On a cold, shadowed night on Walpole Island, Ontario, I found myself standing watch over a new mother cat and her kittens, keeping loose dogs at bay. It was the kind of chill that called for layers but not a full winter coat. Hidden in darkness, I carried a slingshot—more as a precaution than anything else. Suddenly, above me, an orange glow appeared. This light wasn’t distant or indistinct; it hung close, about ten feet across, with a hazy aura that blurred its edges but was unmistakably real and unnervingly near.
That round glow invaded my space, casting an eerie presence that felt both unnatural and threatening. In that moment, instinct took over. I fired my slingshot loaded with small ball bearings at the glowing orb. There was no sound, but when I looked down, the glow had slipped silently about fifteen feet away, as if avoiding the simple weapon I wielded.
I fired again. The light moved once more, settling over the parking lot across the road, like a shadow slipping from confrontation. This encounter convinced me that these mysterious orange lights can appear close enough to touch, and that, contrary to their elusive nature, they are affected by human defiance—even one as rudimentary as a slingshot.
That night left me with a haunting realization: these strange, glowing phenomena don’t merely drift harmlessly in the sky; they are interactive, reactive to presence and challenge. For all the mystery shrouding UFO encounters, sometimes the most simple defenses can alter the silent dance between human and unknown visitor. And I, lucky to look up at the right moment and armed with nothing but a slingshot, became part of that secret midnight struggle on Walpole Island.