A Walk in the Woods

There didn't seem much point in trying to reason with him. When we reached the camp
and he was putting up his tent I looked into his pack. He had thrown away nearly all his
spare clothes and, it appeared, a good deal of the food.
"Where's the peanuts?" I said. "Where's all your Slim Jims?"
"We didn't need all that shit. It's only three days to Monson."
"Most of that food was for the Hundred Mile Wilderness, Stephen. We don't know what
kind of supplies there'll be in Monson."
"Oh." He looked struck and contrite. "I thought it was a lot for three days."
I looked despairingly in the pack and then looked around. "Where's your other water
bottle?"
He looked at me sheepishly. "I threw it."
"You threw a water bottle?" This was truly staggering. If there is one thing you need
on the trail in August, it is lots of water.
"It was heavy."
"Of course it's heavy. Water's always heavy. But it is also kind of vital, wouldn't you
say?"
He gave me a helpless look. "I just had to get rid of some weight. I was desperate."
"No, you were stupid."
"Yeah, that too," he agreed.
"Stephen, I wish you wouldn't do these things."
"I know," he said and looked sincerely repentant.
While he finished putting up his tent, I went off to filter water for the morning. Baker
Stream was really a river--broad, clear, and shallow--and very beautiful in the glow of a
summery evening, with a backdrop of overhanging trees and the last rays of sunlight
sparkling its surface. As I knelt by the water, I became curiously aware of something--
some thing--in the woods beyond my left shoulder, which caused me to straighten up and
peer through the clutter of foliage at the water's edge. Goodness knows what impelled me
to look because I couldn't have heard anything over the musical tumult of water, but
there about fifteen feet away in the dusky undergrowth, staring at me with a baleful
expression, was a moose--full grown and female, or so I presumed since it had no antlers.
It had evidently been on its way to the water for a drink when it was brought up short by
my presence and now clearly was undecided what to do next.
It is an extraordinary experience to find yourself face-to-face in the woods with a wild
animal that is very much larger than you. You know these things are out there, of course,
but you never expect at any particular moment to encounter one, certainly not up close--
and this one was close enough that I could see the haze of flealike insects floating in
circles about its head. We stared at each other for a good minute, neither of us sure what
to do. There was a certain obvious and gratifying tang of adventure in this, but also
something much more low-key and elemental--a kind of respectful mutual
acknowledgment that comes with sustained eye contact. It was this that was
unexpectedly thrilling--the sense that there was in some small measure a salute in our
cautious mutual appraisal. I was smitten.
I had recently read to my dismay that they have started hunting moose again in New
England. Goodness knows why anyone would want to shoot an animal as harmless and
retiring as the moose, but thousands of people do--so many, in fact, that states now hold