With frantic thoughts, I try to scroll through my mental Rolodex and come up with what little wilderness knowledge I have. Bears are supposed to leave people alone in the fetal position. So, my best bet is to curl into a ball on the ground and hope it does nothing more than sniff me.

That is, if the animal is a bear.

What if it’s a wolf?

Lying on the ground will make it easier to tear me to shreds. I should climb a tree to get away from a wolf.

But bears can climb trees.

Another growl is overwhelmed by a thunderclap, and for a moment, I think my heart gives up in fear. When it restarts, the pounding has adrenaline coursing through my veins, demanding I make a decision.

I choose the only logical solution I can fathom in the heat of my fear.

I need to climb a tree, and once I’m up high enough, I’ll get in the fetal position.

Is that even possible?

Will it work?

Time to find out.

This time, when I scan the shadowy forest around me, I look for a tree that will serve my purpose. The wind picks up just as I choose one. I grasp the rough bark of a low branch, pressing the soles of my sneakers against the trunk as I heave myself upward. Hooking my heel on the limb, I’m able to mount the thing with the grace of a hippopotamus using a balance beam.

But I’m up.

Time to get up farther. Pulling myself branch by branch, I’m about halfway to a height I figure is safe from wolves when the clouds dump their load. As my fingers slip, trying to find a grip, I pray to the universe that Bruce is far away from here and that the creature growling at me doesn’t like getting wet.

When I judge myself a good fifteen feet off the ground, I perch on the thick branch, hugging the tree trunk and trying my best to curl into a ball. The rain pounds down, soaking my sweatshirt and yoga pants. The steady thrumming of it against every surface drowns out all other sounds. I have no way of knowing if the creature has left or if it’s at the foot of the tree, circling me even now.

Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating the twisting branches in an eerie, disjointed display.

As I shiver in my soggy clothing, I try to think of a way out of this mess.

Staying here is no good. While Colorado fall days are pleasantly crisp, the nights drop close to freezing. Pair that with my wet clothing, and I’m rolling the dice with pneumonia.

But if I leave my perch, I’ll probably be met with a pair of hungry jaws.

If I can’t stay here but I can’t climb down, what other solution is there?