Early morning, Keystone, Colorado, high in the Rocky Mountains: Friend dashes upstairs yelling to his wife and I, "Get your cameras!" We grabbed and dashed. "There's a moose right. . . it was right there!" A spot about 100-150 feet from their front door. Smack in the middle of a glitzy 100-plus unit condo development.
So we took off after Mr. Moose, aiming to shoot him (with cameras, of course). Preferably with telephoto lens. You never want to get too close to Mr. Moose. Mrs. Moose, either.
We chased that stupid, obstinately disappearing moose for the better part of an hour. Through the condo complex, over a few meadows, through a couple of parking lots. No moosie-moosie.
Instead, we found the local Sheriff. She'd been chasing Mr. Moose in her Sheriff's car for over an hour - since just about dawn. She parked at one point, opened her trunk, and pulled out some strange orange thing with vivid bold capitals, "LESS LETHAL." Don't want to know what that was, or what "less" lethal means, even in moosie-moosie terms.
She warned us to beware the moose, and call her if we spotted him. We were only interested in telephoto-range sightings, we assured Mademoiselle le Sheriff.
Never found Mr. Moose. Not a glimpse. Not finding Mr. Moose was very disappointing. Chasing Mr. Moose? Priceless.
Also breathless - high-altitude chase, you know. There's no way a human can outrun a moose, especially at 11,000 feet. He's used to it, and very well altitude-adjusted indeed. Humans end up oxygen-starved and panting. But it was fun anyway.
May your road rise to meet you - and may you catch up with your Mr. Moose!
Ann
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