One thing we learned immediatly upon arrival in Anchorage is to be on the lookout for moose. They are tall. They are big. They are fast. And they are everywhere.
Just not everywhere we looked. Everyone we met had a moose tale. One woman found a female taking a dip in her outdoor hot tub in the middle of winter. No, she didn't hand the visitor a robe and towel. Another watched a moose dine on her flowers. (Must be a relative to my local deer population.) Yet another stepped on a moose's nose when he went out to get the morning paper. The beast was sleeping next to the heat exchanger and got stepped on.
With all that send up, I had to see a moose. None appeared in Anchorage, although sitings were supposedly abundant. When we went down to the Kenai, we were assured we would see plenty. I saw one, but it was behind an old silver Airstream, so my husband Terry didn't get to see it. I thought we see plenty in Moose Pass. NOT. Eventually, as we were driving back up to Anchorage from Kenai, along around four in the afternoon, a cow and calf ambled toward a stream in a fen. I saw both. All poor Terry saw was a moose butt. He thinks there are more moose tales in Alaska than there are moose tails.
