Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
toward the road. Finally I threw another look over my shoulder and, to my inexpressible joy and relief,
there was no moose in sight.
I emerged onto the road farther away from camp and had to walk back past the spot where the big
bull had been hidden. It was all I could do to muster enough courage to pass the spot, and I did so only
with great trepidation, the utmost caution, and the firm conviction that if further flight became neces-
sary, it would be into the woods and up the nearest climbable tree.
This adventure had what, in retrospect, was an amusing sequel, although it certainly didn't seem it
at the time. I was nearly back to camp and was just beginning to relax when, with a thunder of wings,
two ruffed grouse exploded out of the roadside underbrush no more than three feet from me. I leaped
two feet in the air and came down with my heart racing at a horrendous rate!
It wasn't until weeks later, after the terror of this incident had diminished, that I realized what the
bull moose was actually doing. A moose can easily outrun a human, and that bull could have caught me
and stamped me into the ground in fifty yards if he had chosen to do so. He resented my presence in
his territory during the rut and was chasing me, much as he might have a vanquished rival bull (I was
certainly vanquished, but not a rival!) to ensure that I left the area. As soon as honor—and testoster-
one—were satisfied, he broke off the chase.
It has always struck me as ironic in the extreme that someone like me, who has constantly warned
others about the dangers of approaching wild animals too closely—particularly large animals like the
moose—should have been chased by one. The fact that I had no way of knowing about the bull's
presence also underscores the fact that nature is unpredictable and often dangerous; consequently, we
should banish from our heads any warm, fuzzy thoughts about “benign nature.”
Moose are often called homely and ungainly, but that does a grave injustice to one of nature's finest
exhibits of adaptation, and they might better be termed imposing and majestic. As an example of adapt-
ation, consider the food requirements of the moose. A large adult moose needs fifty to sixty pounds of
vegetation daily in order to feed its huge frame. If a moose had to consume that quantity of browse by
nibbling at the tips of twigs in the fashion of its whitetail relatives, it would have time for little else.
The animal's name comes from the Algonquian
moosu,
which has been variously translated as “twig
eater” and “he who strips off (leaves and bark).” My preference is for the latter because it's such an
apt description. The big, rubbery upper lip, which is partially responsible for the moose's “homely” ap-
pearance, is in fact a most useful adaptation: the moose simply wraps its lip around a twig and, with a
deft motion, strips away leaves, bark, and buds. This improved browsing method enables moose to eat
their fill with exemplary speed and efficiency.
Likewise, the long legs that give the moose its “ungainly” appearance are admirably suited to life in
the harsh climate that makes up the moose's habitat. Those legs are not only long but also extremely
powerful, and they easily drive their owner through deep snow that would mire a deer.
As huge as the moose seems to us, it's merely the runner-up in the deer family's size sweepstakes.
An extinct relative from the last ice age, the somewhat misnamed Irish elk
(Megaloceros giganteus)
