An Ode to the Legend of the Valley.

Five years ago, I was camped deep in Glacier National Park. The leaves were long free of their branches and pirouetted across the park in bitter winds.

I woke pre-dawn and hiked to a nearby lake, well aware that the country was thick with grizzlies in hyperphagia.

As the sun offered its first rays of light, I caught a glimpse of the lake. Despite being only fifty acres, whitecaps stormed from east to west and roiled onto shore. The temperature hovered at ten degrees. The combination of low temps and strong wind already had my fingers numb.

I sat behind pine trees and observed the stormy lake as wind howled and trees kneeled on the far shore. The lake lay half in light, half not. A shadow of mysteries. And there, right where shadow met light, but just ever so slightly in the shadow, loomed a hulking silhouette.

 I froze. My heart pounded.

There fed a gigantic bull moose, the most impressive one I’d ever seen in any context. I was so impressed by this moose, that an image I took in this moment made the cover of my debut novel “The Puller”.

Whitecaps splashed against the moose as it fed on the last bit of aquatic vegetation on the lake bottom.

And I did what I always do. I let the moose know what, and where I was. This was an offering of respect. By immediately showing myself and my location, the moose granted me a moment in its presence.

I got on my stomach and crawled across the gravel shore to waters’ edge, foam spray from the waves battering my face and gear.

And I pressed the shutter on my camera, despite my numb fingers.

And there, in the 40mph winds and freezing cold, this legendary bull moose and I existed within each others’ space. Two animals meeting in the wilderness, in a place with the most extreme weather in the lower 48, in a place of roaming giants, a place free of sprawl and the materialistic constructs the human species has trapped itself within.

And still the winds roared down from the sheer peaks. I could hear the blasts coming from a mile away. And I knew this moment was fleeting.

After one final dive for the aquatic vegetation, the moose raised its surreal head and lumbered through the water towards shore. The last I saw of it was its unreal antlers plowing through the forest understory amidst swirling leaves.

I stood and checked my surroundings. I couldn’t even feel my face.

I hiked back to camp, bear spray in hand, the trees bending as wind howled through the skeletal forest.

I never saw the moose again.

But this year, I’m going back. And I’m waiting. And I’ll be searching. And no matter what animals I film, whether bear or bighorn, this moose, this legend of the valley will be in my mind, just out of reach somewhere in the penumbra of the forest’s edge.

And maybe…just maybe the moose will grant me the gift of its presence one last time.

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Canvas 20×32 $1,000.00 USD Matte 20×32 $200.00 USD