When I taught
in Jackson, Wyoming,in the 1970's, I once had a student walk in late to my
first period class with a note from his mother. I had assumed he was a town
kid, as he wore a baseball hat, a satin jacket promoting a local business and
Nike shoes. His attire was not exactly the attire I attributed to a ranch kid.
Later I found out that the kids in school with the cowboy attire lived out on five-
to-10-acre "spreads" west of town.
The note read:
"Dear Mr. Archer, Bill is late to class this morning because he was trapped
under his truck by a mean, tempered cow moose."
"You're
kidding," I said. "Nah," the teenager drawled. "The worst part was when I
dashed out to warm up the truck. I forgot to put on my coat. The moose charged,
I dove under my truck, and she kept me there for about 20 minutes until my mom
came out and shooed it away."
For the rest of
the class period in my sophomore English class, harrowing moose stories
prevailed. Years later while floating on Rock Creek, I had a bull moose charge
into the creek right after we silently floated past him. After some quiet
reflection, my clients and I concurred that his stopping point would have been
right in the middle of my raft had he decided to charge when we were abreast of
him. And then a few years later I experienced my brush-with-death moose story.
If you have
seen the movie, The Ghost and the Darkness, about two man-eating lions, you will
recall the line when the white hunter says to the young engineer after he has
had a close encounter with a lion: "You got knocked down. Now you got to stand
up and decide what you're going to do about it." I got knocked down too, but I
don't want a rematch!
Unlike the
brave engineer, moose will forever intimidate me. Pauline and my sons and I
were camped out at the second hogback on Rock Creek during Memorial Day
weekend. I was fishing alone on an island with Shadow, my black Labrador. When
I came to a spot on the creek that was too deep to wade, I pulled myself up on
the grass bank and pushed my way through the dense willow thicket. The creek
was still to my left as I entered a small opening. I walked a couple of paces,
and suddenly a cow moose struggled up from her bed, scattering dust like a
cowpoke's pickup truck on a Saturday night.
I froze. Shadow
froze. The moose pawed the ground. I let out a startled whoop and took off
running. I saw an opening in the brush and jumped into the creek. I heard the snorts
and grunts from the moose directly behind me. At any moment I was expecting a
hoof to split me in two. The creek was only a foot deep when I landed. Unlike
the protagonist in the adolescent novel Hatchet, the water's depth was not
going to help me.
Across the
narrow creek I observed a rock cliff with no trees. Down I went on the slippery
rocks. I heard a terrible commotion in the brush. I turned around just in time
to see the pawing moose chasing my Lab in circles around a thin willow bush.
Poor Shadow. Her tail was tucked under her belly, her ears were drooped, and
she was running around the willow in a sideways motion with her head turned
towards the moose in askance. Shocked silent, she never let out a bark.
Finally, the cow charged off, and Shadow meekly joined me at my side in the
creek. She had silently stood her ground and saved my life as I ran away.
My sons accused
me of story embellishment, but Shadow and I know. The following year, two
anglers barely escaped a charging moose in the same area. Their dog stood his
ground and was injured. Later that same summer, a cow moose killed a man as he
crossed the street in a small town in the state of Washington.
I don't mess
with moose.
