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One of my favorite hiking spots these days is Thompson Mills Forest in Braselton, a 330-acre preserve owned by the University of Georgia School of Forestry. It’s a quiet, scenic spot with several miles of well-maintained trails, and it’s only 10 miles from home.

It’s also the official State of Georgia Arboretum. As such, a lot of work goes on there to cultivate and display plants native to Georgia. When the tract was deeded to UGA in 1980, 80 native species were identified there. Since then, another 100 have been added.

I see evidence of ongoing work all the time, but strangely, I never see the work being conducted.

For that matter, I never see anyone there at all.

I mean that quite literally. In the two years I’ve been hiking the trails there, probably 20 or so visits in all, I’ve run across zero other hikers.

And in all that time, the only Arboretum employee I encountered was a man who stopped me several months ago to inform me that dogs are no longer allowed on the trails.

The issue was pertinent at the time because Paco was with me.

It seems they had an incident of some kind, and instead of taking it out on the one offender, the University summarily banned all dogs from the property.

Jerks. And I’m not referring to the dogs.

I mention the solitude of Thompson Mills Forest and its wonderful lack of people (don’t get me started on the dogs) because last week, I encountered another human being there — again, an employee.

It happened half a mile off-trail in the middle of the woods.

The thing is, I know the trail system there very well, so I have taken to setting out in this direction or that through the woods, bushwhacking my way along, exploring new territory.

It isn’t difficult. The terrain is dry, open hardwood forest. 330 acres is a fairly limited area, so you can’t get lost. The park boundary is never far away.

I’ve done the bushwhacking thing in other places, and most of the time, I mark the routes as I go.

Not so in the Arboretum. I may kick aside some deadfall to clear the path, but I don’t flag or blaze the route. The University apparently judges offenders harshly, and I don’t want to do time in the Braselton jail.

Anyway, I drove over to the Arboretum last week, followed one of the formal trails to its northernmost point, and went off-trail from there. I set out to the north, following the west bank of a small creek through a pretty little valley.

Half an hour later, I came to the park’s north boundary. Ahead, I could see private homes through the trees. I turned around and began to retrace my steps.

This is the time of year when the undergrowth is dying back, and a thick carpet of leaves is on the ground. I was making a loud, unavoidable racket as I walked along.

But when I paused briefly to trim a branch, I could still hear the crunch-crunch of footsteps through the dry leaves.

I looked up and saw a young man, 30 feet away, walking in my direction. After all that solitude, it was rather shocking.

“Hi there,” I called out. He nodded somewhat curtly.

He was a 30-ish fellow wearing long pants, long-sleeved shirt, and a baseball cap. He wore no badge or I.D., but had an oversized radio on his belt.

“I’m surprised to run across anybody out here,” I said.

“You out hikin’?” he asked.

I told him I had parked at the main entrance and was just wandering around, enjoying the day. I asked if he worked for the University. He said he did.

“What brings you out here?” I inquired.

He smiled for the first time. “The two Ps,” he said. “Poachers and pot farmers.”

He explained that in the fall, leading up to hunting season, the staff has to be especially vigilant for poachers. To avoid competition, poachers do their deer hunting before the season starts.

That was a sobering concept. I had a sudden flash of being accidentally gunned down in the woods, a la Harry Whittington, the man Dick Cheney shot while bird hunting.

I read recently that Cheney never apologized to Whittington for shooting him. But I digress.

“And then there’s the pot farmers,” the University man continued.

“Last year, the cops raided one of those houses that back up to the Forest, and they arrested six Mexicans. Turned out, the Mexicans were growin’ marijuana on Forest property.”

Disturbing a group of hard-working pot farmers. Another sobering concept for a solo hiker.

“I take it you’re not in the weed business,” he said.

I said, no, I wasn’t. Nor was I engaged in poaching or any other illegal activity.

“Unless it’s illegal to be wandering around off-trail,” I said.

“No,” he said, “You’re free to wander wherever you like. But I’d be careful, just the same.”

We said our goodbyes. He continued north into the woods, on the lookout for signs of the two Ps, and I headed south, back toward the trailhead.

He was right. Being out in the woods is never completely safe. It pays to be vigilant and cautious.

Too bad I can’t take Paco along for protection.