Where’s the MOOSE?

Here’s Moose-Finding Rule No. 1: Do not seek out the moose. It will sense your desperation. Then the moose will vamoose. At least, this is what I deduce as we enter month No. 10 of my family’s Great Northwest Moose Drought. We have driven all over this grand country of ours, as well as huge parts of that grand country of theirs, the big one just to the north. We have criss-crossed some of the best moose habitat in the hemisphere. Yet now it has been nearly a year, and we have never, not once, been moosed. We have been skunked. You see, our travel goals tend to be different from those of other tourists. Other tourists might want to see Old Faithful, Mount Rushmore or maybe the Cathedral at Chartres. We, on the other hand, begin our trips by saying: “We want to see some elk, some bison, a pileated woodpecker, a bald eagle, and, if we play our cards right, a moose or two.” My wife Carol, especially, has a soft spot for the largest member of the deer family. She enjoys a cathedral as well as anybody, but what really turns her on is a massive, awkward, surly ungulate. (That’s what happens when you are born and raised in Wyoming.) This all began last September when we took a vacation through Yellowstone National Park. We were still abuzz from watching a pack of wolves wend their way through the Lamar Valley. Yet as we were driving out of the park, Carol said to me, “We still haven’t seen a moose.” I looked at her. She had a set to her jaw. This was a woman who needed, badly, to see a moose. So I changed course and drove through Hayden Valley, where we had often seen moose. Nothing. We parked the car and walked three miles along the bogs and meadows of the Yellowstone River. Still nothing. In desperation, we drove out along the Madison River. The moose had all vaporized. We did not panic. We had an October trip planned to Banff, Lake Louise and a huge swath of British Columbia. “We’ll see moose on this trip,” I said, pulling out of our driveway. “They’ll be as thick as chipmunks. In Canada, a moose is sort of like a poodle in Beverly Hills. You can’t go a block without one committing a nuisance on your shoe.” The trip became more and more grim as the miles added up. We saw elk, we saw deer, we saw mountain goats. We even had to wade our way through an entire herd of bighorn sheep, who couldn’t be bothered to budge off the trail. Yet we saw no moose. This was getting ridiculous. Back home, to put an end to this ridiculous drought, we drove up to Sandpoint and Hidden Lakes Golf Course. The place is famous for its resident moose. Sure enough, we found moose prints in the sand traps. We found moose scat on the tee boxes. We even found fresh moose tracks going directly across one of the greens, where the big galoot apparently paused momentarily to attack the flagstick. Yet we carded a big zero for moose. So then, last week, we spent a week high in a mountain meadow on the West Fork of the Bitterroot River in Montana. This is exceptional moose country. Moose sign was everywhere. One day, we finally saw a moose antler sticking up through the tall reeds. We crept stealthily closer. Finally, there it was – a big bull moose. “I don’t suppose that counts, though, does it?” I asked, dejectedly as we stared down at the antlers and the rest of the carcass. “No,” said Carol, with that same set to her jaw. “I want one alive.” This was getting absurd. On the way home, we began to think about all of the times we’ve seen moose. There was the time I was standing in the middle of the Little North Fork of the Clearwater, waving a stick around, when I glanced over to see a bull moose 20 yards away in what he clearly considered his river. I made a graceful exit by walking backwards in the current, falling in, and swimming/crawling the rest of the way to the bank. Then there was that time up on the North Fork of the Coeur d’Alene when Carol was sitting by the river, reading a book, when a young bull moose came crashing out of the trees. The big doofus galloped over to two petrified fishermen, briefly terrorized them, and then snorted its way up the river. Carol called it “highly entertaining.” And then there was the time on Mt. Spokane when I was nearly knocked silly by a moose. I was watching wildlife workers anesthetize a moose. Then they tried to maneuver it down a snowy slope to a truck. Then, as the old saying goes, the moose got loose. It began to slide right toward me. I was wearing skis and unable to move backward. Actually, I fell down. The moose slid to a stop inches away from my nose, and let me tell you, even a sedated moose has an aroma that would stun a, well, moose. Yet all of these cases have one thing in common. We weren’t trying to see a moose. We just happened upon a moose, or, to be accurate, the moose happened upon us. So, as we prepare to embark on our return trip to Yellowstone, I have abandoned my plan of going to the General Store and picking up a moose call. Wading through the marsh while making noises like a love struck moose may be the worst way to find a moose, despite what my hunter friends say. Instead, I am taking Rule No. 1 to heart. Not to get all Zen about it, but we must abandon all desire and allow the moose to come to us. So we will soon be back in Yellowstone, yet through great effort of will, we will not be seeking the moose. We will allow the moose to simply happen. With this new strategy, I’m hoping the Great Moose Drought will be mercifully over by the time you read this. If not, to hell with Zen. Come on, honey. We’re going to the zoo.