Of Moose and Men...

I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.

I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.