All The Noose That’s Fit To Print

Returning home from a trip to Silverton on Sunday we saw a cow moose with twin calves. They were right at the edge of the road.

Cars were stopping and piling up along the two-lane highway until finally the mass of us spooked the mother, and off the trio went up a steep hill and over the ridge.

In a spirit of honesty, I have to confess that this photo was taken from the internet but is exactly what this family looked like. Unfortunately neither Robin nor I were quick enough to take our own photo before they’d had enough of humankind and taken their leave.

They were all pictures of healthy mooseness. It’s always a special event when we spot one along this route, even though it is not a rarity. The highway follows a small river, and there is much to browse on along that watercourse. Deer have learned to live among us quite well, and finding one of them in Montrose is a commonplace. Whenever a moose is noted in a municipality, however, it is quite another matter.

They are not happy there, the humans in their vicinity are uncomfortable with their presence (as one should be when there is a frightened creature of 1000+ pounds nearby), and it is always a bit of a hoo-rah before they can be shushed out of town. To me, these giant creatures have always seemed the epitome of wild, and always will.

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I have another moose story, which I may have related years ago in this blog, but if so I will happily repeat myself. I was motorcycling in Yellowstone National Park with my friend Bill. We were on two bikes, each of us with one of young his sons behind us on the vehicles. The road we were traveling was one of those narrow two-lane highways in the park, and the forest grew right up to the road on both sides.

I was riding behind Bill perhaps fifty yards and saw a moose bolt from the forest to Bill’s left, run straight across the road in front of him, and disappear into the woods on the right. He missed colliding with the cycle by inches. Bill hadn’t seen the animal until it was right in front of his bike and then it was gone. Blink of an eye.

He continued riding for perhaps a hundred yards after this, until he could find a place to pull over and park. It was then that the adrenaline took over for a while, and he had a good case of the shakes. We all took a break before continuing on. ‘Twas not a comfortable moment.

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Odds bodkins, what a rollicking dream I had last night. Some background might be helpful here, in that I rarely remember any of the content of my dreams, and this has been the case for a couple of decades at least.

But last night … intrigues, plots, and assassinations were all in play. There was royalty, there were friars and priests of every stripe. Our dress was like that of the time of Robin Hood, but we traveled in the luxury automobiles of the 1930s. At one point I was forced to defend the color of the local cheese against some slur, and uttered these immortal words: “Because it is the color of the milk it was made from.” I remember not uttering the words “you churl” that had appeared in my mind.

Quite a trip.

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Phoebe Bridgers is an interesting artist. She became very popular with her two first solo albums, made a hugely successful album as one-third of the supergroup boygenius, and then cut way back on doing any solo work for a handful of years. Her genre is variously described as indie folk, indie rock, alternative, and sad core.

So when her latest album appeared I took a listen. It was different in many ways from what she’d done before. They are like action movies for your ears. There are underlying stories , there are thunderous beginnings, quiet passages, and drawn-out denouements. I will play a couple of them to show you what I mean. First is Lost Weekend. Next is Bobby.

Quite a trip.