My Maine Moose

 
    I have reached the last state on the Appalachian trail. Maine is the last and most wild environment we are to encounter during our eventful journey. It boasts the 100 mile wilderness which lets no one out of the grips of nature for nearly a week and mount Katahdin the final summit of a 2,178mile hike. Things have been speeding up only because there is less of "IT". Every step seems to be more meaningful. 
     It's is now clearly autumn and the change of foliage is taking a hold of upper New England. The yellow and bronze is oozing from the trees. Lakes and ponds seem to spring from every mountain top as though we were in a painting. Cool days of sunshine bathe my exhaustive hikes over windy peaks. I must constantly adjust to the changing weather, temperatures and patterns of the land but with it I learn the beauty of nature as it must be.  
   The auburn and gold leaf litter on the trail makes my feet kick up. And when I hit patches of red maples leaves paving a red carpet path as though I were a rock star going into the Grammy's, it seems the streaming sunlight flashing through the trees and gently swaying ferns yearning for my touch are paparazzi and adoring fans. My final walk to the podium approaches and the lime light grows brighter. I try to take my time and rest my head at night thinking of the sights seen and dream of those still to come.          

But I woke with a strange taste in the back of my throat  a few days ago. It was dry and metallic although it did not make it hard to swallow or sore. I had a desire to see a moose for no disernable reason. What had the autumn air in Maine done to me? 
    I rose quickly and packed up for the day. I started a steep climb and drank my water quickly but soon found that a good water source was hard to find. When I reached the ridge line I had no choice but to continue in a semi dehydrated state until I came across a spring.
    During the next hour or so I focused on all the moose tracks left in the mud, moose trails leading in and out of bogs but also all the moose poop on the side of the trail. I became obsessed with finding more tracks, more poop or just getting a glimpse of the brown backside of a moose. Then it hit me; I had gotten MOOSE FEVER! 
    I had been set up! All through New Hampshire the front yards were littered with moose statues. Some of wood, some of metal, others as goofy looking plastic models 10feet tall inviting you to play a game of mini putt. Even the local business establishments were of a moosey affiliation: Mosely bagels, The Moose lodge, Moose over the Moon ice cream shop, etc.
         It only got worse. In Gorham, a town only a few miles from Maine, an artisan makes earings and other jewlery out of the fibrous excrement of the beloved moose. People are wearing moose shit as designer fashion; this is ridiculmoose!   
    My state was getting critical. I needed to see a moose before long for fear of never returning to the civilized world because I had fallen too deeply to the fever and gotten into some moose job dealing with poo or new-age offal cuisine. There was still hope but I needed to act quickly and especially find water to quench the thirst my moosely state had invoked.                
      I continued to march down the trail hoping for a cure or appeasement to my symptoms. Already I had stopped a few times thinking a large rock or stump was masquerading as my moose. Yes, my moose, I was getting possessive and moose rocks were beginning to look at me funny. Oh the guile of these stones to look down at me for mistaking my moose for a cold hard lump. They would never know such adoration. 
     Finally exhausted and now almost deliriously dehydrated, I sat by the side if the trail eating the last granola bar I had left. The fever pitch was upon me and I barely regained my composure before delving into a nearby pile of moosey poopy à la Grizzly Man. Yikes! How far could I let myself go before hitting the point of no return?
   I then lost track of time but it seems I hiked for days in search of moose and water to quench my feverish thirst. Others had seen moose, I was sure of it. They had survived the fever and drank their fill but what should I do differently to soften the blow and get my rightly deserved moose sighting?   
    Nothing. There was nothing to do but go about my usual business. So it came unexpectedly after coming from a small spring with my cantine filled with cold mountain water. He heard me first, my moose, and stirred in the tall brush as I was rounding the corner. I knew at once this was the moment I was waiting for so reached for my camera.  The cure to what ailed me was tromping clumsily through the clearing and into the thicket of branches and shrubs as I pointed the lens to shoot. I would have only gotten a blurry picture of it's backside had he not stopped and turned to look at me. I froze in his uninterested, slightly bottered glance. Eventually, after hours of staring (it could have been that long) I snapped a blurry picture of my Maine moose through trees and leaves with my crappy 8.1 mega pixel compact camera.
    I felt better instantly and came to my senses. Seriously, what's the big deal about moose? They're just big brown cows with antlers!