It was back in the 1980s.

It was back in the 1980s.

At the time, I was in my late 20s and would often grab my collie, Lacey, and drive my Mustang convertible to the park not too far from our home to go hiking.

Although I was a single female, I always felt safe hiking in that park.

It was like my second backyard. It was a hot

Sunday morning in July, with a slight breeze and a beautiful blue sky. It was pretty early, around

8.30 a.m. and the park was deserted when we pulled up into the parking area. The parking lot was

near the picnic area and restrooms,

and it would get crowded later in the day when families arrived for their picnics,

and fishermen made their way out to the lake to try their luck at catching that elusive big one.

This park covers 1,900 acres of land and has miles of wooded dirt trails that intersect each other. There are a few

main trails that pass by a lake, meander along a lazy river, and lead to three hidden,

breathtaking waterfalls. It is heavily forested, and in the summer, when the leaves are all

on board, the trail's visibility is limited to the path.

I loved that park, hiked it often, knew the trails like the back of my hand, and enjoyed having it to myself.

I intentionally chose times when I knew it would be less crowded.

The lot I parked in is across a little road from the head of my trail, which is my favorite.

As I called Lacey out of the car and snapped on her leash, another car pulled into the lot.

He parked rather close to me, which I found rather annoying and a bit strange.

I go there for solitude and peace, and there were plenty of other parking spots.

There was no need to crowd me.

The trail Lacey and I wanted to hike on was across the road, so I headed that way.

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