If You Give a Man a Moose.

In a few weeks I turn the big 6-0. It’s cliché to say time flies.

Time flies.

Milestone birthdays haven’t been a big deal for me, more of a lite-to-moderate deal, I think. The exception to this was my 40th. That year I turned up the celebration, literally. My birthday is in the fall and starting that previous spring I set out to hike the highest peak in each of the New England states before my birthday. Six peaks, five months — fun, memorable, outdoorsy, weekend-able. I’ve been really thinking a lot lately about the adventures and memories each of those treks created 20 years ago.

Maybe turning 60 is a big deal.

The grandest of those peaks was in Maine, my home for the past 23 years. The highest point of land in Maine is Baxter Peak on Katahdin (Penobscot for Greatest Mountain). It was August, and I had already bagged Mount Washington in New Hampshire, Bear Mountain in Connecticut, and Jeremoth Hill in Rhode Island, which isn’t a peak at all but a boulder in a field a few hundred yards from a road, but the official state high point, nonetheless. Massachusetts and Vermont would be conquered soon, but now was my date with Katahdin.

Katahdin would turn out to be the monster of the summer. High, steep, boulder strewn and intimidating, it legitimately stands up to its hype. Washington is a thousand feet higher than Katahdin and was certainly no cakewalk. The experience was that of walking up a naturally formed rock staircase made of two-foot risers for more than three hours. And that was before we emerged from the tree line, after which we proceeded to scramble over boulders for another mile before reaching the fog-choked summit. Did I mention the sideways-driving rain and 35-degree windchill? It was at once spectacular and wretched. Although summiting in those conditions continues to this day to be a source of personal inspiration, it devolved into outlandishness when we stepped into the oasis of the Mount Washington Summit Visitors Center, complete with restaurant, clean bathrooms, and a museum. You see, the top of Mount Washington is accessible by road, rail, and trail. We were wet, filthy hikers mingling with crowds of plaid tourists and leathered bikers (it was Laconia Motorcycle Week in New Hampshire). Bizarre.

Katahdin on the other hand is nothing but Maine remoteness. No services. No food. No water. No anything that can’t be packed and carried. There’s literally nothing man-made at the peak or anywhere else on the mountain save stone cairns and a wooden sign at the summit denoting the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. On Baxter Peak we would mingle only with a few dozen other sweaty hikers, some menacing-looking birds and an inordinate number of overly large flying insects. But at least it was a bright sunny day! That’s a lie. Just like Mount Washington earlier, Katahdin was foggy, rainy, humid, and treacherously slippery.

Katahdin is my “home” peak. Although I live in Maine, Katahdin, located within Baxter State Park , is a similar distance from my house as, say, Providence. Nonetheless, if one lives in Maine and is so-inclined to walk up big hills, it’s a must-do. Not everyone does, of course, but guaranteed they’ve thought about it — it’s as much of an idea as it is a massif. Climbing Katahdin is enticing, like Sirens calling Ulysses to the rocks (literally). Katahdin is different than the others, just like Maine is: quirky, hard as nails, slightly standoffish, as happy for your visit as it is your departure. In my mind Katahdin stood alone, like the mountain itself does rising dramatically from the boreal Maine woods. During my summer of ‘03 it was a peak among peaks.

Hundreds of memories were created that summer, many of which I could call forth to tell a story. Some have been faded and smoothed over time while others are as sharp as the day they were formed, much like the granite from which those mountains are made. But there was one memory on Katahdin that stands out.

Durable, vibrant memories are manufactured as a result of the unexpected, when our guards are down, and we’ve left open an unobstructed path into our psyche. It didn’t happen during the morning's four-mile hike from the ranger station to the mountain’s base, filled with fresh eagerness for the adventure ahead. Nor was it as we scrambled for two hours almost straight up to the summit on Cathedral Trail , requiring focused attention to every slick foot and hand hold. And it wasn’t during our transfer across the infamous Knife’s Edge , the high, aptly named precipice spanning Katahdin’s two main peaks. Those thrilling, but mostly expected scenes in that day’s full-length feature film filled my senses to the brim in real time but are now relegated to the highlight real.

It happened instead during the final scene, the decent. The story of our Katahdin adventure had been written. We had bagged the peak and done all the hard parts. Now it was time for the long tramp back to where we started. The adrenaline in our tanks, now used up, was replaced by impatience. Like flipping a switch on a wall, our goal of conquest that was so motivating just hours earlier changed to the mundane pursuit of simply getting down — to the car, a shower, and a few thousand calories of food and drink.

My hiking companions and I were chatting while sitting on the loose, shattered stones far above the tree line on Pamola, Katahdin’s second peak. The final, rock-strewn trail sloped gently downward before us. It would lead us back to a dry, air-conditioned SUV. We were soaked through from the dampness of the air and by our own sweat. I remember remarking how even the highest-tech outdoor gear couldn’t keep someone dry in those conditions. In fact, I didn’t think I could be any wetter than I was at that instant. I would be wrong. I believe it was that very thought that taunted the clouds to release all of their pent-up moisture, crack off a bolt of lightning, and send us running down the trail through the diluvian rain. The lightning would persist and after an anxious 15 minutes we were into the scrubby growth and some semblance of protection. Ten minutes more found us walking among the taller pines.

As the trail took us lower and deeper into the forest, the trees became larger, the trail narrower, and the already dim ambient light dimmer. The rain turned the trail into a shallow stream. My boots filled and became audibly squishy. Water ran freely against my skin. Our tightly hooded heads were lowered to ensure our staccato steps didn't fall victim to the mossy rocks and toe-grabbing roots. Bowed heads were also fitting, displaying our humility before this mountain and its weather. The drops on my hood were loud. I remembered Carl, Rod Steiger’s character in the The Illustrated Man , fending off madness while being pelted by giant Venusian rain drops. We were all business. The lively conversations we had been having all day had ended back on Pamola. What had been a victorious day of hiking was now a downward forced march through the murky woods.

The six of us began to string out along the trail. I had slowed my pace (knees), as had my friend Jim (ankles), soon finding ourselves the rear guard. The others were out of sight and at that point, frankly, out of mind. Only forward progress mattered. There were miles left. I fought off thoughts of the evening’s pending rewards, like a marathoner trained to think only about their next few strides — or, you know, so I’m told. At one point the rain paused although millions of wet leaves would see to it that the drops kept falling. The slight respite was welcome, however, and our pace picked up slightly. I don’t recall exactly how long Jim and I had been walking, silently, before he said it.

“Moose!”

I hit the brakes, turned around and looked up at him. He gestured to his left. There, about 10 feet off the trail, was a large moose, head down in the thick plants, shoulder rising high above, grazing. I could tell from the lack of antlers it was a she. How had Jim noticed her? Her only motion was her chewing mouth. She blended extremely well with the surrounding vegetation and if memory serves, was somewhat occluded by steam rising from the forest floor. (This effect may have been added in the editing room in my head, and I'm staying with it.) But there she was, one-and-a-half moose-lengths away from us, oblivious to our presence. The only sounds were drops falling on the low brush and the rustling of her snout in the leaves. I had never seen a moose before.

What is it about moose?

To begin with, they’re hard to find. I grew up in suburbia and have almost never lived anywhere else. I’m surrounded by unremarkable critters: squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons and the like. When I see a backyard rarity, like a deer or a gang of turkeys, I invariably take notice and say something profound such as, “oh wow” or, “cool, come look.” Just this year we had a family of foxes living in the woods next to my house. Concerns for our mini-cockapoo aside, I thought that was neat. But a moose? Moose are elusive. In fact, as you now know, I was almost 40 before I saw my first one.

They're also big, which in and of itself makes them interesting. Most people like me live their entire lives without ever coming into close contact with an animal bigger than they are unless they've paid admission. When it happens in the wild by chance, emotions flow, from fear to astonishment to delight. If I was an Ecologist on staff in Yellowstone National Park or a Preservationist working to protect the African Savanah, I’d be pretty used to being around large fauna. I work at a desk.

Finally, Moose are, well, kinda fun. Let’s be honest, they’re a funny looking lot. With all due respect to moose everywhere, they are one of nature’s oddest creations — that oversized snout, curvy rack, humped back, and those gangly legs? Comical. I put moose up there with camels, elephants, and platypuses. I’m captivated by the sheer diversity of life on our planet and moose are as good an example of this as any.

I’m fully aware that moose can be aggressive. The conventional wisdom, perhaps well-founded, is to avoid an encounter like the one I was having. Moose have earned our label as wild animals. I’ve heard stories of folks in the woods running afoul of a moose, involuntarily serving as a reminder to the rest of us that when people and moose square off, put your money on the moose. These stories are rarely accompanied, however, by the facts of the case. Was it a random act of violence against an innocent hiker enjoying a view and some trail mix? Or was it because someone got too friendly with a calf and a mama moose did what mama moose do? Stories get repeated, fused, and mutated to give moose a reputation of being volatile. What did I know? Again, I live in the burbs.

She looked up from the leaves and our eyes met. She fully raised her head. Here we were, a few miles up a trail from anything remotely resembling civilization, and we’d engaged a very large mammal in a staring contest. It’s helpful to remember that Kathadin was her mountain. We were trespassers in her world. Sure, for tens of thousands of years before Maine was Maine, people — the Penobscot and their predecessors — walked this mountain. But Moose were there much, much longer and, evolved as they have, move quickly and dexterously through any indigenous terrain — dense, mid-summer, thorny undergrowth, mucky swamps, and rocky steeps. Jim and I on the other hand, evolved as we have, are slow, clumsy humans who would need the help of a worn path and some gravity to get moving again even to a moderate clip. If charged, we both would have made it no more than a dozen yards before tumbling, face down on the trail at the mercy of a beast weighing three times as much as us, combined. If she was so inclined to get aggressive it wouldn’t have been close.

There’s an entertaining but dark song called “Dumb Ways to Die ” that musically explores, well, all the dumb things people do that lead to their untimely demise. Stopping on a trail on the shoulder of Katahdin in the rain to contemplate a moose up close is a solid candidate to be a new line in that song. At the time, however, those thoughts were deeply suppressed. Any fear we might have had was being outmaneuvered by our disbelief. In any other situation I can imagine in which I have an unexpected meet-up with such a large, imposing animal, my millions-year-old, deeply embedded Megalophobia would have ruled the day. In other words, I would have gotten the hell out of there, and fast.

But this moose on this day in that forest wasn’t going to harm us. Somehow, I knew.?We were sharing a moment.

My overloaded circuits flashed the yellow moose with purple antlers my one-year-old daughter slept with, a gift from my four-year old when she was born (they're 21 and 24 now, respectively). Another flash: Laura Numeroff’s If You Give A Moose A Muffin about a mischievous and easily sidetracked moose who romps around in search of blueberry jam, an almost nightly read in the Goldberg house at the time. Flash: animatronic Marty Moose at Wally World in National Lampoon’s Vacation, slurring it’s recorded message after being punched in the nose by Clark Griswold. I was having an in vivo interaction with this animal, and I was conjuring pop-culture moose references. I guess moose really are funny.

Here was a very large product of nature, in nature, doing her thing. Being a moose. This wasn’t a children’s book or a movie or a zoo. She was the real thing. This moose had been existing in these woods for many years, season in and season out, living, growing, moving from place to place and, presumably, making little moose. She was born here and will live out her days here. That’s what moose do. And, here I was, another product of nature, in nature, doing my thing. Taking a couple of days away, among other things and as luck would have it, to convene with this moose. And I, too, had been existing for several years — I was there celebrating 40 of them — living, growing, moving from place to place, and making little humans. That’s what people do. Were we really that different? I doubt the moose was having the same introspection. She seemed to care much more about those leaves, and whether Jim or I would be an impediment to eating more of them. Our paths through eons of evolution had simply intersected on that trail, soon to diverge, each moving on with our respective, random lives.

She put her head back down.

I then proceeded to demonstrate a major difference between moose and people: I wanted to take a picture. It was instinctive for me to remember this moment later that day, the next week, and for years to come. I needed to show others, provide proof, maybe get a reaction. It was reflexive. The moose, I’m positive, shared none of those predispositions. Her instincts were limited to leaves and leaves only. My small camera was instantly in my hand. I don’t remember pulling it from my Velcro pocket. The rip must have made a noise, but I don’t recall hearing it. “Should I?” I asked Jim, saying the first words either of us had muttered. “Yeah,” he replied in a loud whisper. I raised the camera to my eye — we were four years pre-iPhone, mind you. I snapped it. There was a flash of light! It lit up the trail, the woods, and the moose. The available light under the thick summer canopy was low enough to activate the camera’s auto flash. Cool feature. Most of the time. Was this the trigger that would turn our placid moose into an agitated moose? … apparently not. The moose didn’t take notice. More leaves.

As abruptly as we had stopped, we started walking again. Our convergence ended. The moose could now be just a moose again, unencumbered by the small bipeds who briefly intruded on her meal. Within minutes Jim and I were hundreds of yards closer to our destination. There was a noticeable spring on our stride. The elements seemed to bother us less. Our physical exhaustion and achy joints mattered not. We had been granted a reprieve by whatever mountain gods were punishing us. Indeed, the moose had been a gift from them.

Despite being at times nearly impossible to imagine, sure enough we reached the ranger station at trail’s end. We met up with the rest of our group, already sitting on nearby Adirondack chairs under a dank wooden shelter, commiserating but mostly celebrating while ringing out their socks. We congratulated each other on the climb and our completion of the day’s objective under less-than-ideal conditions. Everyone was wholly impressed with our moose encounter and excited for us by our luck, but there could be no way for them to truly comprehended the experience. It happened uniquely, never again to occur and never to be suitably recounted (including this attempt).

It began to rain hard again. I took off my boots and socks and waded into the cool rapids that rushed by the station. I sat on a rock for a few minutes, staring down, watching the water rush by my feet. It was hard to believe that just this morning none of what we experienced, including that moose, had yet to be.

But there was something more nagging me.

My exhausted body and over-stimulated senses conspired to grant me one last epiphany just before my epiphany-making abilities shut down for good. And it was this: life is unpredictable. We try day-in and day-out to add order to chaos. We make decisions and take actions toward that goal, then tally up the score in our never-ending game of controlling the uncontrollable. We’re so proud of ourselves when we temporarily best it, and we’re never not disappointed when it inevitably takes over again. This makes us crazy. So, we try ever harder and harder — a cycle that narrows our perspective and ensures the quickest defeat. Like the water rushing by me, the cycle can only be altered if something extraordinary is introduced. To view the world from outside our conditioning is dependent on these disruptions.

A day on Katahdin, far away from my daily self was the disrupter. A challenging mountain, the torrents of rain, the rocky trails, and the moose, especially, were my tools for temporarily breaking the cycle. Like a battering ram, they had blasted open the door for chaos to run through and wreak havoc for a while, reminding me in stark relief that it, not order, is the natural state. I was permitted to observe the enemy up close in all its magnificence and size it up. And this, most importantly, would enable me to head back home and do battle with renewed vigor.

We were in the car, bumping along down the dirt road out of Baxter State Park. Drying out and cooling down, our thoughts turned to a near future of soap, food, and beer (not necessarily in that order). A Moose darted out from the woods about a hundred feet in front of us and started running in our same direction. The inside of the car erupted in cheers of astonishment and joy. It was a big juvenile, galloping along — lanky, awkward, comical. It vanished back into the woods after just a few seconds.

One more reminder, I thought.

Epilogue.

I hiked to the top of Mount Greylock in the Berkshires in Massachusetts a few weeks later. It was a perfect, late-summer day — the sun finally shined for me. A few weeks after that, my wife and I made a Vermont weekend out of hiking to the top of Mount Mansfield, the summer's sixth and final peak. It rained.