Twice a week, I lace up my trail runners and head up into the Santa Monica Mountains. I go early when the mist is still hanging low in the valley and sane folks are still in bed. It's my time to get clear and balanced, to let the clutter in my brain fall away with the miles. There aren't that many people out that far or that early and listening to the steady whap-whap-whap of my own feet on dirt is about as close to zen as I'm likely to get.

The animals are up, too. Rabbits, lizards, king snakes, squirrels, quail and hawks. And most impressively, the mule deer. Huge and mostly fearless they watch my clumsy human strides with big, black liquid eyes before tiring of my noise and bounding off into the brush. They've got enormous, upright ears and a bouncing gait more like a kangaroo than anything. I'm extremely fond of them, and they don't seem to mind me overmuch.

But then again, I'd never scared one before. Or had one scare me.

I was well into a fourteen mile run and at least five miles from the nearest car or piece of indoor plumbing, whap-whap-whap-ing along. The mist hung on extra long that morning, and the marine layer was thicker and farther inland than usual. It was the sort of morning that could've been spooky - thick clouds above you, white fog bubbling up from below - if you were the sort of person who felt that way about the woods. I was just grateful for the cool breeze it brought, thrilled for that stroke of luck on a run in July when the heat is usually enough to beat down the most determined runner. The trail was nearing its highest point, running along the mountain ridge, far, far higher up than I'd ever seen a deer before, so when I rounded that sharp, blind curve, I wasn't expecting her. And she was most definitely not expecting me.

It was a doe and not even a particularly large one as far as they go, but she was panicked. And panic in deer, like in people, does not make for clear decisions. She turned to run, but instead of away, she came at me. It didn't feel like a charge, just blind fear, but she was fast and strong and covering ground. And I had no way out. I couldn't turn and out run her, and I couldn't evade. To my right was a sheer drop to the valley floor, and to my left a cliff much too steep to climb. I braced for impact.

At the last moment, no more than five feet from me, she turned sharp to her right and tried to flee up the side of the cliff. It's the dry season in Southern California. The ground cover is dead or dying, losing its grip on the sandy, rocky soil that's hard as concrete in places and loose and slippery in others. It's a very unstable sort of place, and it was a very unstable cliff. Her momentum carried her not more than twenty feet above my head when the ground started to give. She flattened her body, letting her legs splay out around her, but she was coming down and bringing a fall of dirt and rock, lots and lots of rock, with her. And I was standing underneath it.

I could run then, and I did. Fast. Out ran the falling rock, the ripped up brush, the plume of dirt and the deer coming down on top of it all. When I was clear, I turned back to watch, much in the way of car accidents. The doe landed on the trail, got up and fled down into the valley, moving like the whole world was coming to an end, which I suppose for her it was.

For me, I took a moment, letting the adrenaline drain out of system, amazed at getting that close to something like that. A smarter person might have been afraid and then relieved at having dodged the bullet. I was just thrilled.

Then I turned and went whap-whap-whap-ing back along the trail.