Each spring the moose move back from the
deep woods, having spent the winter there out of the wind, away from the sound
of traffic. In roadside swamps they
raise their heads,
ruminate, then lower them again as their long jaws strain slimy water-plants out of the muck. They must consume enough to maintain body weights that can reach more than a thousand pounds. When the brooks and rivers hatch black-flies, the moose will seek relief in the middle of the road, where the breeze helps disperse great swarms that suck quarts of moose-blood each day. Everywhere in the Great North Woods, road-signs warn drivers, “Brake for moose. It could save your life.”
ruminate, then lower them again as their long jaws strain slimy water-plants out of the muck. They must consume enough to maintain body weights that can reach more than a thousand pounds. When the brooks and rivers hatch black-flies, the moose will seek relief in the middle of the road, where the breeze helps disperse great swarms that suck quarts of moose-blood each day. Everywhere in the Great North Woods, road-signs warn drivers, “Brake for moose. It could save your life.”
When
a moose is destroyed in a collision with a car, its meat is rarely wasted. Local police departments keep lists of
meat-lovers who wait for a call to butcher a fresh roadside carcass. One moose can feed several families for an
entire winter, or one family for several winters, and local recipes for moose chili, stew,
spaghetti sauce, jerky, meatballs, mincemeat, and holiday pie abound. But when the car and sometimes its passengers
are destroyed, arguments begin anew about the size of moose-populations, the
absence of natural predators, and the number of hunting permits issued each
fall.
On
the New Hampshire side of the Connecticut River, a cow-moose brings her calf late one
afternoon to my neighbor’s soggy field.
Like horses they graze, moving closer to the river. An hour later, the calf is standing alone in the
road at the river’s edge, bawling. Its
mother is bobbing in the current, half-paddling, half-floating across the river
to Vermont
without looking back. The mooseling
paces back and forth along the riverbank, afraid to follow. At dusk the baby becomes so difficult to see
in the road that several locals park their cars nearby, flashing headlights at
oncoming traffic. Around here this
means, slow down, maybe because of a trooper, more likely because of a moose
in the road. Its mother by then is
out of the water on the other side, bellowing to her baby, who’s attracted a
swarm of admirers. At last it jumps over
the edge of the bank and into the river, letting the current carry it
downstream and across to the other side.
As darkness falls, the audience cheers.
This
is the best kind of moose-encounter.
There are no victims.