The hunting knife in my left hand, poised for use, the trekking pole in my right, poking ahead through brush, my head was on a swivel as I solo hiked off trail up a narrow canyon with rimrocks looming 30 feet directly overhead. I whistled and sang to cope with the fear.  This was the perfect place for a cougar attack. Surely the rare cougar attack that killed one person and injured another yesterday in Washington State was just a fluke. But I couldn’t seem to believe any rational arguments at the moment. What was so damn important that I was putting myself in this situation so far from any help? A simple photograph?

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