“You’re kidding me,” I say.
“Right? It’s not rutting season. Takes some serious ingenuity to piss off a bull moose midsummer.”
Startling one is possible, if you come from downwind. In that case, most will just turn and run. In Brandon’s defense, this is a bull in its prime and more likely to get territorial. That bellow we heard was the moose before it charged, and Brandon—in a lifesaving display of intelligence—climbed a tree rather than try to outrun it.
At this point, the moose should be satisfied and lumber away. It has not, which suggests Brandon has indeed done something to piss it off.
Storm pushes closer, asking me very politely if we might leave the angry moose and let Brandon deal with it.
“Tempting,” I murmur. “Very tempting.”
Bears might kill more people a year, but moose attacks are more common, often resulting in serious injury.
“Much as I’d love those steaks,” Dalton says, “I’m going to try shooing it off. Should tell Jacob it’s here, though. That’d get them through summer and fall.”
It might seem that one moose isn’t that big a deal in a forest teeming with game. While the large ungulates are common enough, that doesn’t mean we see them daily or that we can even find one when we go hunting.
Two hunters like Jacob and Nicole could easily spend days tracking this single moose and waiting for the right opportunity. A lot of work with no guarantee of success, but with them living near Rockton, they could trade the meat to us and earn two seasons’ worth of varied foodstuffs in return.
“You and Storm stay here,” he says. “Find a thickly wooded spot in case it charges. Also have your spray ready.”
Bear spray instead of my gun, which may sound humane, but it’s just common sense. My chances of fatally shooting a charging moose are not good, whatever my marksmanship.
Dalton starts forward. Storm and I follow at a distance. While I will get into thicker tree cover, as he asked, I also want to be close enough to help if things go wrong.
We slide into a patch of older saplings. Then I peer out to watch as Dalton approaches. He’s staying in the trees, making a lousy target for a full-out charge.
“Brandon!” he says, his voice echoing.
The shout is more for the moose than Brandon, and the beast swings its huge head Dalton’s way. It snorts and licks its lips, which is never a good sign. It’s agitated and unhappy, and having a second human appear isn’t going to make it any happier.
The moose doesn’t charge, though. It peers at Dalton through nearsighted eyes, and its chest quivers as it inhales his scent.
“I’m right here,” Dalton says. “Not coming any closer. I’m no threat to you.”
His voice is firm but gentle, a tone designed to avoid startling the moose. It still paws the ground and swings its antlers in Dalton’s direction. He’s less than ten feet from the beast, close enough to make my heart pound.
I swear I will never see a moose and not think, Holy shit, that thing is huge! I come from southern Ontario, the land of white-tailed deer. Up here, ungulates start at mule deer and get bigger. The moose towers over Dalton. Its knobby legs make it look clumsy and awkward, but if it charges, Dalton won’t be able to outrun it. It’ll knock him down and trample him under a thousand pounds.
I adjust my grip on my gun. I have the bear-spray canister exposed in my holster, but if it charges, it’ll go after Dalton. Bear spray won’t help him from here.
The moose licks its lips again, telling Dalton he’s too close. He backs up a step. I watch for any sign of a charge, but the moose seems to relax, its lowered ears rising.
“Shoot it!” Brandon shouts.
“Yeah, that’ll only piss it off more.”
“You need to do something.”
“Actually, best thing we can do is nothing. Let it calm down and wander off.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Brandon’s voice rises, and the moose flicks its ears in irritation. “It’s the size of a fucking bus, and it charged me. I could have died.”
“You didn’t. Now stop shouting, or you’ll piss it off more. I have a gun, and I have pepper spray. If you really want to do something, come down from the tree and we’ll see what happens.”
Brandon lets out a stream of profanity.
“I’m not joking,” Dalton says. “There’s a thick trunk on that tree. While climbing it was a good idea, you’d have been fine just getting behind it. A moose isn’t agile enough to dart around and attack you.”
“You want me dead.”
Dalton sighs, a sound deep enough that the moose looks over. “Nah. I mean, sure, you nearly killed two people in the last twenty-four hours. I wouldn’t be saying the eulogy at your funeral. But your death right now would be inconvenient. People already expect the worst of us. If we go back and say you died? Attacked by a moose?”
Dalton shakes his head. “No one’s going to buy that. You’re not going to die, Brandon. I’m here with a gun and pepper spray. Casey is nearby with both those plus a very big dog. All this moose wants is for you to go away. Can’t say I blame it. I’d like the same. Not if it means being blamed for your death, though. Now climb down, and stay on the far side of the tree.”
They go through a few more rounds of “You want me dead!” and “No, I don’t.” I keep hoping the moose will lose interest and move on, but if anything, it seems fascinated by the human drama unspooling around it.
Finally, with great caution, Brandon lowers himself to the other side of the tree. The moose doesn’t even seem to notice. It’s looking from him to Dalton as if waiting for them to resume that fascinating exchange of noises.
“There,” Dalton says. “You’re on the ground, and the moose doesn’t care. Unfortunately, it isn’t moving on either. So what we’re going to do is come over to your side—”
Brandon wheels and runs into the forest. The moose lets out an odd little noise of surprise but only watches him go.
“You honestly didn’t expect that?” I say.
Dalton sighs again, loudly, as he retreats toward me. “I tried to give him credit for being a little smarter, but figured my chances were low.”
Dalton continues my way. Through the trees, I watch the moose, which has lowered its massive head to the ground and started eating, as if nothing happened.
“You okay splitting up?” he says. “I think I can run him down.”
I nod, and he loops around the moose. I follow. Brandon is still running. Running loudly, barreling through the forest making more noise than any moose. By the time Storm and I are past the beast—giving it wide berth—Dalton is long gone.
“Follow the crashing,” I mutter to Storm. “No need to bother with a trail.”
I break into a jog, and she does the same. I pick up speed once I’m sure our own crashing won’t startle the moose. Soon I’m at a full run, which for me isn’t exactly lightning fast, given the old damage in my leg. This is why Dalton took lead.