Of Moose and Men

Of Moose and Men – A Near Grizzly Tale

Part II in Travels with Bobby

Noel Laflin

3-27-15

Ultimately, our goal was Canada.

But it’s not at all certain whether my young friend, Bobby Handley, and I would have made it there, let alone me be telling you about it today, had it not been for long-ago, lingering light and cold beer.  Without those seemingly unrelated preoccupations, well, suffice to say we could have ended up being squished by a thousand pound bull moose – and  then squished just a little more by the moose’s  three hundred pound calf (give or take a hundred pounds, I’m guessing).  Regardless, one or the other would have been bad enough in my estimation – but both!  Oh, good lord, that would have made for an interesting obituary indeed.  But, it did not happen, happily.  We did see Canada after all.

 

Young Bobby Handley and I were on a two-week road trip throughout much of the West back in the summer of 1977.  Our main objective was to visit my sister, who was working in Yellowstone National Park and then head north to Calgary, travel west to the coast and then drive south through Washington, Oregon and the near length of California.  In route to Yellowstone, we had made camp in both Zion National Park as well as an elk refuge just outside of The Grand Tetons and Snake River region.  Although Zion and Yellowstone were both free of calamity, we were nearly run over in our sleep by a massive logging truck in the Tetons. But, that tale has already been told.
 

So, back to this one: having just completed a memorable two-day visit with my sister, Bobby and I headed north, wanting to spend at least one night in Glacier National Park before crossing the border.  And even though it was nine in the evening when we got that first majestic view of those snow-capped peaks and blue, blue lake below us, the summer light was still incredibly bright.

A campsite was paid for, the old trusty nylon pup tent erected once more and the beer cooler set upon the picnic table – all in practiced, quick fashion.

 

And thus we sat upon that table, Bobby and me, toasting the bright summer northern night, and putting off crawling within our flimsy abode as it was too bright to sleep, you see, and just too darn pretty to call it a night just yet.

Thus it was probably well into the third or fourth beer that we were startled by a loud crashing of tree branches directly behind us.

 

A bull moose, with antlers the size of Canada, emerged from the woods and proceeded to walk directly across our poor pup tent – and I mean to say he walked the entire length of it, crushing it beneath his might hooves.  Bleating plaintively behind him was moose junior, who also took the same route as dad, scampering across our sorry tent.

 

My young friend and I sat transfixed upon our picnic table, which was not more than a foot or two from the formerly erect, but now flat-as-a-pancake tent, as the pair passed - soon drifting into the next section of the forest, crashing away at every branch and bush in their path.

Without so much as saying a word to one another – once the coast was clear and free of moose – we located and then lifted the entrance of our mangled tent, withdrew our sleeping bags and placed one atop and one beneath the sturdy wooden picnic table.

 

We then withdrew more cans of beer and despite the lingering twilight, decided to call it a night after all and took to our makeshift anti-moose-mincemeat, hard-as-a-picnic-table bunker beds.

About three the next morning we were awakened by the sniffing and snorting of a rather large bear pawing at the flat-as-a-pancake tent.

Words were uttered this time by both young Bobby and me (short, guttural, and to the point type language), as we grabbed our sleeping bags and dived into the car, which was parked but feet away, gratefully.

Ultimately, we arrived in Canada much sooner than expected.

And we stayed in motels after that.