In the late 1960s, my dad purchased 20 acres of land along the southern coast of Maine, several miles from any town or our closest neighbors.

It was near a small state park along the Kennebec River, and that is where I grew up from

the age of three.

I spent a lot of time wandering the deer trails and jeep trails and the paths that cut

through the woods surrounding our property and the houses down the road that were closer

to the state park.

Sometimes we would see as many as 20 deer in our backyard.

One late autumn afternoon in 1978,

I went out back and followed a long Jeep trail to a huge tree that was so tall we could see it from our backyard.

Winter was closing in, and I knew it would soon be too cold

to be out climbing trees, but I wanted one more chance to climb my favorite tree. I made my way

up the Jeep Trail behind our house through a densely forested woods to a deer trail I knew

would take me to the spot. And as I walked along, I became aware of the

sound of my own breathing. The woods had become unusually quiet and still in the late afternoon.

I approached the tree and began to climb. I was about halfway up when an uncomfortable feeling

came over me. I felt exposed and vulnerable.

It was a big tree and even halfway I was pretty high up, so I looked around from one side to the

other. I couldn't see anything in the light of the approaching dusk, but I could not shake the

feeling that I was being watched.

No one lived close enough to be trespassing on our property, nor had I ever seen strangers in our

woods before. Even so, I felt so uncomfortable that I abandoned my climb, and I started to walk back to the

Jeep Trail. Not far down the trail and I started to walk back to the Jeep Trail.

...