Category Archives: Moose

what is this

A Moose Rub

Do you know what this is?

  • 54″ off the ground
  • made by one creature
  • it is either tall, climbs or flies
Moose rub

A big moose rubbed his antlers against these trees creating what’s called a “rub.”

Reading on Writers Forum

Ellie O’Leary invited me to be a guest on Writers Forum on WERU last week. I read two stories, both based on experiences I’ve had outdoors. One story starts out in a tree stand and takes a turn you won’t see coming. The second is an entry from my nature journal. Elizabeth Garber, the 2006 Poet Laureate of Belfast, was also a guest. You can listen to the show here.

Crack! Finally. The sound I’d been waiting for. Something heavy stepped on one of the dead trees crossing the path to the right of the barrel. “Please get here in time,” I thought. It was so far out I was sure it was coming from the edge of the bog. Time was running short. I heard one more crack, this time right behind me on the road. This was not what I was expecting. The bear was coming in behind me. Except, it wasn’t a bear.

From my nature journal:

We waited, not moving. She watched. We waited. She watched. She wasn’t relaxing, and we didn’t want to scare her away. And then the excitement began. Her attention was drawn from us to something we couldn’t see. There was something beyond the doe, at the edge of the field or maybe still in the trees, that concerned her. We were able to lean closer to the window to watch. To our right, a moose grunted. “Did you hear that noise? That’s a moose grunting. It’s the beginning of the rut.”

Scott's bull moose.

A Successful Moose Hunt

I knew where I wanted to hunt for partridge this morning. It’s a place in Waite I was sure Tammy, who is new to the area, hadn’t been. There’s a clear cut that’s in the process of regenerating. There are acres of open land dotted with hardwood coppice, small jack and white pine, and some fir trees. The jack pine plantation was cut a few years ago. I thought we might find some birds there, and I had an ulterior motive. We might find moose hunters. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to interview and photograph a successful moose hunter.

Tammy mentioned Scott Harriman has a permit to moose hunt this week but she didn’t know where he might be. We talked about how many people it must take to load a moose and how it was done.

We drove out Bingo Road in Waite, past Dwelley’s gravel pit, and into the woods. It didn’t take long to see headlights through the mist. Someone was coming toward me on the narrow road. I backed up and pulled off to the side to make room for the vehicle. I waited a couple of minutes but it didn’t show up so I drove to meet them. “I think we have hunters,” I told Tammy.

They were finished with the hunt. We pulled up just in time to see Scott Harriman of Baileyville jump out of his truck. In a flash, Jeff Tomah drove an ATV onto the trailer behind Scott’s truck. Jeff pulled Scott’s moose behind him, neatly parking the ATV and moose on the trailer.

13 pt bull moose

Scott Harriman’s 13 point, 599 pound bull moose

Ryan Lincoln of Baileyville joined Scott and McKenna for the hunt. McKenna is Scott’s daughter and the subpermittee on his hunt. She’s 10 years old. This is the first year she’s old enough to hunt. What a way to start out. Scott, McKenna and Ryan were in the woods very early this morning, long before sunrise. They checked their watches, waiting for the beginning of legal hunting time. They saw eight cows and a bull in the same place yesterday. The bull was too far away and unwilling to leave the cow he was interested in to answer their calls.

They called and waited. It didn’t take long. They spotted the bull coming across the clearing near two jack pines. Scott pulled the trigger and claimed his moose at 7:05 am. The ATV was unloaded and they dragged the moose closer to the road. Roger Harriman, Scott’s uncle, and Jeff Tomah came out to help. McKenna watched as they field dressed the moose. Tammy asked her if it was a little gross. McKenna nodded.

Scott's 13 point, 599 pound bull moose

Scott’s 13 point, 599 pound bull moose

We went with Scott, McKenna and Ryan to Waite General Store when they tagged the moose. Wayne Seidl, co-owner of the store, measured the moose’s antlers, pulled a tooth, and recorded Scott’s license and permit numbers. He made note of whether the antlers are palmated (they are) or servicorn (like a deer’s antlers), and estimated the age. The bull field dressed at 699 pounds.

Congratulations to Scott, McKenna and Ryan on a successful hunt!

Bull moose

Calling All Moose

This story originally appeared in Robin’s Outdoors and the print edition of Bangor Daily News last week.

Calling all moose! Or at least two moose. That’s what I did yesterday. Around 9:45 am, while picking the last of the corn in the garden, I heard excited voices from what sounded like a nearby dirt road. I couldn’t understand them but the excitement was unmistakable. I grabbed my camera, pen and paper and jumped in the truck in search of successful hunters. I drove half or three-quarters of a mile out West Lake Road to a small intersection and stopped to listen. I didn’t see or hear anyone. I drove a short distance further, listened again and turned around to come home.

I’ve done a little moose calling here at home. There’s nobody around to hear or see me so it doesn’t matter if I make a complete fool of myself. I’m learning. I’m not great at grunting but apparently, I’m not terrible at it either.

What the heck. There wasn’t anyone around to see me. I parked the truck just past a small four way intersection. I stood in the middle of the West Lake Road with a gravel side road in front of me and an overgrown grassy road behind, and I grunted. Nothing. I grunted again, this time a little deeper and louder. Still nothing. I looked up and down the road to be sure I didn’t have an audience. One more time, then I needed to get back to the garden. “Wuh. Wuh. Wuh.”

I heard the sharp snap of a branch giving way under pressure from beyond the gravel road. “Wuh Wuh.” I thought I saw a little movement. “Wuh wuh wuh.” More movement.

Oh my gawd. Now what? I don’t have a moose permit. I couldn’t do anything with this moose. I debated with myself for a few seconds. Keep doing this or quit? I wasn’t sure of the right thing to do. The only way I can shoot a moose is with my Canon. Keep grunting or get back in the truck?

I grunted again.

I waited but he didn’t step into sight. I realized he had to have seen me standing there in the middle of the road. I was kind of goofing off. I didn’t expect to be close enough to a moose to be heard, and I especially didn’t think it was going to answer me. I walked back to the safety of the truck and grunted again. I didn’t see him for the next five or six minutes. I grunted, and got my camera out and ready to go. While I waited, I called my uncle. His brother-in-law and nephew are here to hunt. I left voice mail telling him exactly where I was, and that I was watching a small bull.

I couldn’t see or hear the moose so I took a few steps toward the intersection to see if he’d gone back into the trees. He was there, almost to the main dirt road. I grunted and this time he grunted back. Ohh! I wasn’t expecting that. I love an adrenaline rush! I took a few steps backward to the open truck door. He came close enough to the road to see him through saplings growing on the corner, then walked into the middle of the road.

Two year old bull moose

A five point bull moose.

Bull moose with five points

He has servicorn antlers. He walked into the road like he didn’t have a care in life.

He wasn’t at all interested in me and wandered off the road and disappeared into the woods. He did at least look over his shoulder when I said “Watch out for hunters!”

5 point bull moose

He was less impressed by me than I was by him. He casually wandered off into the tall grass and disappeared through the trees.

The entire adventure took about 10 minutes from when I heard the first crack until he walked away. I spent very little time actually watching him but it was still very exciting! I need more practice grunting. I’ve worked on a cow call, and though I haven’t mastered it, it’s respectable. A bull grunted at my call Thursday evening last week.

Why Do You Hunt?

“Why do you hunt” he asked, or more like accused. “The deer belong to everyone and you shouldn’t be shooting them.” He was making a statement with a question mark placed at the end of his sentence.

Let’s clear up his first misconception. I “…shouldn’t be shooting them.” I’m not. Yet. I’m working on it. We have a very low deer population in northeastern Maine. Finding a “shooter” is a lot of work and not something I’ve done successfully yet.  I promised I won’t shoot his deer.

It’s a valid question even coming from a man who couldn’t answer my question. “Why do you eat animals that have been treated cruelly in factory farms?” He blinked. blink blink

blink

I’m not a purist now but I used to be. We do occasionally eat factory farmed meat. We go out to eat and eat meat when invited to have supper in friends’ homes. I wasn’t poking sticks at him. I wanted him to think about why he eats the way he does. I pointed out that regardless of who pulls the trigger, he’s responsible for the deaths of animals. Whether I do it or he has someone do it for him, dead is dead. We’re given two Thanksgiving turkeys (even though we raise our own) and Christmas and Easter hams from factory farms.

blink

I’m sure he’s given my question some thought. Mission accomplished.

So why do I hunt?

  1. I am a meat eater. That’s not going to change. I make no excuses for and have no need to justify being a meat eater.
  2. Personal responsibility. We raise chickens, ducks and turkeys. We used to raise a steer and pigs each year. We having laying hens, both chicken and duck, for eggs. I won’t touch a factory farmed egg. Having humanely raised and slaughtered meat matters to me. I love partridge, venison, moose, bear and caribou. Hunting is as normal to me as having a garden to provide our own vegetables.
    I accept responsibility for the deaths I cause. Vegetarians and vegans cause animal deaths, and most I know accept that as a necessary part of eating. Fawns left in fields by their mothers are killed by heavy equipment harvesting plants. Rabbits, birds, mice, deer, moose and other animals are killed for the sake of growing plants. There are so many moose in Aroostook County, an area that produces potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower and other commodity crops, that there’s a special hunt to control the population and protect crops.
  3. Ethics. I don’t want to support factory farming. The thought of an animal as intelligent as a pig being raised inside, on concrete, crammed in a cage too small to turn around in, without seeing sunshine or blue sky, breaks my heart.
  4. I want to know what I’m eating. I don’t want artificial hormones, unnecessary antibiotics to make a bird grow faster (the industry answer to not using hormones in poultry), or necessary antibiotics to keep animals “healthy” in poor living conditions.
  5. I love being part of nature. Yes, I can do that without hunting, and I do. I am more a part of nature, the food chain, by hunting.
  6. I am creating a new family tradition: women who hunt. I’m the first woman to hunt in my family. My sister Tammy has followed in my footsteps and sister Melissa might, too. My daughter Taylor will hunt. I don’t think Kristin, my oldest daughter, will hunt but she’s supportive of what I do.
  7. I love a challenge. Finding a track, following it through the woods or down the road, losing it, finding it again, listening for movement or blows–it’s a challenge. Becoming a good shot with rifles and shotguns is a challenge. It takes practice. Maintaining marksmanship is a challenge. I’ve conquered my fear of heights by climbing ladders into various tree stands.
  8. Exercise. Put on boots, long johns, warm pants, cotton shirt, insulated turtleneck, shirt, hunting coat, required fluorescent vest if your coat isn’t hunter orange, and required orange hat. Carry a rifle (I most often use my Browning BAR .308 with scope) that weighs 6.75 pounds, add the weight of the scope. Walk up, down and across ridges looking for signs. Climb over and crawl under downed trees (safely of course). Do that for six hours. It beats driving to a gym to run nowhere on a treadmill. I reserve the treadmill for winter when the weather doesn’t allow outdoor activities.
  9. Education. Have I ever gotten an education. I’ve learned sounds, appearance, habits and habitat of the animals and birds I hunt and those that are around when I’m hunting. I’m positive I know more about the moose that walks the path to the right of a field I hunt in, crosses behind me, and walks in the woods on the left side of the field most of the 118 yard length of the field before going back into the woods than most people know about the cow they’ll be eating for supper tonight. Did you know doe deer will rise up on their back legs and box each other? The sound of crashing hooves is amazing. Shrews follow the same path under the tree stand I most often use when bear hunting.

Not a shooter.

I love to wild harvest my food. There’s far more responsibility in wild harvesting than in walking down the aisle of the grocery store. I dislike grocery stores. I’m counting down the days til bear season opens, followed by bird, followed by deer. We don’t have a fall turkey season in my district but I’ve been invited to hunt on a friend’s land in another district. I think I’ll take him up on it.

10. Hunters and other outdoors men and women who buy licenses, permits and stamps to hunt contribute to 95% of the budget for Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife that doesn’t come from taxes. IF&W is mostly funded by outdoorsmen and women, not our taxes. We financially support wildlife conservation, game wardens who work to keep the wildlife safer, forestry, research and more.

 

Campfire Cooking – Moose Stew in a Dutch Oven

Independence Day was cool, gray and sometimes rainy. We skipped the usual cookout fare of burgers, hotdogs and salads for moose stew. I packed carrots, potatoes, an onion, two pounds of moose stew meat in the cooler. Steve had charcoal briquettes and lighter fluid in the truck. We loaded kayaks and supplies and made our way upta camp.

Cooking in a Dutch oven outdoors over coals is simple. It takes a little practice to get the temperature and timing right. If you use too many coals your oven gets too hot; too few and it’s not hot enough. Timing is the same as with an electric or propane oven—too long and food burns, not long enough and it’s under cooked.

Light the briquettes and let burn until they’re gray.

Choose a safe spot. I used the concrete fire pad we have at camp. I’d rather use wood coals but didn’t want to tend to a fire so we brought charcoal briquettes and lighter fluid to keep it simple. I used a six quart, 12” Dutch oven. To create a 350* oven you need 12 briquettes on bottom and 14 on the cover. Use a cover that is flat and has a lip around the edge. It’s helpful to have legs on the oven to allow air flow and not smother the briquettes. I heat extra briquettes in case I need them. Pile them up, add lighter fluid and light. The coals are ready to use when they’re gray. If you can hold your hand 6” above the coals for five seconds they aren’t hot enough.

Moose meat, potatoes, carrots, onions, seasoning, bouillon cubes because I was out of pre-made broth, and hot water.

Brown the meat as usual in a little olive oil. Add your usual soup/stew ingredients, cover with hot water and put the cover on. I use hot water to avoid cooling the hot cast iron. Place 14 hot briquettes or the equivalent in wood coals on the cover. The coals don’t reheat themselves like an oven does so don’t remove the cover and let the heat out until you think your meal is nearly done cooking.

Add approximately 14 briquettes to the Dutch oven’s lid and leave undisturbed until the stew is almost done cooking. I used extra briquettes because of mist and light rain hitting the Dutch oven.

My stew took an hour from browning to being almost finished. I dumped the coals from the lid, took the oven off the bottom heat and put it aside. The carrots finished cooking and the stew stayed warm until we were ready to eat. I left my camera at <gasp> home and the phone battery died so I don’t have a picture of the finished stew. It was a delicious one-pot meal. Donna made homemade biscuits (we’ll make them in another campfire cooking installment) and strawberry pie to top off the meal. We ate well!

Use a lid lifter to pick up the hot lid without disturbing the briquettes.

Comparison: Deer and Moose Track

This is a great size comparison between a moose and deer.

Moose and deer tracks

 

Young cow moose

Dirt Roads, a Swimming Mole and Moose

The sun was out yesterday morning. I swear I could hear the dirt roads calling. “Come out for a ride. You know you want to.” I filled the CamelBak with cold water and lime slices, got the bag of almonds to munch on and grabbed the camera.

I went to Democrat Ridge first, discovered wet road and not wanting to get stuck again, turned around. I like to think I learn when my escapades don’t turn out well. The first few miles of West Lake Road were so uneventful that I was happy to find a pond with pollywogs.

Pollywogs

Pollywogs nibble at the empty egg mass.

I watched them for a few minutes, scanning the edge of the pool for frogs so to find out what kind of pollywogs these are. No luck though. The one frog I did see didn’t catch my eye until it splashed into the water and hid under leaves. The pool was made by heavy equipment working on a logging operation. Pollywogs aren’t incredibly exciting and didn’t hold my attention for long. I drove further out, passing the turn off to West Musquash Lake. It warmed up enough to open the sunroof and put the windows down. Hearing is an important tool when you’re outdoors. Listen to the activity around you: rustling in the brush and trees, hoots, howls and splashes. If you only look you’ll miss a lot.

I glanced into a small stream as I crossed a wooden bridge just in time to see a star nosed mole swimming up stream under water. I think of moles as underground creatures, not underwater. It was amazing. It darted upstream, bouncing off rocks. I watched for five or six seconds until it found the stream bank and disappeared. I learned something yesterday. Moles can swim.

My next stop was a tiny bog where I’ve been meaning to take pictures of a beaver feed bed. Feeding beds are piles of saplings cut down and stacked up for a food source.

A beaver food plot

I knelt down to take the picture and heard a sharp crack in the woods. I stayed still and watched while chastising myself for wearing a bright coral shirt that made me easy to see. A moose walked from the back of the little bog toward me and another move across the back of the bog. I noticed a set of fresh moose tracks crossing the road, into the soft sand and gravel and disturbed bushes into the woods but didn’t think too much of it at the time.

A fresh moose track on the road.

A track in the soft sand and gravel of the edge of the road.

It should have occurred to me when I spied this track that there was a moose behind me. Should have, but didn’t.

Can you see the disturbed brush where the moose walked?

I walked back to the Jeep parked 15′ away, and continued to listen. That’s where I was when I heard the moose behind me. hmmm… these are very large, very wild, unpredictable creatures. I had one forward and slightly to the right, one forward and now to the left, and one behind me to the right. One or two might be calves though it seemed unlikely that a cow would cross the road and leave her calf or calves behind. The track going into the woods was from an adult moose.

Staying in that spot wasn’t an option. As much as I wanted to see and photograph the moose, I know better than to keep myself in a potentially dangerous situation. I drove 150′ ahead, parked and listened. Nothing. I could safely be there and watch for a moose crossing the road, and get a few photos. I got out, took the cap off the lens and heard another crack to my left, the same side of the road as the bog. I closed the door quietly and looked through the trees.

I’d parked at the edge of a clearing. A cow moose walked out of the woods, into the tall raspberry bushes. At first she didn’t seem too concerned with me. We watched each other, barely moving.

A cow moose watches me through the bushes.

The moose

She stepped out from behind the bushes. It went well at first. I was respectful of her and she didn’t seem too concerned about me. Isn’t she beautiful? They’re often thought of as ugly but really, look at that cute tail and face. I think this is a two year old. She looks very big from this angle but from behind she’s clearly still young and gangly.

A noise in the woods concerned her.

But then the moose on the opposite side of the road walked through the trees, snapping a branch and catching her attention. She laid her ears back and started to leave. Moose press their ears back the same way horses do. Body language is very important when observing wildlife. I stepped back to the Jeep and stood between the seat and door.

The moose on the opposite side of the road stayed in the trees behind the clearing. This moose crossed the road and I assume that she joined the other moose when she walked back into the woods. The third moose, on the same side of the road, came to the clearing but didn’t step out where I could see it.I left, feeling sure I was the reason it wasn’t crossing. I want to observe as much as possible but I don’t want to cause a lot of stress.

Moose will always be one of my favorite animals, second to black bears. Moose are moving a lot right now because of the heavy black fly activity. They move into clearings to allow the wind to blow the black flies away. Be careful on the road. Moose don’t look both ways before crossing, especially when the flies are driving them crazy.

Black Fly Writers Retreat

I spent four days at the Black Fly Writers Retreat last week, and wow, what a time! We arrived Thursday afternoon. Joshua Bodwell, the director of Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance, was there to greet me. Being the first to arrive, I had time to get to know Joshua a little before the other participants rolled in. It was great. He’s a nice guy, and put me at ease quickly. This was my first retreat and my first “outing” as a fiction writer, and I didn’t know anyone there.

 

A cabin at Shoreline Camps in Grand Lake Stream, Maine

Shoreline Camps in Grand Lake Stream, Maine is beautiful. It’s clean and comfortable, and it has the conveniences of home minus the washer and dryer. We sat on the deck of the instructors’ cabin, a foot from the high water line, and visited, adding chairs as writers arrived.

We had dinner at Weatherby’s Lodge in Grand Lake Stream.  Why does wine taste better when you’re on the back porch of a gorgeous place like Weatherby’s Lodge? Jeff McEvoy is a fun host. They have a new chef and she is fantastic! Meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes and black beans mixed with corn, herbs and spices was excellent. Meatloaf and gourmet can belong in the same sentence. We drove the few miles to Weatherby’s for dinner each night.

Workshops at the retreat covered fiction and memoir. Cynthia Thayer was the fiction instructor. She’s as down to earth as it gets. Cynthia and her husband Bill own Darthia Farm in Gouldboro. When I told her I’d been struggling to write a rough draft of a novel for class…from an outline…she said (cleaned up to keep this semi-G rated) “no wondering you’re effing up.” Monica Wood lead the memoir writers’ group. I hope she comes back as the fiction instructor next year.

Cynthia gave us writing prompts each day and homework each night. she helped me work out my right brain vs left brain battle. I’ve been writing non-fiction for a long time, a good thing for a left brainer. Loosening up my creativity is hard but with Cynthia’s help, I’m getting better with free form and not thinking through every single word before I put it on paper. “Stop analyzing and write,” she’d say. She knew when I was struggling. Friday and Saturday afternoons were spent writing and socializing.

Big Lake, from Shoreline Camps

I sat at a picnic table by a fireplace and enjoyed the view while I wrote. The assignment for Friday night: a short story starting with “She took her suitcase with her…” I lost the suitcase at the start of the second sentence but the prompt was useful because it made me think. What would I take in a suitcase? I seldom travel far enough to need a suitcase but I often take a backpack. My short story was the encounter I had with two bull moose in rut early last fall. Yes, it was non-fiction, but isn’t fiction writing a story of real life in some way? I turned my reality into a short piece of fiction…and it sucked. I knew it wasn’t great but Deb, Sybil and Cynthia were the only people on the face of the earth who would hear me read the story, and they’d give me feedback.

Something said Thursday night stayed with me all weekend. “I hate outdoors writing and I hate reading it.” It was said with force.

I went home Thursday and Friday nights. There were too many things I needed to do at home Friday and Saturday mornings. I did go back to the retreat after dinner Thursday night to hear readings by Cynthia and Monica. It didn’t occur to me, being inexperienced and uninformed, that writers would be giving readings before the weekend ended. I should have known. Really, I should have. That was a duh moment I will not repeat. Sunday morning is usually slow around the farm so I took Deb Gould and Sybil Masquelier, my fiction classmates, up on their offer to stay the night with them.

We gathered in the memoir writers’ cabin after Saturday night’s dinner. Everyone drew numbers except me. Until Saturday morning I’d never read anything fictional that I’ve written to anyone. Nothing. I hadn’t shared anything fictional other than a children’s story that I’d written until about a month ago when I let a few close friends read an assignment from class. What did I have to read? The damned moose story, complete with “wuh wuh wuh,” the sound bull moose make when in rut and looking for love or meeting up with a rival.

“I hate outdoors writing and I hate reading it.”

Crap. I wished I’d written about the neon pink Jesus statue with Eight Ball type answers in its feet, offered earlier by Cynthia as a prompt. Yes, seriously, a fortune-telling neon pink Jesus.

“I hate outdoors writing and I hate reading it.”

“You have to read.”  “You should read!” ‘You’re going to read, aren’t you?”

When the last reader finished, eyes turned to me. I kept my eyes down but I could see them looking at me.

“I hate outdoors writing and I hate reading it.”

Screw it. A graphic that floats around Facebook reminded me that there are seven billion people on this earth and I shouldn’t let one person’s opinion ruin something. I read the story. I was nervous and self-edited as I read. This person might hate outdoors writing but I heard her gasp and out of the corner of my eye I saw her lean forward. I evoked emotion from someone who hates my genre. Bonus points for me!

I learned a lot. I met wonderful people. Black Fly Writers Retreat will return to Shoreline Camps next year and I will be there with something of much better quality to read.

Molunkus Stream Camps, Day Three

A spider web in early morning sunshine

Day Three

We didn’t want to leave camp and avoided talking about it. After another leisurely morning sipping coffee on the porch steps, watching ducks in the stream, we headed out to explore again. More mushrooms, flowers, caterpillars and oops, poison ivy. “What’s that saying about poison ivy,” I asked.

“Leaves of three, stay away from me,” she replied.

“Crap.” I was up to my knees in it. I backed out. Back at camp later, I peeled them off, inside out and put them into a plastic bag. One poison ivy rash in my life was enough.

“Let’s have your big lunch later, pack up and go to the stand. We can leave to go home from there.” Tammy made fried chicken, new potatoes and fried okra for lunch. Delicious! It didn’t take long to pack the Jeep, clean camp and leave.

The first hour in the observation stand was quiet, then Tammy spotted a large, dark-colored doe walking into the left side of the field. She grazed way to the apple tree. I couldn’t tell if she was eating apples or leaves. Healthy, large, beautifully colored and moving with grace and ease through tall grasses to get get to a patch of clover; she was perfect. She must have heard one of us move. Her head snapped up and she started into the eight foot long window of the observation deck. We froze. She knew we were there.

We waited, not moving. She watched. We waited. She watched. She wasn’t relaxing and we didn’t want to scare her away. And then the excitement began. A noise drew her attention from us to something we couldn’t see. There was something past the doe, at the edge of the field or maybe still in the trees. We were able to step closer to the window to watch. To our right, a moose grunted. “Did you hear that noise,” I asked Tammy. She did. “That’s a moose.”

Where to watch? The doe, still frozen and staring at something, or to the right where a moose might step into the clearing. A branched cracked under the moose’s feet. It was walking parallel to the clearing, still far enough into the trees that we couldn’t see it. Our attention went back to the doe.

When deer are angry they “blow.” The doe blew once, stomping a front foot at the same time. A light-colored, large doe stepped into sight. Ahhhh. She’s the problem. The first doe blew again. A stare-off lasted a few minutes. Did one or the other blink? Something happened. They charged each other, rearing up on hind legs, still running. I thought they were going to bang heads. AsI flinched at the expectation of banging heads, both turned slightly and hooves started flying. We could hear hooves clashing together. It ended quickly and both does were on four feet again.

The lighter doe disappeared from sight, followed by the darker doe. Directly to our left, something large, probably the moose, stepped on another branch. A sharp crashing sound made the doe blow again. Before the excitement was over, she blew a total of nine times. We didn’t see them again but followed them by sound up the slope and into the woods. It was getting dark. Time to go home and wait impatiently for our next adventure in the Maine woods.