Originally posted August 14, 2018 on Mid-Life Meet Medici.

I did a hiking tour of Cinque Terre, even though I would never call myself a “hiker”. But I loved that trip, and hiking is something I would like to do more. Its been just over two years since I did Cinque Terre, and I’m sorry to say that subsequent hiking adventures have been few and far between. Part of the problem is finding like-minded individuals with coinciding schedules and fitness levels. Earlier this summer, I had the chance to go to Glacier National Park just across the border into Montana, USA, and as part of that trip I got to spend one day hiking. It was glorious, for the same two reasons I so enjoyed hiking the Cinque Terre – beautiful scenery, seen while propelled by your own pumping heart and two feet. It is so wonderful when you can be awed by beauty and forget you’re exercising while doing it! So I resolved to do more, with or without companionship. True to oath, I booked myself a few days at the Island Lake Lodge just outside of Fernie, Alberta, to view some beautiful sights, again self-propelled.

Today, two hours in, as I stood gasping for breath and glaring at the long uphill climb still ahead of me, I thought I had bitten off more than I could chew. I’m not in the shape that I was when I conquered Cinque Terre, why on earth did I think I could handle a four+ hour moderate/advanced trail called the Mount Baldy Loop?

I made to the top and revelled in my success, but honestly, there wasn’t much revelling because I couldn’t find the loop part that would take me down. In retrospect, I think I know where it was. But I decided against it because I wasn’t sure, and I was hesitant because I knew I was tired and yet still had a minimum of 1.5 hours downhill to conquer. So I decided to play it “safe” and went down the same way I had come up.

About one third of the way down the pains and fatigue from my substandard fitness level started to subside, and I started to beat myself up quite badly for not forging ahead into parts unknown. Then at some point, my mind shifted, and instead I start to think, “I can’t believe I climbed UP all of this!”. I was proud. In four hours of hiking there was a reason I had seen only four other people; because this was HARD, people don’t challenge themselves with crazy shit like this.

About ten minutes from the Lodge I started to plan the rest of my day. Then I climbed a small crest and turned a corner, and those thoughts flew out of my mind.

I saw part of a four-legged animal, mostly obscured in the foliage to the right of the trail, and I dived left. Water. I felt it immediately start to fill my shoes, and my knees got scratched as I pushed them into the mud, flattening myself to the ground.

All over the Lodge there were warnings about an aggressive mother moose, accompanied by her two calves. And just to bring home the point, when I had gone into the parking lot to grab my walking stick that morning, there were the calves, banded together like a gangly, awkward teenage gang, lollygagging in the parking lot. There were some curious folks between my vehicle and the calves, so I grabbed my stick, snapped a shot from where I stood, and then headed back to reception to tell them the animals at large were right in their parking lot. The reception area was quite full, and as I said, “the two moose calves are in the parking lot”, people’s eyes lit up as they ran out to see. I went the opposite direction.

Now, five hours later, I laid in a trailside ditch full of running water and waited, thinking of nothing but aggressive moose.

First there was the sound of cracking twigs and branches, but not frenzied, not thrashing. My left hand tightened and loosened on my only salvation, my walking stick, while my right hand bore most of weight. Both feet were at awkward angles, wet and cramping, but I dared not move in case I cracked a twig and made a sound. The flies found me and started biting, but that too was a discomfort largely unnoticed. After awhile, the cracking stick sound lessened, and then became non-existent, and then for a long time (who knows how long it really was?) there was no sound at all. I thought of the mother and her calves, and wondered how close all three of them were together.

Gradually, the tenseness that was in every muscle of my being started to lessen, and I wondered what I should do next. I raised only my head, as high as I could, but couldn’t see any sight of the animal. Had the sound of cracking twigs been the animal moving away? I hadn’t been able to tell at the time. How much noise would I make if I tried to get my cell phone out of my back pack? The Lodge was only about 10 minutes away by foot and I was on a wide trail, wide enough for a vehicle, so if I phoned and asked someone to get me, via, motorized transport, I wouldn’t be putting anyone in danger.

Then I heard it lapping water.

As icy fear ran down spine, my head sagged and I whimpered. The drinking sound was so close I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard it breathing. It had walked closer, not further away,  and was now closer to me on the other side of the trail. And before I even realized what I was doing, I shifted my feet and tried to push myself into the ground even more.

Crack, crack, crack! That noise was caused my me. I cursed myself.

Then it stopped lapping water and twigs started to crack on the other side of the trail. It was moving again! Through the grass, I then saw it looking in my direction as it came up from the other side of the trail. We were not directly across from one another just yet, and there was too much grass for me to tell whether it could see me. I had prayed it was a deer, but when I had initially seen the shape it was more grey than brown, and even then I probably knew. Now I could see the occasional shape of a large grey muzzle, and I simply prayed, over and over, “please don’t let it be looking at me”.

It took a long time to decide what to do. It didn’t really move, but I could hear it, shifting its weight. Maybe it was trying to get a better view. Then it snorted.

“Oh God”. I inwardly sobbed.

As it started to charge, I raised myself slightly, bracing myself on my feet and gripping my stick with both hands. As it came at me, I realized it wasn’t the mother, it was too small, and I was grateful that it was just a calf. I had considered laying on in the ditch and curling into a ball, but seeing that it wasn’t full-grown, I decided immediately to try to hurt it with my walking stick. But it was no gangly, awkward teenager. I watched its powerful shoulders as it galloped towards me, and freaked at it’s powerful hooves. It’s antlers were growing too, probably about the size of my outstretched hand.

I never looked it in the eye. I stared at and aimed right for one nostril, which would have been the first point of contact. I focused on getting that stick right up its nostril and I let out my loudest, strongest, “HEEAW” cry, recalled from the times the domesticated cows had charged me at the farm.

It worked. At the last moment, the calf got scared and swerved, running in front and past, instead of at me. But I had no time to catch my breath, as immediately it came at me from the opposite direction. I never even saw it turn.

Same plan. Stick focused on the nostril, loud, deep attempt at a scream. This time I couldn’t help noticing how beautiful it moved, the shoulder muscles rippling as it glided across the ground.

And again, the moose was the chicken.

As it veered and ran past me, for some unknown reason, this time I jumped up and scrambled upwards. There were still no trees to hide behind, I don’t why I thought a moose wouldn’t be able to climb, but I ran up, waiting to hear frenzied thrashing behind me. I think I must have thought that surely, this time, the mother would come rushing to her calf’s aid, and I wanted to try to hide again. But no sound. I made it about ten feet up, and realizing there were still no trees I could hide behind, I turned and started to crouch in the grass. But still nothing except my own heart hammering in my eardrums. I heard and saw nothing. It was an idyllic day, as though no life had just been in jeopardy.

I crouched and waited. Again, I have no idea how long, but there wasn’t a sound.  I didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t bear the thought of going down and startling it again.

So I got out my cell phone and called the Lodge for help.

The Razor took far too long to arrive. When it finally did, I couldn’t believe how nonchalantly the female passenger jumped out and started to walk around. I came down and ran in, while she still wandered, saying, “no sight of anything”. It was on the way back, describing the animal to her, that I realized it had been a bull calf moose. She was surprised. A fact I had failed to catch from the morning was that the aggressive mother had two female calves. Not that that bit of information would have mattered, I had no idea how big or how many animals were with this one.

So I thanked her and the driver, who said nothing, apologized for dragging them into danger, and listened as she walkie-talkied in that the “rescue had been successful”. She told me she too had once been charged, and the mother moose had knocked her down twice. When I asked what had happened next, she said she didn’t have the energy to get up and then the mother and her calf left. Then they too dropped me and left.

And now, as I sit typing this five feet from the Lodge door, watching people including families with young kids walk to the trail entrance for the lake and other trails, including the one I had been on, part of me feels that I should yell and warn them. But warn them of what? That beautiful creature, that lost our game of chicken, could be long gone by now. And because I don’t think I’ve totally calmed down just yet, I might also look and sound like a crazy lady –especially if they can see my legs, scratched and bitten to hell.

It is even more crazy that I am lamenting the lack of a picture of Snorty. He was definitely older than my gangly parking lot teenage gang. I have studied that picture a lot more tonight than I ever did this morning.

Even though I won the game of chicken, hiking has suffered a setback. No doubt that tomorrow is a beach day, no hiking! I even hope it’s crowded.

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