In a stream more narrow than wide we drift, jigging the deep holes for walleyes, a constant battle with hammer handle northerns, some swatting at bugs, an occasional low hanging branch to duck under as we mosey along.
On the opposite side of the river, rather marshy looking spot, a moose head rises from the water, dew lap dripping, cud chewing, seems to care less as we gently pass. He steps toward the bank; he is sidelong eyeing us a bit, and then he looks directly at us. We both laughed; his small, velvetcovered rack made his face appear as though it had two sets of big, floppy, fuzzy ears.
The wet head, bulbous eyes, we can hear his teeth grinding on the watery late veggie breakfast he seems to be enjoying immensely. He’s not a massive moose by any means, but dang, he is still a big moose.
He says to me, hey, paddlers, keep moving, nothing to look at here, and since birth I could read moose thoughts, so I sent him one back. Hey, yes, you are something to look at, and not just by me, listen here moose, nobody who puts a paddle in the water in northern boreal supernatural forest Minnesota doesn’t utter, gee, I hope we see a moose. By the way, last night before we ever came here, we both said, Think we’ll see a moose?
He turned his head back; Maybe I nerved him a bit. We drifted gently downstream, and on the day’s end we had some nice fillets, the river was in a generous mood. We saw all kinds of birds, and wolf tracks on sandy leads, turtles a log napping, but the moose, well, we had fun seeing him. I told him thanks, in my thoughts, just before I dozed off. And I’m sure I will thank him many more times in my life.
--The trout whisperer
