What I've Learned

One autumn I was bicycling on the Greenwood Road, when a moose trotted out of the woods and stopped in the road ahead of me.

I squeezed both brake handles as hard as I dared, bringing the bike to a sliding sideways stop a mere 10 feet from a thousand pounds of snorting wildlife.

The moose turned its head and looked at me.

These large creatures can become aggressive if startled or angry. They have sharp, pointed hooves and can kick with both the front and rear legs. They don't just kick forward or back, they can kick sideways, as well. A moose can kill a bear or a wolf and would certainly have no problem disposing of the likes of me.

"Sorry if I startled you," I said, hoping I sounded genuinely apologetic.

He studied me for a long moment, then clattered out of the road and into a yard. Making his way to the left of the house, the moose stopped and turned around, as if considering retracing his steps.

"There's nothing to see here. Move along, sir" I said, feeling a little bolder now that he wasn't so close.

The roadway had been free of traffic, but I could hear a car approaching behind me. I got off my bike, faced the oncoming auto, and lifted my hand in the classic stop gesture. The man at the wheel obediently brought his car to a halt, looking at me with curiosity.

The moose was still facing the way it had come and could trot back out into the road, so I maintained my position, my hand in the air and my bike and I blocking the road. A second vehicle, a pickup, pulled up behind the first.

The driver of the car tooted his horn and raised his shoulders and hands in a gesture that asked, "What?"

Honking a horn was probably a bad idea. I looked at the man as if he were stupid. He gave me the same sort of look.

It occurred to me that perhaps from his vantage point he couldn't see the majestic, seven-foot Bullwinkle standing by the house.

"Moose," I said.

His windows were up. He stared hard, trying to read my lips. The driver of the pickup honked his horn, joining in the general befuddlement.

"Moose," I said loudly, looking beyond the car to the driver of the truck.

The truck guy raised his shoulders and hands in a gesture similar to the one the first guy had used.

"Moose," I shouted. "There's a moose."

I looked over at the moose, as if this action would confirm the reality of my experience. To my dismay, the moose was no longer there.

I picked up my bike and moved to the side of the road. Having stopped the vehicles with a formal gesture, I decided to motion them on in a similar fashion. I made a slow jerking motion with my arm, my hand stiffly open.

The drivers eased their vehicles forward, looking first at the house, then at me.

"Moose," I said.

They drove away.

I stood by the road, waiting for my gargantuan friend to reappear from behind the house. He didn't.

I bicycled on, feeling blessed for having had a close encounter with a moose and foolish for the awkward experience with the drivers.

The encounter inspired me to read up on moose. I was surprised at how much I already knew: Moose are the largest members of the deer family. They are loners and don't form herds. A moose's antlers (males grow them, females don't) fall off late in the year after mating season and start growing back in the spring.

I didn't know that moose can eat under water. Not just stick their snouts in a pond and feed, but dive totally under and eat plants on lake bottoms.

They can also make themselves invisible so that only persons on bicycles can see them.