Sight unseen

(continued)

by Chris Wright

The first thing you notice about Maine is that almost everything has the word "moose" attached to it. Moose Cave, Moose Pond, Moose River, Moose Savings & Loan. Real live moose, however, are a much rarer sight. After a mooseless 24 hours, I stop off at a bait shop to ask Paul Bois, a local guide, where I might find me one. Instead of laughing, Bois tells me to try a place called Evergreen.

That evening, Nina, Uncle Jim, and I set out. We creep up and down Evergreen's roads, shining a spotlight into brush, marshes, and sometimes (inadvertently) people's bedroom windows. We decide that, should anybody care to ask, our cover story will be a lost cat.

This goes on for hours -- the creeping, the shining, the craning of necks, and the straining of eyes. Every now and then I will spot something: moose! No, tree stump. Moose! No, mailbox. Moose! No. . . . Eventually, having seen nothing more exotic than a rabbit, we give up and go home for angel-food cake and ice cream.

The next morning, Nina and I drag ourselves out of bed at 4:30 a.m. and, armed with binoculars, map, and camera, head north for the road that Bozenhard had recommended -- Route 26. At 5:30, we are sitting in a clear-cut wooded area, munching on cheese sandwiches and being munched on by bugs, staring through the mist at phantom antlers and spectral rumps. It's a glorious morning, the sun glistening on the dew-dappled saplings and all that. But no moose.

For the next few hours, we drive up and down, pretty much oblivious to the road ahead. By now, Nina has fallen asleep and I myself am tiring. But when I spot a sign that says LOGGING AREA: DANGER, I do a Starsky & Hutch-style screech and a Dukes of Hazzard-type swerve and the next thing I know we're shuddering up a mountainside. As the steep, craggy road deteriorates into a near-vertical, boulder-strewn nightmare, Nina wakes up. "Where are we?" she asks with groggy alarm. "Nothing to worry about," I lie.

About three miles into the wilderness, I stop the car, get out, and wander into a huge, prehistoric-looking clearing. There is not a sound up here, not even the wind. I can see for maybe a mile ahead of me, a mile to my left and right, across a landscape stubbled with tree stumps, saplings, and close-bitten scrub. "Oh, yes," I say. "This is moose country." Nina remains unconvinced. She also remains in the car.

Just then, I spot a large dog turd at my feet. Hmm, what's a dog doing all the way out here? I take a closer look. Hmm, what's a dog doing eating all those berries? Before I've even computed what it is I'm actually looking at, my ganglia have taken over and I'm in the car, hurtling back down the mountain like a four-wheeled landslide. I, a weak-kneed woodsman at the best of times, have contrived to wander into the heart of bear country.

After this, my quest grows increasingly half-hearted. While driving to and from the country store, I still peer longingly into the brush. And I still cannot pass a pond without slowing down. But I don't actively go out in search of moose any more. Instead, I sit on Barbara and Jim's deck sipping iced tea, failing to complete New York Times crossword puzzles and gazing at the postcard-quality view.

By the time we're zooming back down Route 95 toward Boston, I have resigned myself to the fact that I may never see a moose. I did, though, see a deer on our trip, and some chipmunks, and a couple of hummingbirds. I even made a Stephen King sighting. I was this far away from him. He looked right at me.

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Chris Wright can be reached at cwright[a]phx.com.