

Rumor also had it that the Bromley Thing not only had sharp claws and long fangs, but poisonous spines along its back, and its voice was a raspy, high, thin screech, which it used to startle its prey into inaction and give it just enough time to spring forth and do its best, or worst, depending on who you asked.

And suddenly, there it was, the raspy high, thin screech, “George, get out of bed and stop talking to yourself, you’re upsetting the puppies. Go downstairs and start up the coffee pot. If I’m late to work three times in one week they’re gonna put me on half-time pay, and we’re just barely getting along on what they call full-time pay, as it is. Do you hear me? Are you listening? George!”

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