Unfortunate accident

We went North. All of us. Not all of us. So many of us that it seemed like all of us. We are the blended family. The combined family. Yours, mine and ours. Eight is enough. Cheaper by the dozen. We are practically newlyweds and the baby is two weeks old. It is right and good that we should go north to visit her side of the family. It would be great to make this a family vacation. Money is in short supply. Gas costs almost as much as milk. Five teenagers, a new baby, and Wendy and I.

I like pulling the camper, the mother ship. It is long and shiney with rounded ends. A huge family vacation. My agenda: see moose, hear french.

We go to Gettysburg. I want Stella and Daniel to get a chance to experience the battleground. This time we get a dry old man guide to drive our car around and tell us about things. He only talks about the terrain, the lay of the land, the hills, the valleys. He was boring. Last year we got a passionate, war-between-the-states, woman book writer and she brought Pickett's charge to life. This year was not as good. No one was impressed. How can you take a guided tour at Gettysburg and not be impressed? It happened to us. Next time will be better.

Next stop is at Springboro, PA to visit brother Matt, Grandma Ginger and Grandpa Dan. We had two or three days there and had a great time. Matt played the accordian and Luke was introduced to the music of his gypsy ancestors, no, not really, but maybe Croatian polka music? I'm not sure. All we know is that Matt can play alot of instruments and he can write music and he jokes around alot. We only stayed two or three days, because there was so much that I wanted to do with this trip North.

Stella has always wanted to see Niagara Falls. I have decided to take her there. The Falls are big and wet. The colored lights are tacky. The power company has diverted 75 percent of the water to generate power. You don't miss all that water. It looks like it is all there. Stella was sad that day. I didn't know how to make things better. She just got better later. We saw Niagara Falls. Our hair stood up. All but Michael's.

We continued on around the Canadian side of Lake Ontario. We drove all the way around and then re-entered Vermont. We were looking for moose in earnest now. I had read that June was the best time to see moose, because they liked to come out in the evening and lick the salt off the roads.

We began to see lots of signs about moose. Moose next 15 miles. We kept our eyes on alert. Everyone helped. Somewhere along the way we saw moose trails and tracks. I was excited. They looked fresh. "If we never see a moose, at least we've seen fresh tracks". Later I said, "If we never see a moose, at least we've seen fresh moose droppings" This became, "If we don't see a moose at least we have a skull and some leg bones from a moose that died last year".

Then in New Hampshire it happened, someone yelled "MOOSE!" And there the little moose was. Standing in the tall grass. We looked at him and he at us. I took pictures of him standing. I took pictures of him staring. I got some pictures of him leaving. Mission accomplished. We saw a MOOSE!

On to Quebec. With moose bones. Illegal to take moose products into French Canada? We didn't know. It was hard at the border crossing. There were step children and stepchildren and natural children with different parents some of whom were in Iraq. There were questions and explanations. Was Wendy escaping to Canada with her X husband's children? Maybe she was! We had to allow an inspection of the camper. The moose bones were wrapped in plastic and then a towel and then more plastic and then a dark, black, large garbage bag. The kind of bag that human remains are sometimes hidden in. Drugs are hidden this way too. I had to open little doors that were locked on the outside of the trailer. I had to worry that our bones would be found, that we would be detained, denied entry, imprisoned, fined. What if they confiscated our moose skeleton? The border guard had a french accent. He had to know our occupations. I told him I was a speech therapist, nodding to emphasize my veracity. He told us to continue. I could not believe my ears. Anyone could tell we were hiding something. Something was definitely wrong here. Still we were released.

On to Quebec City. In the french speaking province the trailer had brake trouble and we had to stop in a small village and ask for repairs. The repairman was away but his girls said he would return soon. It was already after hours and with our prejudiced conceptions of the French, it was certain that we were going to be turned away. All of my French language skills had been swallowed by my more recent exposure to spanish and I couldn't pull out any more than, "Merci" and "s'il vous plais".

The owner returned and he went right to work diagnosing the problem. He drove the trailer around the village. He crawled under the trailer. I went under with him to encourage him and to show my interest and appreciation for what he was doing. He found a broken wire and and he fixed it. I had the audacity to doubt that he had found the problem. I managed to tell him that I didn't think that could be the solution. He challenged me to drive it around, so I did. He rode with me and he raised his eyebrows asking me in french "is it not fixed?" It was. Now the moment of truth. What does a frenchman charge and ugly american who has shown up after hours on his extravagant family vacation to a foreign land with 5 teenagers, wife and baby? What does a frenchman charge for his services when his ugly american afterhours patron has doubted his ability to repair the brakes?

"How much does this cost?"

He shrugged and smiled, "Ten dollars"

I look at him and nearly gasped. I don't know enough french to tell him he should charge more. He must see I am disappointed. I am, And it shows. I am disappointed that I can't adequately express my thanks.

Something happened to the French in the New World. These adventurous french, who left their country and crossed the sea. The french who came to the frontier to befriend the indians, the french who trapped and traded and canoed and settled in this land, something had happened. Something had changed them and made them new and different. Or maybe they they were isolated from the mother country and never evolved into the proud and arrogant people that we all know they.....woops.

He was a nice french canadian. That is enough. My stereotypic ideas about the french had to be modified.

On to Quebec City. We ate expensive food at a sidewalk cafe with an automated rain canopy in the most european city in North America. Lemonade was four dollars and fifty cents. There were street performers with music and antics. We had bread and butter. There were shops decorated with windowboxes. It rained. We camped near the big bridge.

On to Maine. At the border a nice Maine lady smiled and welcomed us back to America. We told her we had seen lots of moose related things and even a little moose in NH the week before. She frowned and said that unfortunately a moose had been killed on the road just 10 miles further. "Be careful, I think they just pulled it to the side of the road".

"You think there is a dead moose on this road? The road we are on? Hey guys, we might see a dead moose!" A freshly killed dead moose!. I was already thinking of how I might saw off the antlers or a hoof, or clip off the tail or an ear. I know this sounds sick and morbid. I can't explain it. I have wanted to see a moose ever since I was a child watching Captain Kangaroo and Mister Moose and Mr. Green Jeans. Years before I had gone all the way to Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks and the Tetons and I had not yet seen a moose. Seeing a moose was important. Bringing back a souvenir of the culmination of this life quest was, at least, explainable.

Did you know that on the west Coast the same year that we didn't see a moose, we also didn't see a killer whale? We did everything we were supposed to do. We went to the right place, paid the full price, got on the whale boat, went out in the fog. Orcas had been seen for 52 straight days and yesterday they had disappeared going west. The day we went we saw fog and we saw seals. No Orca. I had even prayed and had drawn and colored a picture to ensure that we would see whales. But God had another plan. He had earlier given me the unexpected pleasure of close encounters with mountain goats, and that was enough. I know he was right to do this, but at the time I questioned his motives.

We found the moose. We looked at it long and hard. The eyes were gone. Crows and ravens and vultures go for the eyes first. There were no antlers. It was as big as a horse. I already had a moose skull. I'll not have to take any more moose parts. I was satisfied. I had seen enough. I'd had my fill.

That evening we were late finding a campground. We found the town of Jackson with a river called, Moose River, and a campground called Moose River Campground. We checked in. They offered wireless internet. We needed that. We hadn't had internet since Gettysburg. Still excited about our previous successes, I told the lady. We saw a dead moose today.

She looked up and smiled. "Do you want to see a live one?"

She seemed to be serious and she seemed to be sure. She wasn't teasing me. She said hurry and set up camp and disconnect your tow vehicle and drive the road from here to there and be careful, drive slow or you'll .....

Oh my gosh! Collide with a moose. By accident we were at MOOSE GROUND ZERO!! We disconnected with haste and with just enough light to see, but not enough to take photos......we saw moose after moose after moose after moose and on until even after dark.....moose!

Later I read the modest pamphlet providing information about the campground and area. Not a word was written about moose. I suppose that at ground zero, it doesn't merit mention.