We Hold This Moose to be Self-Evident

Moose Fishing

Once out of the hospital, one of the first things my father wanted to do was go fishing in the mountains with my uncle (not the trigger happy one or, at least, not as trigger happy). We loaded him up, crutches and all, into the ginormous jacked-up 1959 Dodge Panel Wagon Redneck Transport, known far and wide as The Mule, and headed for the hills. Mind you, no one thought this was a good idea but he kept playing the "I got shot in the damn leg" card so we really didn't have that many options.

And, as unbelievable as it may seem to you (which should tell you how true it is), it turned out to be a bad idea. In fact, it turned out to be the most horrible idea since fish flavored ice cream--it's a thing, look it up--or white bread. You see, a man on crutches, standing next to, and sometimes in, a stream, holding a fly rod, is incapable of retreating fast enough to satisfy the angry moose in rut, who is also standing next to, and sometimes in, the same stream. An angry rutting moose is often a charging moose. In Wyoming, hotbed of forward thinking that it is, it is a crime to shoot wildlife without a license unless you are being actively trampled and not just facing down a charging animal larger than a draft horse. Dad, not waiting to get trampled, drew his pistol, which was the same one that had put him in this predicament, and calmly fired 5 rounds from a .44 magnum at the moose's head. The moose--frustrated by this unforeseen development, but also a bit shaken--turned and ran across the river to where Ronnie, my uncle, was standing, frozen in panic which he later claimed was actually level-headed planning. A crucial part of this planning seems to have been to scream like a scared child and run toward the truck, where my cousins and I were busy trying to get the toolbox unlocked so we could drink the whiskey under the socket set. Distracted by the high-pitched scream, we turned in time to watch as Ronnie--closely pursued by a furiously snorting, bleeding moose--vaulted boulders in the riverbed, long-jumped across several downed trees and, running out of options, drew his pistol and, still running full tilt, fired over his shoulder at the charging behemoth and then plunged headlong down the embankment and out of the moose's sight. Other than the poor moose, this really would be a good event in the Olympics:  Mountain Steeplechase Biathlon.

What was left in the path of this Clydesdale sized monster with giant horns was 3 young boys armed with fishing poles and an improvised lockpick. This being Wyoming, we all had guns, of course, but because of some belated, never repeated, responsible parenting, my Dad had made us leave them in the back of The Mule. Things might have taken a tragic turn had Dad not come running, crutches slowing him down only slightly as he reloaded, and fired 6 more shots into the moose, which slammed into the ground about 12 feet from me, just as a Fish and Game officer came pulling up to check fishing licenses. Needless to say, my father was arrested and had to go to jail to await trial. Crutches and all.