Moose
The Bulkley Valley has always been famous for
the fabulous numbers of moose it contains, and more famous because of
its
influx of moose hunters from many parts of the world.
Even more drastic and colourful than the story of the huge fish
that got away, are some of the moose stories.
It was a cold day and raining hard on the roof
of Houston’s Idlewilde Cafe, where a half dozen moose hunters were
gathered. In this little town of
Houston, B.C. two of the world’s biggest sawmills operate; consequently
a
multitude of logging roads penetrate new wilderness moose areas.
It was the moose rutting time. The
time when sexual excitement in the bull
moose brings about radical often dangerous and unpredictable behaviour.
I sat apart and watched the half dozen hunters
who all seemed to be listening to the tales of one fellow whose
gestures were
emphatic. Once he clasped his hands in
a praying form and with a humble head-shaking look, he froze the others
attention like a trained money begging cleric.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet and saying, “See
you later men,” he went to the bathroom.
The other five walked past me and I heard various remarks. Big red faced fellow said, “It’s just wind. It’s too far fetched to be true.”
Another fellow said, “I don’t know, he sounded
convincing.”
A third said, “He’s a professional story
teller. He should write stories for
money.” They laughed as they went out
the door.
I sat still and the storyteller came from the
bathroom. Being curious; before he
passed me, I said, “Please, Sir, if you know this area, please tell me
what
road I might go on to take a moose picture.”
He tipped his hat back, looked hard at me and
sat down on the seat facing me. For a
minute he said nothing and scrutinized me with such intensity I felt
squirmy. After the whole minute passed he
said, “There
are lots and lots of moose here.” He
stopped talking and closing one eye tight and raising the other eyebrow
he
finally said, “A hunting guide southeast of here took out a snow white
moose. It was not an albino.
It had brown eyes and white feet. Albino’s
don’t have that, there are more
white moose in there because they are living in an area that is never
hunted.” Sucking in a long breath he shut
both eyes
and asked, “You wouldn’t shoot a white moose? Would you?”
Before I could answer he whispered, “I saw a
big bull in that area recently. If I
told you the area they live in, you wouldn’t go in there and shoot one
would
you?”
Imitating his clerics stance I imbedded my most
holy look and with self-convincing voice I whispered loud, “I should
say
not! I should say not!”
This was my political expression of
seemingly factual statement.
With head real low twisting it right around,
evidently making sure no one would hear, he whispered, “I know of an
area not
far from here where there is a species of moose, totally unknown and
totally
unrecorded except by me and my wife, we’ve seen them; big huge ones and
smaller
ones.”
He stopped, so I came back real low, “What
special features make this moose so different?
Then I twisted my head right around like he had, as if I wanted
to be
sure no one could hear.
“Sonny,” he whispered, “There are many
things. They have a much longer leaner
face than our moose. They grow
extremely large, twice as big as our moose.
They have a little tiny round bell, not a tuft like our moose.” With the scrutiny of a many-seasoned
psychiatrist he focused on my right eye for a minute and said, “You
won’t tell
anyone where this species live if I tell you?”
“I should say not! I should say
not!” I
whispered back, clasping the back of his hand.
“Look!” he said out loud, “I think you’re an
honest Joe! So I’ll tell you the big
bang of this story. These moose grow a
big fuzzy like mane, and it stands straight up. It’s
black as tar and it runs from right from behind their ears
to the flat of their back. One evening
just before dark my wife and I sat watching ducks and geese in a little
lake. We go there often.
It’s an area where hunters never go. This
is where this strange moose species
live and we saw a huge one with a black woolly mane ten to fourteen
inches high
and a little round bell a foot long.’
“I like your stories,” I said, “and you know
something, I’d give one hundred dollars American money just to have
some proof
of your story.”
“Thanks, Sonny,” he said, “Can we meet here at
three o’clock coffee time tomorrow?”
“Why not?” I replied. “I have some interesting
stories to tell you. I spent over
twenty years studying moose in different habitats.
By the way my name is Jeremiah.”
We shook hands and he said, “My name is
Zekeriah. We must be related some way
back.”
I gave him my toothy smile and said, “I don’t
believe my relatives were monkeys or apes either.”
We did meet again the next day at exactly three
o’clock. Holding a miniature briefcase
he sat down on the seat facing me and placing two pictures on our table. He placed one face up in front of me. It was a picture of a white moose with white
feet. He said, “It’s a true white
moose, the only one ever taken in the world, true white, others were
albinos,
pink eyes and brown feet.” Then he
placed the second picture in front of me.
I studied it for a long time. In
twenty years of hunting, studying and picture taking I had never seen
nor heard
of such a moose, as in the picture.
“OK! Zekeriah,” I said. “I’ll
give you a hundred American dollars,
if you let me have these pictures published in a paper circulated in a
large
moose habitat area. Then if no one writes
to the paper and refutes your claim or if some one doesn’t send another
picture
or evidence to blow your story away, then you keep the hundred dollars. But if some person can in some way make
proof of knowing of a moose such as your species, with a black woolly
mane,
with also the long slim face and the little round bell, then I want my
hundred
dollars back in good Canadian money.
“As for the white moose picture, I’ll go along
with that because I know the wildlife branch also said it was not an
albino.”
We both stood up and shook hands again, and
left the cafe, him no doubt to tell his moose stories somewhere else. I went home to phone the Northern Light’s
editor and publisher, Don Sukkau, to ask if he would publish this
account of a
peculiar happening.
I chose the Northern Light paper because it is
distributed free over one of the most populated moose areas in the
world. Number two I read and like the
paper and
know it is going places.
Jeremiah
(Pictures
to be added soon.)
