Occasionally, Alaskans require intervention from nature to remind them where they live.

My family lives very close to a bog, which is a wetland habitat of northern climates, similar to a swamp in the south. Around this bog, my father, who is a bird-watcher and lover of long walks, often goes for evening strolls. 

One night last June, I accepted his invitation to join one of these voyages and we left rather late, around eleven o’clock. As the sun in Alaska does not set until close to midnight during this month, it was still lovely out, the sky painted with wisteria-colored clouds. 

As we stepped past the trailhead and were swallowed in by the forest, we ran into moose number one. She was a beautiful creature: graceful, huge and powerfully muscled. However, her strangely spindled legs, like beanstalks in the grass, reminded me that she was, in fact, a deer. 

I was apprehensive. There’s always the chance a lone female is actually a protective mother, feeling that you may be a threat to her baby hidden in the brush. My father however, who rarely distresses, was confident. 

“Whoa,” he said while guiding me slowly past her. 

Her ears flicked perhaps in warning, but she did not object to our passage, and we soon heard the crunch of leaves behind us as she turned back into the undergrowth. 

We continued on our way. Over the boardwalk bridge and through the tunnel of gleaming-white birch trees, we were nearly to where the trail began to turn back toward home. Here we ran into moose two and three, a mother and baby. 

They were a ways off the trail, and it was only a glimpse of them which we caught, but the glimpse was enough. The quiet foraging of Alaskan wildlife is a peacefulness that is difficult to describe. 

Breathing in the dusky air, we walked on past the landing where, in spring, one can come to find wood frogs and occasionally, if they’re lucky enough, the bowed heads of swan lovers. 

Eventually we came to the large field, which signaled we were almost home. By cutting directly across the field, we’d return to the trail which circles the bog and quickly get back to the trailhead. 

We were about halfway across this field, chatting happily, when I saw a fuzzy brown shape in my peripheral vision. My father must have seen it too, because whatever we were talking about in that moment was completely lost and we both turned to look in the same direction. 

I recall unhelpfully stating the obvious: there was a moose crashing out of the forest towards us. I also recall making the observation that he was moving rather fast. 

It took a few seconds however, and some nervous chuckles from my father, for the panic to fully set in and the habit of repeating myself to begin. 

While this was not a trait I had inherited from my father, he must have agreed with my multiple requests that we run because hand-in-hand we began to race in the direction of the houses. 

The moose was male and actually quite small, we would later recognize, much smaller than the females we had spotted earlier in the walk. He was young, likely recently separated from his mother, and the tiny stubs of antlers on his head were like the peach fuzz on my highschool peers’ chins. An angsty teen, this one. 

Of course, small for a moose is still terrifying when hurling toward you, and the shock of it drove my father and I to mild delirium, laughing as we ran. I’m positive now the scene would’ve looked rather ridiculous. 

Neither my dad nor I will ever win any awards for our grace. 

I remember at this point hysterically screaming that we should get behind a tree, a rather pointless suggestion seeing as we were in the middle of an open field. 

Instead, I tripped and my father completely fell down into a line of bushes in one of the house’s backyards. It was a pathetic, wispy and yellow bush, but it was also our saving grace. The moose at first charged right past us before realizing his mistake, stopping to glare at the two humans struggling in the grass beside him. 

I could see the chestnut fur on his back standing on end, emphasizing his utter displeasure with our presence. He was so close I could have reached out and stroked his nose. 

Honestly, I thought, what a grouch. 

Stumbling to our feet again, we raced between the sleepy houses and into our own neighborhood, figuring the owners would not mind the trespassing had they understood our predicament. Moose number four did not follow.

Once we were certain no other moose would fly from the treeline, my father and I began to walk home through the neighborhood, choking with laughter and adrenaline.