I can hear the guns as I write this. No, I’m not filing dispatches from Tripoli. I’m sitting in my office in northern New York. And deer season is well under way. So the distant woods are now echoing to the muted crack of centerfire rifles. Early and late. On clear days and cloudy.

Mind you, I don’t wish to bad-mouth hunters. I was a hunter once myself, and even though I’ve hung up my guns, I can well remember how I used to look forward to this time of year, with all its rites and rituals, many of them rooted in traditions going back hundreds, if not thousands, of years. And I’m happy to say that most of the hunters I’ve known were good people, conscientious men and women who understood that once pin drops on primer and a round leaves the chamber it can’t be called back. To reiterate: That description fits most of the hunters I know. But not all, sadly. And this small minority—the proverbial “bad apples”—are wild cards in fortune’s deck. They let fly whenever leaves rustle in the woods, or when a flash of white catches their eye, or when something large and fast moves across their field of vision. And they sometimes connect, bringing down a fellow hunter, a family member, or even a housewife in her backyard.

Such “bad apples” are a problem for cyclists and others whose travels take them to—and through—rural areas in fall. Which is why I’m careful what I wear in autumn. International (“hunter”) orange replaces fluorescent green as the signature color in my riding wardrobe, for one thing. (“Bad apples” haunt the margins of rural roads. I’ve even seen them clustered around Deer Crossing signs!) And I’m especially wary at dawn and dusk, when visibility is always poor and the pressure for hunters to perform is at its peak. Not even nighttime can guarantee safety. Jack-lighting—one of hunting’s less salubrious traditions—is alive and well throughout the North Country. The guns of autumn slacken as night falls, but sporadic firing continues round the clock.

The upshot? In recent years I’ve trained myself to think less like a hunter and more like one of the hunted—and then do everything in my power to look as little like a deer as possible. I’m still relying on the kindness of strangers to grant me safe passage when I venture out and about at this season, of course, but I try to give them every bit of help I can. After all, I can remember all too well the few occasions when, gun in hand, I came close to being a “bad apple” myself. It’s a sobering thought.

A quick quiz: Can you spot a problem in this picture? Look closely at my bike. See the water bottles? They’re not white, but they look white in subdued light. Which is why they now wear orange jackets. It’s a little thing, to be sure, but so is a .308 round. Little things can kill you.

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