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Sounds of the highway fade as I hike deeper into one of the largest remaining dabs of Minnesota Big Woods, not far from my home. The day before, a friend had asked me if I was nervous about hiking alone here nearly every day. I'd replied with a truthful "no." The fallen basswood, maple, and oak leaves underfoot have mellowed to the color of a fawn's back; the bark of the trees is a gray-brown that allows grown deer to blend in even after the leaves have dropped. Still, I can't miss the three deer on a high ridge. They see me, too. Their white tails lift skyward like truce flags before they leap away in flawless unison. I head down a canyon and ford a slender creek by scrambling over a fallen maple. Gold and scarlet leaves float in a small pool of water trapped by a series of moss-covered stones. A fine green mist shimmers above the moss. After a steep uphill climb, I flop across a gray-blue boulder, and look down at the winding creek below. The water's surface, touched with filtered sunlight, glints like mercury. The sun is snuffed out by a cloud and the quicksilver fades. It is because of these fleeting and private moments that I come here. A slight wind shakes the leafless trees above me. Suddenly I know why I am not afraid to walk alone in the woods. I first encountered danger and violence inside the houses I grew up in, where I had little room to maneuver. I learned that outside was safer.

I continue along the high trail that leads downward to the lake. At the water's edge I contemplate whether or not to hike to the far shore when I notice a man 30 feet away. He's dressed neck to toe in green camouflage. Why would a hunter be in these woods? But I note that he carries no rifle. He lingers on the path ahead, so I also dawdle. He glances over his shoulder at me not once, but twice. I think about the many times I've passed men walking in these woods and always the drill is the same: They glance up to show they see me, then look down to signal that they're no threat. A second glance is out of the question. But this young man seems not to understand this ritual. He looks again. A small smile upturns the corners of his mouth. I stop dead and feign interest in a trio of mallards as they rise from the lake. The man moves on. He must now choose to go uphill along the broad trail leading back to the parking lot, or to skirt around the lake on a path snaking through the most remote part of the woods. Whichever path he chooses, I will choose the opposite.

He strikes uphill along the broad path, walking slowly and glancing down at me two more times before disappearing from view. I follow the narrow lake trail, then cut uphill on a steep path. I take a few deep breaths and think how lucky I am to be rid of the young man. Unless he knows of the deer trail connecting his path and mine, I shouldn't see him again. I'm 20 feet from the intersection of the deer trail when I spot him. He already has noticed me, and his face seems to say, "Good, you're just where I thought you'd be."

A ghostly image of my 3-year-old son's face flickers inside my brain like tattered newsreel footage. Then my mind's screen splits in half and I see two possibilities play themselves out side by side. In one, the young man and I pass by each other without incident. I do not wish to dwell on the other. The few remaining seconds before one of these possibilities unfolds into reality seem to stretch into minutes. I calculate that I will reach the union of our paths before he will. I will then have to hike through the most remote part of the forest with him a few feet at my back. Or I can turn onto the deer trail and face him. We are 15 feet apart. I turn toward him. I look him in the eye and do not look away. With only 6 feet between us, I call out.

"Hi, how ya doin'?" I'm surprised that my voice sounds friendly. He does not answer. The smile drops from his mouth. I keep my eyes on his face. He slips his left hand into a deep pocket. For a fleeting second I wonder what sort of weapon he might have concealed there. We pass. I walk with a measured pace until I'm out of view. Then I run.

When I reach the main trail I slow, then cut through a grove of sumac and down a service road to the highway. I step onto the gravel shoulder of the paved road. The split screen in my brain dissolves into just one picture again, just one unfolding reality, as the traffic rips past. I head toward my car, my heart thrashing like that of a startled doe. mm

Constance Gray is a Long Lake freelance writer.