I used to think animal attacks were things that happened to “other people.” The kind of stories you saw on the news—someone bitten by a rattlesnake, or a jogger mauled by a mountain lion in California. Tragic, sure, but distant.

Then, one summer, everything changed.

It started small. I was hiking with my nephew in Colorado when a stray dog—skinny, ribs showing—appeared on the trail. I thought nothing of it, until another came, then a third. They circled, barking, teeth flashing. My nephew panicked, started to run, and I had to grab him by the collar to keep him still. I shouted, waved my pack, threw rocks until the dogs scattered. It left me rattled, but I chalked it up as a fluke.

A month later, while fishing in Florida, I learned a harsher lesson. A cottonmouth snake slid silently out of the reeds near my boot. I didn’t even see it until the water rippled. One more careless step, and I might not be here telling this story.

But the worst was in Montana.

I’d been camping solo in a pine valley, confident in my skills. I’d cooked bacon on the fire that night, too tired to clean the pan properly. I left it sitting on a stump, grease still clinging to the metal.

At two in the morning, I woke to the sound of heavy footsteps outside my tent.

When I unzipped the flap, I saw it—black fur, a hulking shape, eyes glinting in the firelight. A bear, nosing the stump, drawn by the scent I’d been too lazy to erase.

I froze, my mind blank. I didn’t shout, didn’t wave. I just watched, paralyzed, as it turned its massive head toward me.

That night, luck saved me. A gust of wind carried the scent of the bacon deeper into the woods, and the bear lumbered after it. But I knew if it had decided differently, my tent would have been nothing but paper between me and death.

Three encounters, three close calls. I couldn’t pretend anymore that animal attacks were distant problems. They were warnings. And I was running out of chances to learn the easy way.
After Montana, I started paying attention.

I bought books on wilderness safety, watched hours of training videos, even took a weekend course with a former park ranger who’d spent twenty years handling “problem animals.” He drilled into us one message: prevention is survival.

It wasn’t about fighting back, or carrying the biggest knife, or being braver than the next guy. It was about respect. Respect for the fact that animals are stronger, faster, and driven by instincts older than anything we can reason with.

I learned things I should have known all along:

  • Store food in bear-proof containers, far from camp.

  • Never approach a wild animal, even if it looks harmless.

  • Keep calm when threatened—panic is the trigger for most attacks.

Simple rules, but I’d broken every one of them before.

The next test came sooner than I wanted.

That fall, I was jogging near the outskirts of town when a coyote appeared on the trail. At first, I thought it would bolt like they usually do. But this one stood its ground. Its ears pricked, teeth bared, eyes locked on me. Then another coyote appeared in the brush.

My heart hammered. Memories of the stray dogs rushed back. I slowed my jog to a walk, kept my arms raised, and shouted, “HEY! GET!” My voice cracked, but I forced it louder, steadier.

The coyotes hesitated, then slunk back into the brush.

It worked. Not because I was strong or brave, but because I finally followed the rules.

Later, a neighbor told me coyotes had been getting bolder, even attacking pets in broad daylight. I thought of my nephew, of how easily that could’ve been him instead of me, and shivered.

The pattern was clear now. These weren’t random encounters. They were reminders. Every careless choice, every ignored warning, was a roll of the dice. And sooner or later, the odds would catch up.

I decided I wouldn’t let them.
The last real wake-up call came during a trip to New Mexico.

I’d gone hiking with two friends—Tom and Alicia—through desert canyons, the kind of landscape that looks painted by fire and wind. We carried plenty of water, maps, GPS. We felt prepared.

But preparation doesn’t mean anything if you let your guard down.

We stopped at a shaded alcove to rest. Alicia took off her boots, laughing about how sore her feet were. Ten minutes later, as she slid one boot back on, she screamed.

Tom yanked it off, and out fell a spider the size of his palm, black legs splaying, eyes like beads. It hit the sand and scuttled under a rock.

A tarantula.

Alicia was shaking, tears welling in her eyes. “It bit me,” she gasped, clutching her ankle.

Two puncture marks showed just above the bone, already red and swelling.

My chest tightened. I remembered stories about venom, about necrotic bites, about hours ticking away like a fuse.

We didn’t waste time. I tore open the first aid kit, cleaned the wound with antiseptic, wrapped it tight but not constrictive. We cut our rest short and started moving—fast.

The heat pressed down on us, and Alicia stumbled, her face pale. Tom carried her pack while I kept her talking, asking questions, forcing her to stay conscious. Every step felt like a mile.

By the time we reached the ranger station, she was trembling with fever. Paramedics rushed her out by Jeep, dust spiraling behind them.

She lived. Doctors said it wasn’t the most venomous spider, and the first aid slowed things down enough. But the look in her eyes when she thought she might die stayed with me.

That night, lying in my sleeping bag, I stared at the ceiling of the tent and thought about all the moments I’d treated nature like a playground. About how many times I’d walked barefoot by rivers, left food in the open, laughed off the risks.

Tom said quietly, “It’s like the land keeps testing us.”

I nodded in the dark. “And it’s not gonna forgive us if we keep failing.”
I’ve lost count of how many times people have told me, “You’re lucky.”

Lucky the bear in Montana chose the bacon pan instead of me.
Lucky the coyotes in Colorado decided not to test me.
Lucky the tarantula’s bite wasn’t worse.

But luck is just another word for a warning you survived.

Now, when I hike, camp, or fish, I don’t rely on luck. I rely on rules. Food goes into airtight containers, hung high or stored far from where I sleep. Boots are checked every morning. Campsites are chosen not for the view, but for safety. And I never, ever treat the wilderness like it’s mine.

Because it isn’t.

Animals aren’t villains. They’re just doing what instinct tells them: protecting territory, looking for food, surviving the only way they know how. The danger comes when we forget that—when we pretend we’re untouchable, when we make their world into our playground without respecting the cost.

My nephew still teases me about being paranoid. He laughs when I make him tie up food or check his shoes. But I see the look in his eyes when I tell him the stories, when I show him the scar on my leg from the leech, the faded mark on my arm from a wasp sting. He listens.

And that’s all I want—for him to learn the lesson before the wild teaches it the hard way.

Because the truth is simple: preventing animal bites and attacks isn’t about strength. It’s about humility. It’s about knowing that claws and teeth and venom have ruled this earth far longer than we have, and they’ll be here long after us.

The only choice we get is whether we walk into their world prepared—or whether we leave it to chance.

I’ve lived both ways. I know which one keeps you alive.