Chinook
by George Hosier II - September 18

Of Moose And Men

I think that moose should receive the “World’s Ugliest Thing” award. The only things that might even have a chance of being a runner up are walruses; dust mites; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; and my great-aunt Hilda. However, with its gangly legs, bristly proboscis, prehensile lips, blubbery nostrils and close-set beady eyes, the classic ugliness of your average moose can hold its own against all comers.

One would think that the first time a moose caught a glimpse of its reflection in a pond it would immediately expire from embarrassment, but I don’t suppose they have enough of a brain to process the whole concept of self-recognition. If they have any thoughts on the matter at all, moose probably assume their reflection is a sea monster of some sort. Maybe that’s why you typically find them sloshing around in water--they’re trying to stomp the hideous thing they saw peering up at them from just under the surface of their breakfast bowl.

In spite of their looks, moose don’t seem to have a fractured self-esteem, but that’s not really surprising. In fact, it’s quite typical of the eclectic fellowship of the ugly. Ironically, it always seems that anything really, truly ugly acquires a sort of cult following. Being ugly can generate all sorts of perks. For instance, if you’re an ugly microorganism, you get your electron microscopic mug shot published in a prominent medical journal. If you’re an ugly dog, you get to appear on TV and meet Donald Trump. If you’re an ugly singer, you get to marry someone who looks like Julia Roberts…

I’ve long been a proponent of keeping Alaska beautiful. That’s why around this time of year, I am always overcome by a surging awareness of my civic responsibility to go hunting. Nobly sacrificing my work time, I load my rifle and gear into my vehicle and set out in search of a moose to put out of its aesthetically challenged misery. I may not have the power to confront all the ugliness in the world, but if I owned a rifle and didn’t at least try to shoot a moose every year, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

Some people say that their one little ballistic tip magnum bullet can’t possibly make any difference in keeping Alaska ugly-free. To those who justify their apathy in this way, I ask, “What if everyone had the same attitude?” Ugliness would soon run rampant, as everywhere you turned, the lugubrious countenance of a moose would eclipse your view of breathtaking vistas of Alaska’s pristine beauty.

The quest is not for the faint of heart, but though the way is fraught with many perils we, the few--the brave--the guardians of beauty scoff at danger and selflessly answer the call in service to our state. I remember a particular hunt that I experienced a number of years ago which vividly illustrates the triumphs and tragedies of a calling which is so often misunderstood by spouses and friends.

It started out rather badly when Jock, my hunting partner, called the morning we were scheduled to leave for our trip and informed me that he had come down with a bad case of dry heaves. That was a code we had worked out to inform each other that our spouse’s reservoir of tolerance had gone “dry” and she was about to “heave” us out on our ear if we didn’t scale back the frequency and duration of our de-uglification missions.

I commiserated with Jock as best I could, reassuring him that I understood, and urging him not to feel too badly about standing me up just because he was a henpecked wimp. He thanked me for my concern and protested that he hadn’t really wanted to go hunting with a calloused lout like me anyway, but he wished me luck on my hunt and hoped I shot myself in the portion of my anatomy on which I am accustomed to sit. Not wanting to impose on his time when he was in the middle of a domestic crisis I excused myself by hanging up the phone with tremendous gusto.

After stomping briskly around the room and verbally processing this unexpected development, it dawned on me that I was going to have a problem getting across the river to our secret hunting spot. Jock was the one who had discovered it. He had taken me there and sworn me to secrecy. He said that he and I were the only ones who knew about it, due to its remote location, accessible only by a 30 mile river boat and ATV trek.

Unfortunately, Jock was also the one who owned the boat, and now that we had already said our fond farewells, I was reluctant to call him back and ask to borrow it. However, If I tried to borrow someone else’s boat, they might start asking too many questions. On the other hand, Jock couldn’t expect me to keep his little secret if he didn’t respect our friendship enough to allow his marriage to implode for me.

I felt justified in taking someone else into my confidence--someone else with a boat. Jock had left me no option. I picked up the phone and began dialing. I must have called thirty people and explained the situation. I pointed out that I knew of a secret hunting spot where the bull moose were as ugly as sin and so thick that they were literally tripping over each other. There were dozens of them, listlessly ambling about, with their ugly heads drooping under the weight of massive racks of antlers that rarely fell below a 55 inch spread. I described that route in detail because, I explained, nobody but my friend and I had seemed to find the place. They all seemed particularly interested in the GPS coordinates of the area, but when I mentioned that I would be accompanying them, it turned out that they all had domestic crises of their own.

I was getting frustrated, I tell you. I was running out of people to call. I didn’t know of anyone else who owned a river boat. Then, with a flash of inspiration, I remembered Gomer Clodhopper. Gomer lived in an old sod-roofed trapper’s cabin that canted precariously out of the spaghum moss down by the river. Gomer didn’t own a boat of any kind, but he claimed he didn’t need one. On numerous occasions I had heard him declare that “a feller who knowed what he was doin’ could walk plumb across any river in Alasker ef he didn’t mind gettin’ a bit damp”.

Well, if Gomer could show me how to cross the river without a boat, I was willing to give it a try. Gomer didn’t have a telephone, so I drove my pickup, loaded as it was with four wheeler and hunting gear, down the cratered, boulder-strewn trail to his cabin. Gomer had heard me coming a long way off, and was waiting to greet me with his legendary warm welcome. As soon as I was within range he extended his old muzzle loader shotgun and showered my truck with two barrels full of rock salt hospitality.

That was my signal to stop the truck and poke a pack of Red Man chewing tobacco out of the driver’s side window on the end of a stick. Gomer glowered at it suspiciously from under his shaggy eyebrows for a good thirty seconds while he slowly reloaded his welcome stick. Then, with a snort, he shuffled toward me and plucked the truce offering off of the stick. He didn’t say anything at all while he tore the packet open and sniffed it like a connoisseur. He slid a gnarled finger inside with a smooth hooking motion that belied years of practice, and when he brought it out again, a pinch of the stuff was expertly tucked into the little spoon formed by the underside of his long dirty fingernail.

It disappeared behind the bristles on his lower lip, and he sucked thoughtfully for several moments, as I writhed in an agony of suspense. At last I saw his eyelids flutter in satisfaction, he scratched himself, and from the hole where a tooth had rotted out of the front of his mouth, he expelled a glistening arc of tobacco juice that exploded in a jubilant starburst pattern on my windshield. Then he leaned on my hood with a naked elbow that was emerging from a ragged hole in the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

“Dincha see da ‘no trespassin’ sign?’”

“I’m not trespassing, Gomer. I’ve come to visit you.”

“Parful good chawin’ terbacky. Cain’t say as I’m not obliged.”

“Say, Gomer, would you like to go hunting with me? We can split the meat.”

“Reckon. Runnin’ outta jerky. Lemme grab mah thangs.”

His “thangs” consisted of a greasy felt broad-brimmed hat, an old rusted bowie knife tucked into a pouch made out of duct tape and sheath fragments, and a model 94 Winchester 30-30. When he climbed into the passenger’s seat a few minutes later, I explained where I needed to go.

“Whar’s yer boat?” he asked.

“That’s why I brought you along, Gomer. I need you to show me where I can walk, you know, ‘plumb across the river’.”

Gomer swiveled his head around on the end of his long skinny neck like a startled goose. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he snorted in derision.

“Onliest person I ever heerd could walk on water wouldn’t be huntin’ mooses. I wouldn’t nuther if I could turn water into wine.”

I was flabbergasted. “But Gomer, I’ve heard you say many times that…”

Gomer broke into a staccato squealing laughter climaxing in a coughing fit. I beat on his back in fear of his life. When he had recovered, he wheezed, “Swallered me terbacky down the wrong pipe!”

“What was so funny?” I prodded.

“Y’all gotta larn sompin, boy! They’s a fur piece between brag and fact. Don’t pay a feller no nevermind when he’s braggin. You just s’posed to listen or brag back.”

Needless to say, we never got across the river. Gomer and I road hunted for a while, but all we saw were a couple of spruce chickens. That came close to salvaging the hunt for me. Even though I wasn’t able to contribute toward keeping Alaska ugly free, that year, by bagging those Fool’s Hens, Gomer and I did our part toward ridding Alaska of stupidity.

My honor was nourished that day. My belly was not. You see, after Gomer pegged those grouse through the breast with his 30-30, there was nothing left to eat but feathers. In a touching twist, when Jock found out about my experiences, he proved to be a true friend after all. Since I had gotten no meat, he rushed right over and fed me a knuckle sandwich.
 

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