We saw a moose. Actually, we saw three moose. I saw the first moose first, at the edge of the meadow across Buchanan Creek from our camp, beneath Buchanan Pass. We were meditating in the meadow, each perched atop our own flat rocks, sitting cross-legged and upright, staring blankly at the steep valley walls across from us.
I practiced my “Zen vision,” a complete personal invention arrived at by remixing insights from three sessions with the Zen meditation club in college and the words of Tom Brown. I try to see with all of my eyes, taking in everything within my field of vision without selecting any one thing for particular attention. When I do it right, I stop feeling like a person with two eyes looking at the world, and feel more like nothing but the world. It fills up everything. I suppose that’s a successful sort of meditation. But then I’ll see something. Like a moose.
Really, the moose I saw wasn’t a moose at first. It was just a large brown boulder. We hadn’t seen any dark chocolate boulders on our trip so far though, so I blinked hard and really looked. Focused. The dark chocolate brown glistened like only animal hair can. Then I saw it. A big ear twitched unmistakably at the end of the big brown boulder. Having never seen a moose before, I still wasn’t sure what I was seeing. But boulders don’t have ears.
Rory, my childhood friend and long-time backpacking partner, saw that I had seen something. Knowing what sort of thing it might be, and being a conscientious outdoorsman, he crept over from his boulder to mine quietly, and whispered “What you seeing?” I pointed. He nodded.
Then the moose raised itself from the ground like a hydraulic lift platform, unfolding its spindly legs until it stood three times taller than seemed possible while it was lying down. We nearly exclaimed, “A MOOSE!” but both caught ourselves in a hush, and exchanged excited looks.
Its shanks were shiny blond. This was very disorienting. Weren’t moose supposed to be all brown? I don’t remember Bullwinkle having shiny blond shanks. Sure enough, now standing, its ear twitched again and it shook its huge head, and we could see its palmate antlers sway, lagging behind, causing the big loose snout to rebound as they pushed through the mountain air.
Two years earlier, we were on another mountain meditation excursion, this time on the pretext of my upcoming wedding in Bozeman, Montana. We set up camp in the afternoon beneath twisted pines, eager for some shelter from the steady rainstorm that had sprung up just after noon and had poured steadily for four hours. We did what any sensible person on vacation does when the rain ruins your plans: we took a nap.
I was awakened by bright sunlight and quiet. The patter of rain on the meadows, the trees, the tent, had stopped. Birds were chirping lightly. I had a moment of panic: had I slept through the night without eating? Without taking my pants off? Without taking my contacts out? This quickly became ridiculous. The morning light was actually evening light. Rory was already up, getting dinner sorted and pouring whiskey.
We spoke of bighorn sheep over dinner. They were supposed to be out here in these mountains. The rain had probably spoiled our chance to see them: they’d have all taken shelter from the storm in some rough cavity or unapproachable rocky outcropping two miles high. I fell asleep that night, too warm perhaps from whiskey, and dreamed of sheep.
The next day, we woke to a dry and cold morning. Our hike back over the pass and into Hyalite lake basin was short and sweet. We dropped our packs and headed over the outlet, off the trail and angled up the steep slope and down valley to look for sheep. After a short adventure with glissading, we spotted them high above us and down the valley a half mile or so. A small flock, gathered under some scraggly trees on a small terrace above a broken scree field. We moved closer, slowly, along the contour until we were directly downslope, about 100 yards away.
The flock was missing a large ram. There were no big horns in this herd of bighorns. Some juvenile males made a few noises of displeasure when they saw us, and we moved to behind a cluster of trees a few yards back up valley. We could hear them moving above us, the click of their hooves on the broken rock.
Sitting in the meadow watching the moose, we felt honored by nature again. I live in a city, spend most of my time surrounded by concrete and brick and drywall and asphalt: the flowers and the trees and fresh air of a city park feel like a privilege. The mountains, meadows and alpine lakes are a wonderful gift. And when a moose or a bighorn sheep graces me with its presence, it is a breathtaking honor, and I feel like I am as far away from everyday life as I’ve ever been, and yet right at home.
Louis Wertz 