I never feel safe when walking alone. And now I know my fear is a good thing that should never be ignored.

Nathan DeHart photo

Once while hiking deep into the woods by myself, I came upon a man leaning on a log with a large walking stick beside him. “I hope I’m not too scary out here,” he said.

That was not cool.

It might not have been his intention to terrify me, but he did. Because reminding a woman walking alone that you are just another stranger who could attack her is not how to make her feel safer in your presence.

 

As soon as the man with the stick spoke to me, I went from feeling moderately concerned to being convinced he was like the killer in the movie Wolf Creek. You know, the very chatty guy who seems a bit off, but you decide he's probably harmless until he starts ripping out your friends’ spines.

 

As I walked by the man, who was about twice my size and barely more than an arm’s length from me while I passed, I readied my legs to run until I had moved a safe distance away from him, looking over my shoulder many times afterward to make sure he wasn't following me.

 

Several miles later I encountered another man on the trail, and this time I felt safe enough to ask him where he had come from and how much further it was to the next trail I wanted. He told me, then we talked a bit more about the beautiful waterfalls nearby before continuing on our hikes alone.

 

“What made that guy different?” my husband asked when I got home. “What made you decide he wasn’t scary? You know, I’m sure Ted Bundy didn’t seem scary to his victims.”

 

Fair point. But Ted Bundy chose and approached his victims. The first man had initiated contact with me, while I had initiated contact with the second man.

 

And that key difference, explains Gavin De Becker in his book, "The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals that Protect Us From Violence," is usually exactly what separates someone who intends to do harm from someone who doesn't.

He writes that humans almost always deploy charm with a motive, and therefore the charming stranger is almost always a danger. He describes them as predators whose words are bait, and how you respond to the line they dangle tells them if you are the prey they want.

 

For example, if I told the man with the stick, "Oh, no, you're not scary at all," with a smile and giggle, he would have known that I was an appeasing type that he could more easily control, likely allowing him to avoid a loud struggle that would attract attention.

 

De Becker argues that humans usually feel afraid of other humans for very good reasons, even if we can't articulate those reasons, and that if we want to avoid being harmed, we should respect our fear. All too often, he says, people are harmed after deciding their initial fear was unfounded, or, more disturbingly, that acting on their fear would make them appear rude or ridiculous.

De Becker also recommends that women be especially selective about who they ride elevators with, which reminded me of my first night alone in Philadelphia. After checking into my hotel, I stepped into an empty elevator to head up to my room, but then jumped out of it when a man got in after me.

Why? Because he showed no interest in getting on that elevator until the doors started closing. I had gotten on the elevator as soon as the doors opened, but the man had waited many, many moments until it was clear that no one else nearby was getting on and we would be locked in that small box alone. So I hopped out and waited for another elevator.

 

That was cool.

Because after reading De Becker's book, I know that listening to my fear very likely saved me from harm in that situation, as well as in many others, and I will never again feel I am being overly cautious by acting on my fear. For anyone who still does, I highly recommend reading his book.

But the scariest moment of my life? It was opening the door to a barefoot man crouched against the side of my house.