Dylan was talking to a farmer in the beautiful rural part of Patagonia. The morning was warm, with a heaviness of rain.
“So, you’re telling me that you have seen, with your own eyes, what they call the Terror Bird?”
The farmer smiled and took his hat off. “Yes. Oh, yes. Many times. Its name…terror…is right. Listen to me; it will knock you down. It will attack. It steals children! It is taller than a man and its beak is like the condor, hooked, massive. It rips meat from the bone. We, who live here, we know. We have seen it. Many, many times. You must not go after it on your own.”
“Where do you see it? Take me. I can pay you.”
The farmer shook his head and began to walk away. Then he turned and looked at him, worried.
“Okay. I take you part way. But then, you are on your own. But, please, reconsider. Do not go after this monster. Please.”
Dylan shook his hand. “Not to worry. I’ve hunted the great white, been on the rim of volcanos, and survived in the deepest jungles of Africa. I am, you see, a photographer!”
The man looked at him and muttered, walking toward the jungle, “And a fool.”