Of Moose And Men

I have a lot of Moose stories. They love me.

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‘The best thing about hunting and fishing,' the Old Man said, 'is that you don't have to actually do it to enjoy it. You can go to bed every night thinking about how much fun you had twenty years ago, and it all comes back clear as moonlight.'

Robert Ruark “The Old Man’s Boy Grows Up.”

Lakes, ponds, rivers, and the sea. The majority of my life has revolved around water. All bodies of water are different from one another. Their characters are unique as fingerprints. The tannin-stained brooks of New England, tumbling from pool to pool in dark hemlock forests, are nothing like the crystal-clear spring creeks of Montana sliding effortlessly by a sage brush lined shore under a huge open sky. They are different, but all have treated me equally well.

The Henry’s Fork of the Snake River in Idaho beckons whenever I think about a river. It called me long before I ever moved to Montana, back when I thought I would only read about it in magazines. Now, after a two-hour drive from my home, that includes paralleling another famous trout river, the Madison, I am setting up camp riverside. The river’s dull roar echoes off the beginning of canyon walls on the far side, becoming a natural white noise. The air smells of moisture, pine and sage. I always sleep better here, nightmare free.

On my first trips I used a tent for shelter. I was young enough to find the ground comfortable and my needs were simple. Sleeping bag, fishing gear, cooler, and a lawn chair. The chair was set up near the fire so I could ward off the chilly, mountain night air while reading by the light of my headlamp. I got into the habit of reading African hunting and adventure stories on camping trips in my twenties. I came to believe that hunting books by Ruark, Hemingway, and Lieut.-Col. Patterson should be enjoyed outdoors next to a fire with a glass of whiskey at hand.

One fall I decided to make a last minute trip to try and catch the Mahogany Dun hatch at “The Fork”. They are a pretty reddish-brown color and much bigger than the Blue Winged Olives that dominate the latter part of the fishing season. Their larger size made it easier for me to track my imitation on the water and hopefully tempt the trout with a larger mouthful of protein. I had tied up a couple dozen Mahoganys at home in anticipation of this trip. They were the first ones I had ever tied and I worried they might be too crude or inexact for trout that see a lot of bugs. Turned out there was no need to worry. My patterns got eaten just as much as the fly shop versions I had bought as insurance. It turned out to be one of the best days I have ever had on the Henry’s Fork.

Around three o’clock I sat on a convenient log and ate my previously forgotten lunch while watching the water. There was no reason to wade back out. Bluebird skies, no wind, immense numbers of insects and hundreds of large, willing rainbow trout all over the river and, best of all, no other fishermen… these kinds of days are a rarity to be savored. I pulled out my thermos of coffee, poured a cup, and watched the show for another hour before heading back to camp.

I had a nice ribeye to grill over the fire and some pre-boiled home fried potatoes that just needed to be browned up in my faithful cast iron pan. Pouring an inexpensive yet very good Cabernet Sauvignon into my tin coffee cup, I sat by the fire reading The Green Hills of Africa while the steak and potatoes sizzled on the firepit grill.

It was a simple meal but being outdoors and famished, it became gourmet. Pouring myself an after-dinner whiskey I relaxed, put my feet up on a stump some other camper had provided the camp as a chair/chopping block, and went back to reading about Africa, Papa, and his safari by lamplight. A full moon rose, lighting up anywhere that the trees didn’t shade. There were still some peepers and crickets around despite the cooler weather who were just loud enough to hear over the river. An owl hooted a warning that he was hunting while a gentle down draft breeze from the mountains whispered in the pines. I was grateful no other campers were around to disturb my peace. It was the perfect end to a perfect day. Yawning, I closed my book, shut off my headlamp and stood to head to bed. Tomorrow was my last day to fish before heading home that evening and I needed some sleep.

SNAP. Something wooden had broken somewhere down the fisherman’s trail behind my camp. It was awful late at night for a fisherman to be coming back to camp. Motionless, I stood in the dying firelight listening. All was quiet. I learned as a boy that there are all kinds of noises in the woods at night and almost none of them have anything to do with me. I was being paranoid. Looking around the campsite for anything that needed to be stowed away I heard a breathy sigh, then another that was more like a snort behind me in the dark. Spinning around, I snapped on my headlamp. There were two eyes blinking in the shaft of light. Something was camouflaged there in the thick understory brush. Something big. Those eyes were six feet above the ground. It wasn’t a bear. Maybe a horse? It gave another snort. It must be a horse that an outfitter lost. Could be it’s hurt. I held my hand out and clucked.

“Come on horse. Let me look at you.” I shut off my headlamp to not blind my visitor and the horse started towards me. How silly fearing noises in the night like some green kid, I thought. Did I have a halter and lead rope in the truck? The horse hesitantly moved into the faint circle of campfire light revealing himself to be a moose.

We weren’t more than ten feet apart. It was a young bull. He might have just recently been kicked off by mom and still had a lot of learning to do about people. The fire is what he seemed most curious about. He stretched his neck toward it, feet firmly planted, trying to smell the fire without approaching any closer. I lowered my head and gaze hoping he would see me as submissive and walked backwards, putting the concrete picnic table between us as a potential defense. The moose began to scan the campsite. The fire, then the tent, then me. I’m not a moose whisperer but I have had several encounters with them. I’ve seen them upset and aggressive. This one seemed curious and maybe a touch apprehensive. He shook himself off like our dogs do from head to tail to relive stress and relaxed his stiff legged gait as he stepped forward towards the fire. He was young but he was also huge. He still had his summer coat. His dark, blackish brown body hair glinted with campfire light while the white of his leg hair almost glowed. His ears were longer than his nubbin horns. That bulbous nose never stopped twitching as it took in every possible scent.

The moose’s curiosity about the fire apparently sated, he focused on me. Striding past the fire he began to circle around the picnic table. It seems ridiculous now, but I pulled my axe from the stump where I split firewood and held it across my body with both hands at the ready. I had bear spray, but it was in the tent. Besides, I wasn’t sure if bear spray was a good idea with a moose. The instructions on the can never addressed it for sure (isn’t it strange what goes through your mind in dangerous situations?).

“Moose. That’s close enough.” I said in what I hoped was a neutral yet commanding tone. His head snapped up drawing himself to his full height at the sound of my voice. Now he was even more intimidating. He tilted that massive skull of his a little his ears forward listening, just like a curious dog might. Maybe he had never heard a human voice before close up.

“Go on now. Before you get in trouble.” I nodded towards the fisherman’s trail with my head and shoulders hoping he would get the body language hint. The moose turned to look at the trail then back at me. His eyes grew wide, and he laid back his ears. Oh no…

“Don’t you do it!” I screamed at the top of my voice pulling the axe up to strike. Maybe if I got one good blow in between his horns I could stop him.

The moose turned and blasted off directly towards my tent and the trail beyond it. He changed course at the last second and barely caught one tent guy line with his foot, the only damage, a stake pulled out of the ground. He ran headlong into the darkness of the forest instead of down the trail. I could hear branches cracking and breaking for a long time as he made his escape. I slammed the axe back into the stump then collapsed onto the picnic table bench, my hands and knees shaking with adrenaline. That was close. It would be a long sleepless night wondering if he would come back. I lay on top of my sleeping bag without taking my boots off, my bear spray, head lamp and ax beside me with the tent door unzipped for a quick exit if needed. I fell asleep around dawn.

Staggering around camp a few hours later while making coffee and some bacon, the night’s adventure seemed dreamlike in the bright light of morning. But my visitor’s footprints were scattered in the dirt around camp as testimony to just how real the incident had been.

I packed up camp and stopped at the local fly shop for more coffee. Mike, the owner and a friend, laughed when I told him about my visitor. He had a number of great stories about his experiences with moose on and off the river. When I said my goodbyes for the winter, he poured some more coffee in my travel mug and said with a smile, “You know, it could have been worse. A grizzly tore up the dining hall kitchen at the dude ranch down the road last night.” That made me stop and think.

“Mike, how many feet would you say a grizzly’s eyes are from the ground?” Mike raised his eyebrows.

“His eyes? Well, I guess it would depend on whether he was on all fours or on his hind legs. Four or five feet up to eight or nine. Why?”

“I was thinking. That young moose was not the only one that has a lot to learn.”