I thought, “Oh good. I’m going to land on that fluffy moss.” Very deceptive, that moss. It disguises hardpan and it also grows under trees. I hit the ground with a crunch, the leading edge of my helmet buried about a quarter inch into soft bark.

At first, it was weird quiet. Then, I could hear my horse’s hoof beats as she headed back to the barn. I halfway wanted the poachers to emerge from hiding again and offer to help. They must know that they had spooked my horse. Surely they’d seen her do a tight, quick pirouette while 30 feet off the ground. Surely they’d noticed I hadn’t made it through the pirouette. But there was no more noise. Nary a trace of camo gear. I hoped they were hunkered down in cold, sucking mud; that a large clan of earwigs had sent out their best scout.

I held that thought while assessing the damage. 1) I wasn’t dead or dying. 2) No blood. 3) Even though I was way, way too close to a tree trunk, nothing important was broken. All of the above took place in maybe 45 seconds, in that strange, frozen time that accompanies a shock.

In real time, I stood — ow! — and yelled my horse’s name. She slid to a stop. I called her again. She was not a happy animal, but she came back. (Many equestrians will state as fact that once horses head for the barn, the ex-rider is in for a hike. Not my horse, the uppity, overly sensitive Arabian. And I stick to my belief that it’s our mystical connection, not thousands of carrots.) I wouldn’t have to walk back or worry about her streaking across a road. As we came up the hill and out of the woods, I heard the poachers’ gunfire.

The day this happened was outside hunting season. And that shouldn’t have mattered anyway because the area where I ride is posted: No hunting. No trespassing. There are houses and well-traveled roads nearby. Still, my run-in with poachers shouldn’t have surprised me because the previous weekend I’d witnessed what I hoped never, ever to see. A mortally injured deer had made it as far as the barn where I board my horse. That sad, cruel image haunts me.

I’ve called the King County Sheriff’s Office a couple of times: You have to see the poachers then call 911. Law enforcement can’t do anything after the fact unless you’re in a position to I.D. specifics. I also contacted county and state agencies and haven’t received a response. Well, then.

I remembered a sheet of paper stapled on the barn wall where I board my horse citing hunting laws and regulations, seasons and weapons allowed. I called the man responsible. Rick Frye is not a hunter, seems to be more on my anthropomorphic side of the line. He does work with legitimate hunters, though, who don’t want poachers around either. Rick has posted his information all over Vashon. Washington has their turn-in-a-poacher site: reportpoaching@dfw.wa.gov and/or wdfw.wa.gov/poaching. Even though I learned a lot, government websites are not known for their quick reaction times.

What to do? A mounted posse dedicated to hunting down poachers has great appeal, but the possible downside to that idea is a little too down. What might help is for property owners to post more signs and make sure the ones they do have are clearly visible. Be aware. Watch. Poachers usually have trucks with canopies or tarps; quite often they advertise their intent with gun racks. They drive slowly, hanging out the windows, searching for areas with easy prey. They don’t have chins.

As for the poachers I encountered? I hope that large earwig clan had enough time to establish cozy, new orifice homes in which to raise their families.

Above all, be careful out there.

— Judy Law is a freelance writer on Vashon.