On an otherwise quiet evening in February 1999, I found myself seated by my computer at the University of Guelph, eyes drifting westward through my window. What happened next pulled me abruptly from the mundane—a dark triangular craft, marked only by three bright, circular white lights at each corner, cut a silent path across the sky.
Hovering roughly 2,500 to 3,000 feet above ground, the object’s smooth glide against the wind seemed almost deliberate, traveling west-southwest at an estimated speed of 200 knots. This was no ordinary aircraft. Its route clashed boldly with the final approach pattern to nearby Pearson International Airport, heading exactly opposite to where commercial planes were expected.
The craft emitted no sound, defying all known aeronautical norms. As an amateur pilot, I was particularly struck by its precision and silence, a stark contrast against the usual hum of engines and traffic. No wings, no tail, no blinking navigation lights—only the three bright beacons defining the mysterious triangular silhouette against the night sky.
This eerie journey lasted about thirty seconds, just long enough to imprint an unimaginable experience in my memory. The sky seemed to hold its breath as this anomaly charted a course of silent defiance, evoking questions about the unknown phenomena that might soar just beyond our understanding.
For those who gaze upward with curiosity, moments like these stir a primal excitement—the whisper of secrets waiting to be uncovered in the vast canvas of night.