It was the early hours of June 17, 1998 — a clear, cloudless night enveloping Kamloops, British Columbia. I stood quietly, almost hypnotized, as a vast, illuminated cylinder glided silently overhead. It moved at a gentle 15 miles per hour, tracing a deliberate path right down the center of the town and onward through the valley below, hanging at about 5,000 feet.
The craft was enormous; its size unmatched by any conventional aircraft I know. There was no sound, no blinking lights—just a smooth, eerie glow that held the night captive for around ten seconds before it vanished into the darkness.
The next morning, over coffee with locals, I brought up what I’d seen—half expecting disbelief or jokes. Instead, I learned that this was not an unfamiliar spectacle here. Lights, odd shapes, and silent visitors in the night sky were part of local lore, a whispered commonality that made the mysterious all the more tangible.
Such moments defy easy explanation, lingering in the mind like a ghostly echo. In Kamloops, under those vast Canadian skies, the line between the natural and the unknown blurs—leaving witnesses with a haunting memory of the silent cylinder that crossed their sky.