LESS THAN A MINUTE

Nine years; is that a short time or a long time? At my age time is hard to put a collar on. In the dog days of summer 2013, 9 years ago, I was driving home from Alaska. The drive up had been awesome. Eight days alone on the AlCan Highway gives words like Remote, Wilderness & Lonesome a feeling you can’t experience vicariously. After nearly two months in Alaska the road home was no less an adventure. One might think that one repetition would be sufficient but Planet Earth is full of surprises. The 2,300 mile journey from Anchorage to the border crossing at Sweet Grass, Montana is anything but (Ho-Hum). The farther north, the more challenging the roads. Frost heave and erosion make travel risky if not dangerous. Feelings come and they pass but once on the highway the only sensation is to keep moving. 

On my second night out I splurged on a bed at a hostel in White Horse, Yukon Territory. Day 3 would be would be the ‘Either-Or’ day. Either go back the way I came or take a less traveled, even more remote route. I was on Canada #1 but just west of Watson Lake, route #37 heads south across the border into remote, northern British Columbia. It seems Parliament wanted to help the economy in those logging camps and fuel depots so they connected several existing roads and bridged a few gaps with new blacktop and called it The Cassiar Highway. Everyone I talked to said it was a glorious ride and baring mechanical problems, I couldn’t go wrong; just remember to top off the tank at every petro pump I come across. That was good advice. The route eventually dumps you out at Prince George, BC with a nearly straight shot into Jasper National Park, Lake Louise and Banff. 

My 2nd day on The Cassiar the forest had open spaces and I could see both out to the side and up ahead. The road had comfortable, rolling, up and down rise and fall for as far as I could see. As I topped one rise, up ahead on the 3rd or 4th crest I saw a large animal on the road. Easing over the next crest I could tell it was a moose and her calf. Not wanting to startle them I slowed down but the thought of getting close enough to have an encounter overcame my concern for their convenience. They were still there in the middle of the road at my next glimpse and I turned the motor off, coasting up the last slope before we merged on the same stretch. Mom was in my lane and baby was lopping along the shoulder on the left. I rolled quietly to within maybe 200 feet before she noticed and started running. 

There was a steep bank on the right of maybe 20 feet with a gully full of water at the roadside. Everything happened too fast for much thinking. I was gaining ground and had eased over into the middle of the road. She plunged down into standing water up to her shoulders and struggled to get up onto the steep bank. Baby wanted to follow but that would require crossing in front of me and I was still closing the gap between us. I eased on the brake, slowed down almost to a stop. She moose was keeping up but separated from us above and the other side of the water hazard. Baby saw its chance and bolted across in front of the truck, down the gully and sank immediately in the water. 

I kept my camera ready, wedged between the seat and the pull-down arm rest. As I let myself out and around the door, Mama was down close, coaxing Baby upward and out of the water. I started taking photos over the hood. Moose calf thrashed and failed, thrashed again but I sensed the little calf would eventually make it up onto dry ground. I kept taking pictures. In the pressure of the moment I did tap into the danger. Moose are the most dangerous animal in the north woods. Bears would rather avoid you but moose are aggressive, territorial and protect their young with deadly effect. I sensed that she wanted to kill me then and there but she had too many irons in the fire with the truck between us and her baby still struggling. Once up on level ground and me content behind the truck, she must have figured I was too much trouble to go back for. I got in, closed the door and watched as they moved off into the trees. The whole thing from my sneaky roll-up to the walk-away took less than a minute. 

I am preparing a show of my photographs at the end of this month, roughly 20-22 pieces. Choosing the first dozen is easy. Then you get into all of the really good shots that are too good to leave out but leave some out is what you need to do, #22 gets to go to the party and #23 stays home. One of those, too good to leave out that made the cut is a mother moose and her calf walking off into the woods. The photo is a split second summary of a story that might have ended another way, any number of ways. That story was born nine years ago: seems like a long time but the details haven’t faded at all. Maybe it wasn’t all that long ago. Some stories are so good you don’t have to make up anything. 

Today is my 83rd birthday. I have surpassed the 2022 life expectancy for American males by five years. I’m not sure about life expectancy for moose in the wild. I read somewhere that moose can live to be 20 but the average is more like 8 or 9 years. There it is again; 9 years. I still have the photograph. It is clear and crisp; you can imagine the story without the photo, good enough but all you have are the words. Next year will be 10 years, I’ll be 84 if I’m lucky. The story will not have aged a day and together with the photo it will still be good as gold.