On Safety

This morning,

my dear friend Mimi, an adventurer in thought, word, and deed, texted me that she told her daughter Lily that what I was doing “makes me feel uncool.”

To which Lily retorted, “I don’t WANT you doing that. Something terrible could happen. I don’t want to get all ‘true crimes’ about it, but… ”

To which I retorted, “Really not much more dangerous than staying home! Does she think I’m wandering around through hobo camps at 3 a.m.?”

“I’m truly jealous!” Mimi wrote back. “Maybe she’s thinking about a car breaking down scenario, and a serial killer just happens to be passing by … ”

I allowed as how I supposed that could happen.

Today though, as I hiked alone in a large, mostly empty wildlife reservation, I thought about my perceptions of danger, and whether I was overly cocky or appropriately alert. I was walking the six-mile Flyover Trail, which starts in the small town of Winona, Minnesota, crosses the Mississippi River onto Latsch Island and into Aghaming Park, a 2,000-acre wildlife reservation over which migratory birds fly.

Along the way, I passed four of five groups of hikers, a few solos, and maybe 4 cars. One of the cars I’d noticed before: a beat-up red SUV that had creeped along behind me, then passed me and continued to creep along, stopping altogether for a few minutes when I stopped to take a picture of one of the small boat houses that line the river there. I’d read the night before that the boat house residents were in [conflict with] the city, which apparently was trying to uproot them, claiming that, as their houses were not actually operable as boats, they were squatting there illegally. The boat housers, a mix of full- and part-time residents, many poor, cried discrimination.

Anyway, I wondered whether Red SUV saw me taking photos and suspected I might be working for the city—or a hungry real estate tycoon doing research for a planned condo development. He eventually drove off, or parked, and I carried on.

Some time later and farther down the trail, Red SUV showed up again, driving slow again, this time toward me. He passed me, then continued to creep forward across the bridge. Creep is right. However, I reasoned, perhaps he was just enjoying the scenery (I don’t mean me!), not planned some dastardly deed.

I walked on, careful to point my lens toward the river, not the houses along its banks — just in case. A laughing group of hikers walked toward me, he drove on, end of story that maybe was never a story at all.

Still later, I was returning on the trail, which was empty as far as I could see—until I came around a curve and saw a man, alone and walking slowly. He was a large, older, white man and from this distance, didn’t seem to pay me any attention. I walked on. The man stopped by the side of the road and stood still, staring into the swamp. I noticed he was carrying binoculars. Aha! A birder. As I walked by, he turned slightly and smiled; he had the genial face of a young Burl Ives.*

Minutes later, a car drove up and a young couple got out. So: No actual danger, no story.

But, yes. In both instances, things could have gone terribly wrong. I’m not a large person, have no martial arts training, and never carry a weapon — with the exception of my razor-like tongue, which, I like to think, could slay dragons. Red SUV could have been a stalker. He could have backed up and yanked me into his car. But. I was aware. He was always several hundred feet away. (I’ve become a bit of an expert on short distances, thanks to my constant navigator, Ms. Bossypants.)

And Burl Ives Jr.? I also noticed him when he was several hundred feet away; had I sensed danger, I could have run, could have screamed “Fire!” like Oprah says you’re supposed to do.

Here’s how I look at it: In theory, we are all always in some danger; women more so than men, as a general rule. And there are many ways we can reduce our chances of attack: stick to peopled, well-lit areas, be aware of our surroundings, have an escape plan, don’t take rides or candy, don’t engage in surefire investments with strangers. Keep our vehicles gassed up and in good working order. In addition, on solo road trips, I never travel long distances at night. Occasionally, I’ll go out to dinner in the dark. When I do this, I park close to the restaurant and am watchful when leaving. I also, by the way, usually eat at the bar; the bartender’ll have your back, and can “re-direct” any unwanted attention.

Beyond taking those common-sense measures, we are, theoretically at least, at the mercy of a lurking killer. But aren’t we always?

So sure, we could sit in the house all day watching “True Crime,” or, less radically, never venture out alone. But that’s allowing the tiny, tiny percentage of bad actors to determine our lives. And perhaps ignores the fact that 99% of the people you are likely to come in contact with are not plotting your imminent demise. No, I don’t have statistics to back this up. Purely anecdotal.

At worst, most people neither know nor care that you exist. So go out. Exist. Don’t be an idiot, but exist. The adventurer in you will thank you for it.

* Gratuitous name drop: My grandfather, Hugo Carl, was buddies with Burl Ives; in the 1930s, he’d when he happened to jump off the train in Tucson, Arizona, he and my grampa would go out fishing and telling tales. Never heard of Burl Ives? He was a folk singer and real-life hobo; by the time I’d heard of him, he was mostly known as a singer of kids’ songs: “Little White Duck,” “My Froggie Went a-courtin’” and so on. No? Oh well. Look him up. Then you’ll be impressed!