A Moose for Steve

Steve, of Scooter in the Sticks, commented that he was looking forward to a photo of a moose - the official animal of the State of Maine, on this site. Well, I'm afraid that this is the closest thing I can offer.


Located in front of Cabela's in Scarborough, it's life-size and intimidating. My only encounter with a real moose came when my family - Mom and Dad, brother and sister, and I were vacationing near Baxter State Park, way back in the late 1950s.


Dad was driving on a "tote road," a dirt road used by lumber companies to haul wood out of the forest. I am the oldest of the Keene kids, and I was about eight or nine years old at the time.


Suddenly, a monstrous beast ambled out of the woods in front of our car. "A moose!" said my Dad. "Turn around," ordered my mother.


"Can we pet it?" I asked.


As the moose stood there, blocking our path, and with no room to turn around, Dad ordered all window rolled up, even though this was a typically toasty July day.


"But we'll roast to death," I moaned.


"Better than being stomped to death," said my sister.


Just then, the moose, not fearing the puny-by-comparison vehicle, turned and walked down the road, away from us.


Well, this wasn't acceptable to me, so I asked my father to get closer. He didn't answer. But his scowl indicated that he was willing to just sit in the car, windows up, as his whole family cooked in their own sweat.


In a split second, I made the decision to get a better view of the moose. And since my timid Dad wasn't going to drive closer, I knew I had to bring the beast back.


Leaping from my place in the back seat, I pounded on the horn ring on the steering wheel. (For a timid man, Dad had an impressive grip, which nearly wrenched my arm from my shoulder.


The lecture he was about to deliver was interrupted by the sound of the huge hoof of the moose as it landed angrily on the bumper of our car. I had certainly gotten his attention, and the five of us were most assuredly focused on the obviously upset animal.


"Well, Tommy, do you still want to pet the moose," asked my mother.


I did not.


After a half hour of demonstrating his displeasure both vocally and physically, the moose returned to the forest, and we returned home.


So, Steve, if I'm ever close enough to another moose to take a picture, and if a picture is taken, it will be shot by someone else. And it's likely to be a photo of a fat old man with a cane, running away and screaming like a little girl.