Bullwinkle

The Barnum lesson of keeping my ears and eyes open to brush that’s moving out of rhythm with the rest of the forest was relearned when I heard the snort.

As I walked back from my nightly phone call home, which requires a few steps from the cabin to a knoll at the edge of the lake to get reception, the snort came from a rustle of the brush just 20 feet the other side of the cabin. Ducking behind the cabin wall, short of breath, I heard munching.

Peering around the corner, the massive antlers of a bull moose appeared, head down. Creeping along the wall to the door, half out of caution and half out of not wanting to disturb Bullwinkle, I pulled out my phone. Plastered against that wall, I slowly took pictures. That’s when his head came up and he stared right at me. We locked eyes and stared at each other, neither of us moving for three minutes. Finally, breaking the stare, I made for the door ever so slowly and with a low profile. He put his head back down, munching, not at all perturbed. 

The Staredown

He stood just outside one of the bedroom windows, giving me a close look at his face. Yep, same fellow my good lighthouse crew leader friend and Barnum Buddy Dirk called “Kodak.” Can’t remember why he chose that name, other than that he took a whole bunch of pictures of him in years past. Those pictures were my clue, as I looked at his scars and scratches. It was the same fellow. They met on a skinny and short stretch of rock beach at the end of a point on Washington Island. Dirk backtracked as Kodak followed him until he could backtrack no more due to the fallen trees and the end of the beach. Fortunately, at that moment, the moose turned and walked into the water for a swim to the island just across the channel. As he told the story to me shortly after, I thought, “Dirk’s face does not look good in white.” 

But two days after my first encounter by the cabin, I could relate, as I walked along the path to the little boat house to repair a pump. It had been calm and sunny all day, and I was, as usual, daydreaming. Suddenly, just along the path, a tree leaped up with all the adjacent bushes seeking cover. The sudden movement startled the heck out of me as I dropped the tool bag. Looking left, not six feet away, I saw the two huge palmate antlers of Kodak as he quickly stepped back, as startled as I was.  From that point on, every movement of brush, whether caused by a passing breeze or the cedar waxwings zipping through the trees, gets my attention.

My current visitor, just back from her one week on the lighthouse, wished upon a star that she could see her first moose. Never having seen one before, she had heard they sometimes visited the island. That night, she started calling in the dark, “Here moosey moosey,” like someone calling a cat. I told her that probably wouldn’t work, but that didn’t dissuade her.

The next day, she was exploring the harbor on a rowboat. After I informed her by radio that I’d stumbled across a moose, she hurried back to the dock. Her excitement was quelled when we took a hike together, hunting poor old Bullwinkle. He didn’t seem to be around.

I knew better. He would just walk off to another hidden location, hoping to stop my heart again at some point. Later that afternoon, my volunteer guest would have her chance. Paying more attention now, I spotted Kodak munching just off the path close to our cabin. Having quietly hailed her by phone, I watched as she slowly, cautiously crept up on Kodak for photos. He patiently accommodated her as he munched.

Then he walked up the hill and out of sight. After dinner, we both heard him rustling through the brush behind the outhouse. A look of consternation crossed her face, as she needed to use that facility. Finally, as pressure mounted, she slowly and carefully walked to the door, all the while calling out, “Hello, Mr. Moose. Please don’t eat me. I mean you no harm, just walking to the outhouse. I’ll be out of your way in no time.” He kept munching. Then, as she approached, he moved from plain sight along the side of the outhouse to behind the outhouse. “Thank you, Mr. Moose.”

There’s a screen window up on the back of the outhouse, where she could see him eating with his backside against the wall. She finished quickly, then started taking pictures out that window, all the while holding a conversation with the moose. He was oblivious.

We were told by our neighbors across the harbor that another bull and a cow were also in the area, and that they had seen all three that morning. Eyes and ears, at all times.