Oh so many hours ago we were prepping before our hike in the large paved parking lot at trailhead. We heard a muffled dog bark. A vehicle — I think it was a Hummer — pulled into a parking spot. The hatch opened and a batshit crazy hound came bounding out from the back. This was Cujo, Jim Croce’s junkyard dog, I’m talking non compos mentis. Now that he had sprung free, there was nothing restrained about this four-legged cur. The dog — a pit bull, or maybe a Rottweiler, certainly something built more on the lines of a combat tank — flailed all over the place, jumping on cars, trees, people, barking the whole time, nothing but unleashed turbulent energy, teeth bared, spittle spraying. The owner yelled to the dog, “Lucifer! Lucifer! Get over here!” Of course his name was Lucifer. Lucifer ignored him. Eventually the owner corralled him. It.