I can’t count the number of times my [late] husband and I drove aimlessly throughout northern New Hampshire and southern Maine in our futile attempts to set eyes on an actual living, breathing moose.
Alas, the closest we came to seeing one was a big statue of a moose in front of (if memory serves me right) an inn.
“Quick!” my husband shouted when he spotted the statue. “Jump out of the car and let me take a photo of you next to it…because it’s the closest you’re ever going to get to a moose!”
I wasn’t amused.
My parents, who spent two weeks fishing on Back Lake in Pittsburg, NH every year, were no help.
“You want to see a moose?” my dad asked us. “Come visit us in Pittsburg when we’re up there. There are so many moose, you have to watch where you’re driving or you’ll end up with one as a giant hood-ornament. And believe me, they can cause some major damage.”
“We’ve seen so many moose, we don’t even get excited any more,” Mom added, yawning.
So early one Sunday morning, my husband and I drove over three hours up to Pittsburg to spend the day with my parents. Finally, we were certain, we were going to see a moose. I made sure my camera had plenty of fresh film in it so I could capture the momentous event.
That same night, we drove over three hours back home with only four photos in my camera: one of my parents on the porch of their cabin; one of my dad holding a string of trout he’d caught; and two of my mom feeding ducks on the shore of the lake.
When my parents returned from their vacation, they told us that the very next morning after we’d left, moose were everywhere. As proof, they even showed us photos they’d taken. Somehow, we weren't surprised at all.
“I give up,” my husband finally muttered one day after 40 years of our quest to see a live moose still failed to turn up even as much as a single hair from one. “It’s as if all of the moose in New Hampshire are in contact with each other through some sort of wireless devices and are saying, “Hurry! Here come the Breslins! Run and hide!”
“Well, I’m not giving up!” I said. “It’s always going to be on my bucket list.”
When my friend from Oregon came to visit me a few years ago – her first trip to New England – the first thing she said when she stepped off the plane was, “I can’t wait to see a moose!”
Had she told me she wanted to see a UFO full of Martians land on my property, I’d have felt more confident about granting her wish. Sure enough, during her 10-day visit, the closest we came to seeing a moose was a cow standing in a pasture. She ended up buying a moose magnet in a gift shop and calling that her “moose sighting.”
Last week, about an hour before dusk, I went for a walk on my land. I have eight wooded acres with narrow trails running through them, and I try to walk 45 minutes every day. I carry an archaic cassette-player with me. It’s similar to a Walkman but doesn’t require headphones to listen to the tape, which I prefer because it enables me to still hear what’s going on around me.
I was listening to a song by the Eagles when suddenly the music stopped, so I paused to open the cassette player and check the tape. It was kinked. I smoothed the tape and popped it back in.
When I looked up, I froze. I absolutely froze.
There, standing in the middle of the path, directly in front of me and only a few feet ahead, was a moose – a big, nearly black in color, bull moose with huge antlers. He stared at me and I stared at him, and no kidding, I nearly needed a defibrillator.
Ironically, I’d just read an article about autumn being rutting season and how moose could become aggressive during that time of year. I’d even read about the best way to avoid being injured, or even killed, by a moose.
“If you can put a tree between you and the moose,” the article said, “find the biggest one nearby and quickly get behind it. But if you are out in the open, curl up into a fetal position on your side on the ground and cover your head with your arms. This will minimize damage to your internal organs or your skull if the moose, which can weigh well over a thousand pounds, tramples you.”
At that moment, I honestly wished I’d never read that article.
Not knowing what else to do, I slowly inched backwards, away from the moose, all the while terrified that if I tripped over a rock or a piece of wood behind me and landed flat on my back, the moose might decide to turn my internal organs into pancakes.
As I continued to back away, I blurted out, barely in a whisper, “Hi, Bullwinkle. How's it going?”
He stared at me a few seconds longer, then just turned away and walked off in the opposite direction.
So finally, after all these years, I can cross “seeing a live moose” off my bucket list.
And believe me, I’m in no hurry to get up close and personal with Mr. Moose again any time soon.
In fact, “never” would be just fine with me...
# # #
Sally Breslin is an award-winning humor columnist and
the author of “There’s a Tick in my Underwear!” “Heed the Predictor” and “The
Common-Sense Approach to Dream Interpretation." Contact her at:
sillysally@att.net.
No comments:
Post a Comment