Here moosey, moosey, moosey

I once saw a moose in Canada

Moose are the largest member of the cow family.  They are slightly less ugly than your typical Holstein dairy cow, but their milk isn't as tasty or as easy to get to.  These wild beasts stand over six feet tall and it seems like ninety eight percent of the body mass is carried on four spindly legs.  The spooned antlers are wider than a man is tall.  Each winter the antlers drop and are re-grown by the next fall just in time for the rut.  Rut is a fancy word for "Horney Season."  As with all males, moose can't handle it.  Normally placid and docile, the rut causes them to become increasingly insane.  Their actions and attitudes go crazy. Male moose's eyes turn bloodshot red, they get territorial and defensive and discover that the huge branch snagging antlers they've been schlepping about have a violent yet useful purpose.  The rut begins early autumn and fades out in November.

 During the rut and just after, Moose are the most irritable and unpredictable which just added to the ambience during a pleasant November day in Canada.  It was perfect camping weather except for the sudden temperature drop and impending storm creeping in from the Northeast.  There were five of us packed into a truck bounding northward to Algonquin Park. This wasn't a normal group of people; it was a mix of Canadians and Americans.  Worse yet, these Canadians are wildlife artists.  In order to accurately paint wildlife, one has to see wildlife.  An artist often takes pictures so they can study all the nuances of light, color, muscle-tone, and movement.  We wanted to see wildlife; it wouldn't come to us so we were going to it.  And we wanted to see moose.

Our vehicle was the second of three to get to our campsite.  Even though it was out of season, several of the sites offered electricity.  Electric blankets in a tent may be unusual, but it is highly recommended.   Once camp was set we got back in the truck and headed back down the highway to an area we hoped would have moose.  

The first area we explored took us to a boggy field using one of the park's nature trails.  The hike warmed us, the scenery allowed for photos of backgrounds, additional elements, and a few of each other. We finished the loop and got back to the parking lot to be joined by the third truck.  These friends work with video.  They had seen some grouse on the way in and suggested we all go back to check them out while traveling to our next moose spotting area. "Great we were going to waste more time looking at birds rather than searching for the moose," someone groused.

They drove on ahead leading the way down a single stretch of highway; we were trying to catch up.  As we passed the next turn their truck came into view.  It was pulled over to the side of the road; the hazard lights were flashing.   All four occupants were by the side of the truck looking intently into the trees.  Then three of the guys shuffled cautiously down the embankment, the fourth turned back to the truck to grab some gear before following the rest.

As we pulled up behind their truck, I looked into the wooded area on my right.  The white birch glowed off the dark background of an evergreen-laced forest. Patches of diffused light made its depth seem infinite.  One of the larger dark patches then drifted forward and two pans of light swept forward.  A black marble floated.  Then the moose blinked, it all came into focus.

His coat was darkest at the top dissolving to a thick brown on the sides.  From the tops of the legs halfway down to the knees, the fur blended from dark brown to white.  They appeared as saplings not just from the camouflage of color, but they were just as thin, too.  The legs almost seemed inadequate for carrying the broad and massive body. The bridge of the nose was as wide as a hand and seemed as soft as a horse's nose.  Its ears were blanketed in soft tan fur, alert and searching for sounds.  The head came up slightly; it's mouth opened and a perfect row of white teeth chomped down on a branch of brown aspen leaves. 

After giving us more attention than it wanted, it stepped to another branch and chewed.  It stepped again and just beyond it, the forest shimmered.  That's when two more shadows came into focus.  Three Bull Moose stood before us. Within our group, the most educated guess put the youngest at three years, the older two somewhere between five and seven years old. The two older seemed calm, but the third was young and restless.  What continued wasn't so much a soap opera as it was a new reality show for Fox. 

The two older, larger moose barely gave us any concern.  But the young one had our attention.  For the most part, it was as calm as the other two.  But its eyes were red; it's body language tenser; it was more easily distracted.   While the first two seemed to be out of rut, the youngest must not have been so lucky and was still hanging on for one last chance of finding Mooses Right. The tongue was the size of the palm of your hand, Light pink and more squared than round on the end.  As he stared at me with his head almost level with his back, the tongue flicked left then right as if it were a horse's tail swishing off the summer flies.   After a while it would move on.  Occasionally, it would approach the smaller of the older moose.  In a subtle way, it seemed to be antagonizing the other one.  One by one, each would wander a bit and find a new source of leaves. Then they'd stop and just stand for an interminable amount of time.  Their movements were random, yet they always stayed together in the same general space working their way parallel to the road.   They seemed indifferent to our presence and we got closer and closer. 

We approached slowly from the side, dropping back behind them as they moved.   We kept trees between us and made certain the slowest runner in our group was nearest to the moose.  In case they charged, the rest could get away.  And so what if they all got away, I was still getting the best front row view of them all.  These beautiful animals were not yards away but feet.   At different times, we got somewhere around fifteen, twelve, nine or even as little as six feet away.  

At one point, I was working my way towards the road while still moving along with the moose.  Robert was staying parallel trying to film the three moose with a digital video camera. It seemed foliage and small trees disrupted his best shots.  There was one other thing standing between Robert and his perfect shot  -me. Being the quick reactionary I am, with my eyes never leaving Robert filming the moose, I tripped on a down branch and fell forward onto the very tree that was blocking his shot.

"Thanks, that's perfect," he said, "hold…"

The moose moved on and so did we.  Every time a tree got in the way, I would just hold the tree down with a convenient part of my anatomy. This method worked well even in the patches of poison ivy vines. 

We were amazed at the mild dispositions of the older moose.  They gave a strong contrast making the younger moose appear more skittish.  Sometimes appearances actually ARE what they seem.  The young moose raised its head and locked antlers with the fellow he'd been taunting.  Clicking and clacking of the dry antlers was absorbed into the forest. One head would turn and hold bracing for the determined response.  There seemed no anger or strong emotion.  The grappling ended as quickly as it began.  They wandered apart to another mouthful of aspen leaves, a few more plods through the forest.

The foliage grew thick, Rob and I backed out toward the edge of the forest and went quickly ahead down the road where Gene and Andy had brought their trucks while the rest of us were with the moose.  I had used up the film in my camera and my extra rolls were safely back at camp. 

I begged everyone for more film like a junkie needing a fix.  Through gentle extortion, Gene parted with a roll of his film for an undisclosed, but legally binding bargain.  Now I had a roll of film, but my batteries were dead do to the cold.  There was only one way to warm them.  When I pulled the batteries out of the "warm spot" the camera showed them returned to full charge.  I ran back down the embankment, it was another twenty yards or so to the marsh.   The moose was about fifty yards away lazily heading towards me.  Halfway between the bottom of the embankment and the marsh was an exposed boulder, oblong about three feet long and two feet high. The lichen had painted it several shades of gray, which matched the colors of my coat.  I crouched next to the rock hoping to blend in and not alarm the approaching Bull Moose.  To my left were an open marsh and a line of trees that begins the forest.  To my right was a small crowd of people, the steep embankment and the road.   The moose kept approaching with the sun setting in the trees behind him.  I stopped taking pictures when he was about thirty yards away.  It was obvious with the two routes from which to choose, the moose would wander past on my left.  It went to my right.  

I was wrong and now I was stuck.  Yet, I was more right than I was wrong because the other two moose followed the first but then did end up going to my left.   Then again the "two out of three" cliché optimism didn't pay off.  I was surrounded by three Bull Moose.

Three rules for when there's a wild animal you don't want to have harsh relations with: 1. Never stare it in the eye.  2. Never make sudden moves.  3. If you run, it will chase you.  Running is an option if you go far enough since moose won't chase very far.  He was too close for me to run.

I had crouched down in this half frozen marsh, my hip resting on a frozen chunk of rough rock.  A dried grass stem was poking my in a place I'd prefer it wasn't. Yet, I decided that was the most comfortable place I'd ever been and I could stay like that forever.

All the spectators had moved up on the embankment and were watching the moose approach me.  I sat frozen, moving only my eyes as the moose came closer and started to walk by passing out of my field of vision to my right.  Looking back at everyone on the hill, I watched them as they watched us. Gene had his camera on the tripod aiming at me.  I don't know who waved first, but I gave a quick hand wave to Gene and he waved back. I later learned he was actually trying to motion me to stay still.

I waited for the moose to come into my field of vision.  As I sat there and he was behind me, my quick wave got his attention.  According to the people on the hill, the moose stopped about five feet behind me and looked down.  His ears went forward and his head dropped.  One leg came forward. When a moose charges, It kicks forward with it's front hooves.  

I was sitting still, waiting, hoping to see the moose come around, hoping those guys were getting some great shots.  My worst-case scenario was that I might be spoon flipped with the huge antler.  If that happened, maybe by staying tucked, I could survive the hit and keeping rolling away.

A different reality took places in previous centuries when there were logging camps in the area. Occasionally a moose would wander in to the camps and the hungry loggers knew moose to be wonderful table fare.  Their weapons were axes and generally moose don't enjoy being attacked with axes.  Many a man was instantly killed by a forward kick that slammed right through him.

I didn't know that story at the time; instead I sat frozen in a blissful meditation.  Others would refer to it as ignorance.

The nose and antlers appeared to my left.  He was on the move again and ambled on over to the others in the marsh.  Rising to a squat, I made my way to the embankment with a scurry similar in style and grace of a hunchbacked crab. This wasn't the first time I didn't die when I probably should have and the look on my wife's face made me think that I might get another chance real soon.

The moose continued feeding on the birch and aspen. The ground was crunching from ice in the grasses.  Amusingly, these big lumbering monstrosities were far from graceful in the marsh.  Whenever the moose stepped on an ice covered water pocket, its hoof would break through causing it to stumble and catch itself.  The antlers kept getting caught up in the tree branches and on the trunks of saplings.  They moved slowly and even when the two younger ones sparred, there was not a violent display.  The antlers would lock and the contest would turn into a shoving match.  Where mountain goats are the ninjas, moose are the sumo wrestlers in the vegan animal world.

Night was falling and the moose were drifting deeper into the tree line.  We packed up the gear, put the camera batteries back into their "warm spot," and headed back to camp.  A whole season of "Ren & Stimpy" couldn't deliver as many "You idiot" 's as were uttered around the campfire by my companions that night.  By midnight, the snow started falling and I'm guessing it won't stop before April.