SLEEPING WITH A MOOSE

I like summer and I like my brother and his wife to come out from Missouri but I do not like them to take me on a backpacking overnight trip.  Every year they say, “Where do you want to go this year?”  I don’t want to go at all.  My feet hurt.  I hate the uneven terrain.  I only like to walk on sidewalks.  Do they listen to me?  No.  They go right ahead and start gathering food and tents and sleeping bags.  Why don’t they pay attention?  I don’t want to go.

We are driving clear to Logan and hiking up Green Canyon.  I like the ride up.  I enjoy the scenery but I do not want to hike in.  No way.

We unload the cars and put on our backpacks.  “You can make it,” my brother says as he pats me on the back, “it’s only a mile or so.”

I think Mom is in cahoots with them because she helps load me up.

I do not want to do this.

I want to be in my own room listening to my music.

I’m sure it’s more than a mile.  “Are we there yet?”  I’m tired.

We finally came to a meadow by a stream.  “A perfect camping spot,” my brother says. 

We pitch three tents.  My mom and I are in one tent; Brent, my brother, and his wife Jan in one tent; and my sister Amy and her two friends, Bonnie and Becky, in another tent.

They cook a Dutch Oven dinner.  I’m always hungry but I don’t want to help.  I’m tired from that long hike.

I like to visit around the campfire.

We all go to bed.

During the night, we wake up scared.  We hear heavy breathing and something is pawing our tent.  I hear my mom pound on the tent and yell “Git!”  “Git!”

Is it a bear?

A mean guy?

What?

It gits.  

Clappidy, clappidy, clomp, clomp!

It seems like a long, long time but I finally fall back to sleep.

Oh no.

Heave – snort – heave – snort.

When Mom yells “Git” and pounds on the tent again, Brent calls from his tent.  “Mom!  Are you OK?  STAY IN YOUR TENT!  I THINK IT’S A MOOSE.”

“No,” Mom calls back, “it’s bigger than a mouse.  It’s at least a badger!”

Mom peeks out the window and sees Brent’s flashlight shining around.

It’s too dangerous to go out.  Even Brent says he is petrified; not knowing if it’s an animal with respiratory problems or a derelict human.

"I SEE IT.”  Brent is excited.  “IT’S A BIG ONE.  A THOUSAND-POUND MOOSE,”

“A MOOSE?” Mom yells. “He’ll eat us alive.”

“Moose are vegetarian,” Amy calls from her tent.

“Does it have to eat the grass right under my tent?” Mom asks.

By now, everyone is awake and chattering about the big moose.  More than one.  Two or three.  Did we camp by their waterhole and on their dinner?

When daylight finally came, Mom asked how I liked sleeping with a moose.

“I don’t,” I told her. “I’m glad you were here to tell him.  Of course, you treated him like a dog, telling him to ‘git’ three times.”

After breakfast as we were taking down the tents, I decided it was a rather exciting night, so I bragged, “I slept with a moose last night.  Not you, Mom.  I mean the animal.  You’re OK.  I sure enjoyed that moose last night.”

We had so much fun talking about sleeping with a moose all the way back to the car that I forgot my feet hurt and that I hate overnight backpacking hikes.  I can’t wait until Brent and Jan come out next summer.

For my writing class.  From Ed’s point of view, present tense.  It happened in 1995.