Signs are everywhere. Signs that can be interpreted as good or bad, depending on who is doing the interpreting.
As we move through our daily routines we don’t often notice signs. Within our comfort zones we are just less likely to look for them. But, when we are feeling vulnerable we become hypersensitive and aware. At these times signs suddenly appear out of the woodwork, or in this case, out of the woods.
It was day one of our new life on the last frontier. It had been a long journey to up and move here from “the lower 48” not just in terms of distance, but financially. For example, a smallish box filled with half used but still good bottles of conditioner, body lotion, and gentle exfoliating face scrub to help brighten a dull complexion costs over $50 to ship. That’s almost enough to accept a spouse’s suggestion that those items should be tossed or given away. Almost.
It was a long journey emotionally as well. There were the countless sleepless nights. There were even more numerous rants from my daughter about how we were going to “ruin her childhood.” There were all the “maybe we shouldn’t move” gatherings with friends. And there were the bittersweet dinners with my parents and my husband’s parents where they showed up looking old, and then continued to age at an accelerated speed throughout the evening.
Whatever the obstacles, we decided to come anyway. We had made the trip, and we were just unloading our car in Soldotna, our new home on the Kenai peninsula. We were finally here, but nothing was settled. I was desperate for signs that we had made the right decision.
Because I embrace all that is cliché I rented a classic “Alaskan-style” cabin for our first month in Alaska. Just as the photos promised, the cabin was charming, clean, and had stunning lake views. This was definitely a good sign. And, bonus good sign, the owner left us a canoe to use. I shoved my husband Mark, and my daughter Tatum, towards it and got ready to take a thousand and one post-worthy pics.
Moments later, I was getting what I wanted. The jagged snowcapped mountain peaks in the distance. The mirror like surface of a lake surrounded by trees that doubled in height standing on the shoulders of their own reflections. Sunshine and blue skies, and occasionally, one of those cute little floater planes crossing overhead. And there was my husband and daughter bonding (as in my wildest dreams) as together they steered the canoe. I mean, come on, when it comes to living “the Alaskan dream” it couldn’t get any better than this. Or could it?
Cue the moose.
From the corner of my eye I spot him stepping out into the sunlight from the shadows of the forest. A moose sighting on day one! And the moose was headed our way to give us closer look! Good signs galore.
Foaming at the mouth, I darted around trying to get a shot of my family in the canoe in the same frame as the moose who was now walking along the water, his long thin legs looking too delicate to carry the rest of him. And, indeed his legs did seem a little wobbly.
I thought the moose would walk past at a safe distance, but instead he stopped right in front of our dock, just under the deck to our cabin. It was prime viewing from my spot as well as from the canoe. The three of us watched him standing there.
“I’m ready to get out,” says Tatum.
“We need to wait until he’s gone,” Mark tells her, “moose can be aggressive.”
“But I want to get out now.”
“That moose could kill you!” responds Mark in his classic 0 to 60 style, “do you want to die!?”
Tatum starts paddling forward, Mark starts paddling backwards.
“Stop it!” She whines
“No, you stop it!”
“He’ll move on in a second,” I assure everyone.
The moose sits down.
He starts to nibble on the leaves of a nearby bush, but it seems to me to be more out of habit than hunger. He stops nibbling, and sits there breathing very heavily. I have never seen a moose this close, but there is something wrong with this one. He seems to be struggling to hold his head up.
After a moment he lays the rest of his body down, his head flat against the grass and face looking up towards me. I would say he is looking directly at me but his pupils have engulfed the white of his eyes. Hard to know what he is focused on, if anything. He snorts in despair.
Crap, I think this moose is dying.
Seeing it too, my husband and daughter have called a paddle truce and are now sitting quietly in a slow spin.
“I don’t think you have to worry about the moose,” I tell Mark, “you can come in.”
“What’s wrong with him mom?”
I text the owner of the cabin who happens to be in fire and rescue, “I think there is a moose dying next to the cabin.” He suggests that the moose is probably just resting. I text him a photo. He tells me he will be right over.
“Did someone shoot him?!” Tatum asks. She is against anyone owning much less using a gun, and that includes hunters. Post-Parkland shooting she was active in the “Never Again” movement, participating in her school walk out. She went to a rally in Denver, marching with her homemade sign that read, “Help, we are hostages of the NRA!” I expect that her views of gun ownership will help to shape the ongoing debate concerning all the injustices recently heaped upon her. Not only has she been forced to switch schools in her sophomore year, she has been forced to move to a particularly gun-friendly state.
“I don’t think he was shot,” I quickly say, “maybe he’s sick.”
“Plus moose hunting season hasn’t started yet,” Mark says, “And, it is illegal to shoot such a young moose, look at his antlers, the antlers need to at least have three prongs on each end.”
I’ve stopped asking myself how my husband knows anything he knows.
The canoe is now docked and Mark and Tatum walk past the moose who doesn’t even lift his head. Tatum stops and stares at him sadly. She knows.
“Come on Tatum,” Mark says, “let’s go to the grocery store.”
Tatum doesn’t move.
“You can get Cheez-its.”
The word “Cheez-its” turns out to be the word that cracks her frozen horror. “Okay,” she says and escapes up the stairs.
“Who knows how long he was walking, probably got hit by a car,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” Mark says, “but if it’s not that and he’s sick, no one should eat the meat.”
(Note: there is actually a call list one can sign up for to get free moose road kill meat https://pokingthebear.org/the-roadkill-list/)
I waited on the deck for the homeowner. The moose didn’t have long, his breaths were much more shallow now. Ugh.
I suspect most would say seeing death on your first day in a new home is a bad omen, but I couldn’t afford to agree. Not for myself, and not for my daughter who was going to come back with all kinds of new reasons as to why we should go back to Boulder. I needed to turn this around somehow. If this couldn’t be manipulated into a good sign I was at least going to make it into a meaningful sign, and meaningful is better than good anyway. Right? Right.
So, let’s break it down. Given my vulnerable state, why did the universe send me such beautiful creature only for it to die at my feet? What was the take away supposed to be? I looked into the moose’s huge black eyes for answers but all I got back was a vibe that read, “Um, this isn’t about you.” Which wasn’t helpful at all.
Then it came to me! It was a lesson I learned years ago when I was dealt a bad card, literally. I was 14-years-old and accompanying my dad on his business trip to New Orleans. Not able to partake in any of the adult fun, I wandered the streets looking for something to do. I turned down one alley and saw a sign that read, “Tarot Reader.” I was intrigued. Soon I was sitting at a kitchen table across from a woman who surprised me by looking less like a Big Easy mystic and more like a suburban soccer mom. Belted jeans and I think a tucked-in polo shirt. Anyway, we were in the middle of what was a fantastic reading: it turns out I would be rich and famous and find great love! But then, I was dealt the Death card.
Flipping over a tarot card and seeing the word DEATH below the image of a skeleton is unnerving even if you don’t believe in any of it, but soccer mom was quick to comfort me. She explained the card wasn’t necessarily bad, it just meant that there will be transition. Death marks the end of one chapter, and the beginning of another. Death can be very good, in fact. I remember her telling me something like how I was about to embark on an amazing adventure. In any case, I walked away feeling that my $30, a lot of money for a teenager in the 80s, had been very well spent. That soccer mom was good.
The eyes of the moose were becoming duller, his breathing very shallow. I didn’t know if it was more inappropriate to stay or leave, neither felt right. I decided no creature deserves to go out on the image of my exhausted and bloated-from-air travel face. So, I said a little prayer, then retreated back across the deck far enough to where I could only see his hind legs. After about thirty seconds, one leg suddenly kicked out and then kicked again. Then all was still. It was the end for him and a transition for both of us.
If interested in knowing how the moose died, check out “What Happens to Hunters Who Break the Law?”
Also, unfortunately it was decided that the moose was inedible. https://pokingthebear.org/the-roadkill-list/
