The Science of Safety
By Cara Stolen
@carastolen
It’s his jeans that make me uneasy. They’re an acid-wash pattern I can only describe as, well, hideous. They’re baggy to the point of falling down, causing him to pause every few steps to pull them up. To say they’re impractical hiking apparel would be an understatement, but choosing to wear them on a trail that climbs 1,700 ft in less than two miles is outright dangerous—I’ve lost my footing on the steep sections of this trail more than a few times in proper attire.
The section of trail we’re on is near the top—the final climb to a 360° view of the valley below us and, on a clear day, a breathtaking look at Washington State’s Stuart Range—and I’m gaining on him fast. My breathing is loud and labored, but I start tapping the metal end of my hiking poles against the rocks in the trail to alert him to my presence anyway. Proper hiker etiquette dictates he should move to the side of the trail to let me pass. However, he makes no move to do so, which gives me two options: slow down to his pace and give up on beating my previous time to the top, or say “excuse me” and try to pass him. I exhale hard, and go with the latter.
Despite my request, he makes no move to let me pass. My unease turns to the distinct prickle of fear reserved for situations like this. Situations where, no matter how strong or fast or independent I am, I am slapped in the face by my membership of the “weaker” sex. Situations where my 5’1” stature and femininity put me in potential danger.
Adrenaline surges through my body as my nervous system readies me to flee or fight. I take in my surroundings with new, fresh eyes. I am no longer hiking Manastash Ridge—a trail I have hiked with babies in my belly, babies on my back, and even, to my delight, my not-so-baby babies by my side. Now, I am in survival mode.
I glance behind me, then down to the saddle below to see if I can see any other hikers on the trail. The parking lot was full this morning, but it’s an extensive trail system, and I don’t see anyone else on the trail with us. Do I turn around and give up on my hike mere yards from the top? Or do I refuse to be afraid and push on anyway?
I analyze his pace, look ahead at the width and incline of the trail, measure his height and arm span with my eyes. I inspect the tip of my hiking pole, assessing its weight and length as a possible weapon. Then, as the trail widens slightly, I grab another gear in my pace and surge past him, holding my near-impossible tempo until I’m far enough away from him to be sure he can’t lunge and reach me.
A few weeks ago, I was running on a section of the Palouse-Cascades trail. I dropped my son at preschool, then parked at the section of trail closest to my house. I ran hard and fast that day, and hadn’t seen another soul. I was elated—it was the best I’d felt on a run in months. But as I approached my car, I noticed a figure in the bushes on the right side of the trail. Drawing closer, I could tell from the tattered clothes and disheveled hair it was a man who was likely homeless. He was dragging a bike in and out of the ditch beside the trail, repeatedly swearing and muttering to himself. As my footfalls brought me closer and closer to this man, I recounted news articles from a few summers ago—3 female runners murdered, all in broad daylight. I remembered the story of a runner attacked by a homeless man in my own state, and felt the too-familiar rush of adrenaline as I measured my strength against his, my speed against his, and the efficacy of my car key as a weapon.
Should I turn around? Back-track more than a mile and run down the busy highway to reach my car? Either way, he was mere feet from where I was parked, and would be able to see me coming down the highway from more than half a mile away.
Instead, I cursed myself for not carrying pepper spray, formed a tight fist with my right hand, placing my key between my pointer and middle finger, and summoned every last bit of strength in my legs before sprinting to my car.
Though the situation varies, the feelings and physical response are the same. The heightened awareness of my surroundings, the desperate search for an escape, the rush of adrenaline, the evaluation of my physical strength against that of someone I perceive as a potential threat.
The compounding effect of these experiences and situations is an exhausting kind of hyper-vigilance. A constant assessment of how “safe” or “unsafe” a solitary male figure is. How many times have I made a mental escape plan when a car drives past me too many times on a run? How many times have I slowed or sped up to be closer to other runners or hikers? How many times have I avoided a trail, or street, or side of the parking lot in the name of keeping myself safe?
A few years ago I listened to a podcast interview with Sam Gardner, a 3:02 marathoner from Alabama. In it, she tells the story of being kidnapped and raped on a run. I remember the exact stretch of road I was running on when I listened to her story. The way my stomach clenched and my heart dropped at the thought of something so horrifying. But I also remember how she talked about knowing something was off, and how she ignored her initial gut feeling and ran on anyway.
And so, I check in with my gut constantly. I’ve made a science of it—assessing and calculating and measuring and watching. I run in broad daylight, park under street lights, and mostly follow the advice not to run with headphones in. I avoid hiking heavily timbered trails alone, and bring our black lab with me every time I can.
So far, I’ve been lucky.
But how many articles have I read about women who weren’t? Who survived unspeakable things, or, worse, didn’t?
I reach the top of Manastash Ridge and check my watch. 40:03 minutes, which is 4 minutes shy of my personal best. Annoyed, I wonder what those minutes of hesitation, angst, and assessment on the way up cost me. But in spite of my irritation, I take in the view—the snow-covered Stuart Range on full, brilliant display, with Mount Stuart’s jagged peak (that I plan to climb someday) illuminated in the sun. My breathing slows, and my legs feel strong and accomplished from the climb to get here.
I snap a picture to add to the “Ridge” album on my phone, even though a picture never does this view justice, then turn around to head down.
Behind me, the jeans-clad man who refused to let me pass is just reaching the summit. Except, instead of walking all the way up to the viewpoint (which is easily big enough for ten people), he has stopped where the narrow trail ends, and is, yet again, blocking my path.
Again, fear pricks my nervous system. Except this time, it’s accompanied by rage.
I hate this man and his ability to terrify me. I blame him for spoiling my hike—a break from my kids that required careful coordination with my husband and a 30 minute drive across the valley. Yet even as I stare at him, I know my anger toward him isn’t fair.
Maybe this inappropriately dressed man is on the first hike of his life, and has no clue he is being rude. Maybe he has no idea I’m intimidated and scared. Maybe my fear is completely unwarranted and ridiculous.
There’s no way to know for sure.
As a woman, I have been taught to be careful. I have been taught that this “science” of calculations and assessments and gut-checks could be the thing to protect me from potential danger and keep me safe. I have been taught … to be afraid.
And that is what I hate—the fear that beats in my chest and flows in my veins.
Someday my daughter, Maggie, will have this experience. Someday, I will have to teach her this pseudo-science of safety. I will have to explain to her how to check in with her gut and how to assess someone’s intentions in an instant. I will have to prepare her to calculate, and watch, and measure for herself. Then, I will have to pray that these lessons, this science, will be enough to keep her safe.
But I also hope I can teach her it’s worth it. Whatever she loves to do—running, climbing, sailing, traveling—they’re all worth it, despite the potential danger. I don’t want her to miss the accomplishment of the climb, the splendor of the view, or the vividness of the story she has to tell about her experience. I don’t want her to miss out on the fullness life has to offer.
The world will teach her to be afraid. I hope to show her how to live.
I restart my watch, clench my hiking poles in my fists (just in case), look this man in the eyes, and say firmly, “Excuse me.” He looks up, surprised, but makes no move to let me pass. So I step off the trail, hike past him on the uphill side, and head off down the familiar dirt path, listening for his footfalls behind me the whole way.
Words and photo by Cara Stolen.