When nobody’s got your back ...

Authorities who warn you against hiking alone are right about one thing: If you hear a cougar shriek close to your ear, you’ll wish you had company. But does that mean you shouldn’t go out on the trails alone?

I’ve pondered this question since the day I had a 20-minute standoff with a mountain lion on the popular Round Valley Trail on Mt. San Jacinto, about a mile from the top of the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway. And recently I’ve been pondering the topic again, as the “don’t go solo” chorus has reached a crescendo with the deaths of Southlanders by cat and ice.

On the fateful day seven years ago, I was dawdling along a wooded trail when I heard a drawn-out agonized scream followed by a thump. While mountain lion experts debate whether the animals wail like a woman, I’m here to say a cat does scream, but more like a child falling from a ledge.

That’s what I thought I was hearing. I rushed around a granite outcropping and glanced up the slope to see a deer frozen and looking at me. Then I caught a blur of motion over the deer’s back and the round face of a mountain lion came into focus, staring me in the eyes.

Apparently the cat had pounced (the thump I’d heard) but had been thrown off a clean kill by my arrival.

The lion crept onto a ledge above my head where he could keep an eye on his twin prey. Every time I shifted, the big cat growled and my legs trembled.

The afternoon lengthened. The sun ducked behind the butterscotch-scented pines, and my bare legs grew goose bumps. There was a lot of time to think.

I wondered how the attack would come. Would the cat disembowel me there on the soft forest floor, a quick jog from the tram cafe where tourists were snacking on hot coffee and burgers? Or would the animal jump on my back and snap my spinal cord with incisors specially designed for that task?

My only hope, I thought, was company. After years of defying the “don’t go solo” rule, I made one of those rash bunker promises: “If I survive, I’ll never hike alone again.”

Eventually, a young couple came around a bend in the trail, followed by a pair of backpackers. The cougar retreated into the brush, and we were able to inch our way down the trail to safety.

Back home, I stood under hot water in the shower for a long time, thinking about what my promise would cost me. I remembered a cloud of Monarch butterflies batting around my head, a silent monk on a stump deep in the woods, multiple episodes of intoxication from the scent of creosote. Hiking with other people was like a cocktail party on dirt. Hiking alone was otherworldly.

I was afraid to go alone again and I had to go alone. The experts were not very reassuring. At the time a wildlife biologist told me that the last two mountain lion victims in California were lone women. In one case, the cat hit so hard the woman was ripped out of her shoes.

Predators, it’s true, are attracted to solitary prey. Still, the risk of being killed by a cougar is ridiculously remote. I have far more chance of dying by a bee sting, lightning strike or in a car collision with a deer. Because the risk of a cougar attack is so small to start with, going alone increases my odds to an infinitesimal degree.

But what about backcountry accidents -- broken ankles, slips on icy slopes, rattlesnake bites? In most cases of trailside mishaps, the role of a companion is to run for help. Options: Let someone know where you’re going, carry a cellphone or be prepared to wait for help in case you get hurt.

Many solitary hikers argue going alone is actually safer because a lone hiker is paying attention to the terrain, not gabbing away.

Over time I decided: Yes, I could get hurt out there, but I was not taking a foolish risk.

Two months later when I did venture out alone again, fear kept me keyed up. I studied boulder piles and whipped my head around, incessantly looking for long tails and tawny bodies.

But I kept going. And one day I was wandering alone on a rocky saddle when I had another big-game encounter. It was a bighorn ram, swiveling his huge head my way, and behind him were 12 well-camouflaged ewes and lambs. That’s something you don’t see if you follow the rules.

Ann Japenga is a freelance writer based in Palm Springs.