I have the eerie feeling Im being watched.

Im hiking solo, pushing up the trail toward Steins Pillar, my senses heightened by the lack of human discourse and an underlying hunch that I am not alone out here in the Ochocos.

And, of course, Im not.

There are dozens of species and hundreds of individual animals going about their diurnal routines here among the pines and firs and red-barked manzanita. I step over a furry, orange creature (caterpillar?) inching across my path with, what seems to this anthropomorphizing hiker, a single-minded intensity. Further on, a small lizard darts across the trail and I wonder how it lost its tail. A little Buddha-like bird (mountain chickadee?) lights atop a boulder the size of a one-room cabin and surveys its prospects before I send it flapping.

At every twist, something new catches the eye. A chipmunk kicks up dust as it (literally) high-tails it up the trail in front of me. A red-tailed hawk soars. A fly buzzes in to invade my personal space, retreats and advances again.

I observe these things but cant shake the feeling that the watcher is being watched.

Its a delicious prospect but discomfiting at the same time.

In all the hours Ive spent tromping around in wild places, I have yet to see a mountain lion in the woods. But I saw one on the edge of the suburban sprawl in the chaparral country of Southern California many years ago and have been enthralled by these large, stealthy beasts ever since. That chance encounter and the certain knowledge that just because I havent seen them doesnt mean they havent seen me fuels the fascination.

And causes me to swallow hard when I pass beneath a rock, its top side obscured by tree branches in my line of sight.

It doesnt get much better than this. Im traversing the side of a mountain on the cusp of the Mill Creek Wilderness, on my way to get an up close look at one of Central Oregons most unusual geologic anomalies. The hill is alive with the high-noon comings and goings of summer. This is cougar country, coyote country, elk country and quite possibly bear country. I never see any of those animals, but maybe, just maybe, they see me.

Its about two miles from the trailhead to Steins Pillar, which, according to geologist Ellen Morris Bishop, is a volcanic remnant dating to the Oligocene Epoch, some 38 million years ago. The spire, which towers more than 300 feet from base to pinnacle, is composed of debris flow deposits, probably from the nearby Twin Peaks Vents, Bishop writes in her Hiking Oregons Geology.

The pillar is impressive when viewed from a vantage on the valley floor; its even more awesome from the trail looking over, not up.

Pack your camera.

At several points along the trail, the alfalfa fields in the valley below come into view, as do Powell Butte and the Cascades in the westerly distance. There are also a couple lesser spires false pinnacles to borrow a mountaineering term that come into view before you reach Steins Pillar.

Its an out-and-back hike, so I retrace my boot tracks to the trailhead.

That old feeling persists, but its never confirmed.

Maybe, just maybe. And thats enough.