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I walk in with my eyes open. There is the stark yellow sign with clear black writing: cougar seen on trail, followed by instructions on how to avoid a potential clash, an unwanted meeting of mammals. In essence -- no kids, no food, no approach.
 

Yet alone I start to run on this forest trail. It is a late spring evening, tail end of a blazing day. All shadow and light is still and utterly opposed. Profound greens, made somehow deeper by my awareness of a wild cat's proximity. A quick debate over whether to grab a rock -- nah, I need my balance. Turn back? Hmmm. Sensible, though dull. Besides, I am somewhat intrigued by my burgeoning courage. Or is it defiance? Curiosity?
 

I am alone, in a human sense -- although someone earlier scuffed the mulch and gravel of the trail, broke branches, appeared to dig and scatter roots, rotten detritus. Mountain bikes? Dogs, perhaps. The shadows are deeper now, and the near-phosphorescent greens are so alive-bright in contrast they almost assault the retina. Nature has abandoned all good taste and subtlety.
 

Jogging downhill, I dare to breathe only half as much as I ordinarily would. It's ludicrous really -- black bear or cougar could appear on the trail, in the semi-camouflaged bush off to the side, at any other time. Running this route, I am probably no more vulnerable now than I have ever been. Yet my awareness is magnified. I sense movement everywhere; the dart of spider alarm; the flit of a small bird through heavy foliage; a streak of tiny mammal; ferns waving. I have no weapon, no bear spray, nothing sharp, nothing heavy. I jog slowly, faster than walking pace but only just. My head swivels, my eyes dart, like...small birds...
 

Further along, as the soft trail alternates and curves, crossing a brace of streams on cedar-fashioned bridges, a pack (a murder) of five crows rises startled and outraged as I approach, exploding from the carcass of a mossy log, leaving mildew and rot. This I pay attention to, for no significant event escapes the notice of crows. Their wings are blue-sheened and satiny as they flap lazily into the forest gloom, vocalizing sporadically with desultory harshness -- as if it is expected of them.
 

Five minutes have passed, mostly downhill, on a stony trail.
 

I love how the air is noticeably cooler when I cross a creek or a stream. I drink it with my whole skin. Yet I am always looking, listening, smelling for cat. Is he sneaky, hidden, or arrogant, stalking? The usual exalted rush of running in rainforest is further amplified by my hyper-vigilance, my fear of the lacerating rake of wild claws, of the sudden barrel-like collision of the 200 lb cat as it makes contact -- launched from hiding -- with this lone two-legged labouring mammal who never really expected to be prey. I am sweating now, and not entirely from exertion. My lungs are working well, my thighs are slightly sore, my heart feels strong in my expanded chest.
 

There is no-one to hear me if I get into trouble, and nor is there likely to be for the remainder of this day.
 

Golden evening sunrays highlight elaborate dances of spores, of seeds, of pollen clouds. The forest is so ripe, so still-to-bursting with life that it feels sentient.
 

I am halfway now, as I turn back for the greater climb of the second leg. Somehow, heading back (back to what? My car? Home?) feels safer, as if a wild mountain cat could actually distinguish between a lone, alert, tiring man jogging into the trail and a lone, alert, tiring man jogging back along the trail. The delusion, as irrational as it is, comforts me, so I try a little desperately to maintain it while continuing to sweep my peripheral vision and (fighter pilots know this) check my six. Now my lungs are burning; more of my energy is being absorbed by the increasingly arduous jog back, less can be spared for the concentrated focus required to monitor the darker shadows for large dangerous feline.
 

Cougars rarely attack adult humans -- but they can. Joggers are more vulnerable in this regard, since cats are predisposed to follow something that's apparently fleeing. If it happens, try and fall with all your weight on to the thrashing slashing creature -- ideally, before it can turn your vital fleshy areas to flapping spurting ribbons of variegated reds -- it might just realize you are too heavy, therefore too large, to engage, and run off. Unless it is very very hungry. Or sick. Or mad with dying.
 

The hills are steep and long, my legs burn and ache, sweat runs into my eyes and stings. The odd bug is interested but a part of me is astounded that the air is so relatively free of winged irritants. Very little is feeding on me, as sweat-slick as I am. Nonetheless, I slap at and manage to kill a large mosquito, its body the length of my thumbnail. If I am going to be prey...
 

I am forcing, bending my will to make these last few curves and rises. My shoes crunch on trail debris, my lungs swell, my breath rakes, my heart thuds like dead wood. Fern fronds, old man's beard, perfect Euclidean trillium -- all lay quiet in evening repose around me as I pass. I am not the centre. There is no centre. Just the great quiet mystery, the cooling evening lit otherworldly, the silent chasm of the forest green, the maw of endless shadow, my tiny intrusion in this world, my heartbeat, footsteps, glances, harsh ragged breathing.
 

All threat and cougar-stink of danger forgotten. Where did my old fear, new pain, end; and the settling expectant golden green rainforest begin?