A moose by any other name, would it smell as sweet? That’s the musical question that’s been asked around the dinner table for eons. Bill Shakespeare asked it once about some flower. I myself just asked it the other evening when there was a lull in the conversation, remarking “Hey! Would a moose by any other name smell as sweet?” No one in the shocked silence that ensued ventured an opinion. It is a complex issue. I even overheard it asked at one of the sanctioned Cage Fighting events I attended. Eugene the Face Masher asked it of his arch rival Constance the Nose Ripper Johnson as they entered the cage to begin their bout. It made for an interesting match as they discussed the pros and cons of the matter until one finally collapsed in the sheer exhaustion of trying to come to some agreement. That and getting a Flying Backbend Screaming Roundhouse Kick to his melon.

Having heard rumors that he was less than sweet-smelling, as many of his peers would attest by running gagging into the woods upon his approach, and I need to tell you it takes a lot to gag a moose. Plus foliage as far as a quarter of a mile downstream was wilting and gasping, turning their little petals to the sky before dropping into the stream and sailing slowly face down towards the Pacific ocean, he removed himself to the nearest stream where he could complete his ablutions and perchance be allowed to return to polite society.

 It is Spring after all and normally a young bull moose’s thoughts would turn to love but not this guy. He’s too young, he’s just got little paddles, all his thoughts turn to is stuffing his big fat face. And like many a young man he can handle that problem very well. So far he has carpet grazed this stream bed, the meadow on either side out to a half mile, and left a trail of arboreal destruction through the woods to get here of everything even remotely resembling food and is on his way to the next movable feast a mile or so downstream.

If you would like to meet this fellow simply take the backroads through the high mountains to Vail, Colorado and watch along the creek as it heads down the mountain. He’ll be there if he hasn’t completed his scorched earth policy of grazing everything to the bare rock and gone somewhere else.