All year long my house creaks and groans. For about nine months of the year the heating registers click and pop in tune to the mini igniter-explosions and puffing whir of the boiler. Occasionally a boom ricochets through the house. I used to strike out on a search for a new crack or void that must certainly have resulted from the house’s movement — especially when the sound woke me from a deep-night sleep. Now, I blink it off and go back to whatever I was doing and let my heartbeat slow naturally to its normal rhythm.
It’s no surprise that the house speaks its own language. I would moan too if I had to endure the annual temperature change of, in a mild year, 100 degrees Fahrenheit (55.5 degrees Celsius)…
During my first year living here in Fairbanks, Alaska, the winter temps dropped under 50ºF below zero — which is 82º below the freezing point of water (ºF)! The summer was a warm one, even getting a couple of times to 90ºF. I was living in a dry cabin that year (meaning my home had no plumbing: the only running water came from the blue water jug by the sink that drained into a bucket below), so I do not know what havoc the low temps could have wrecked on my current ‘wet’ home — or its cries of pain during the 140ºF-temperature change (77ºC-change). Still, I always listen to my house speak, no matter the temperature. I listen for a sound that is out of place because I believe that will be my home’s first warning gasp that something is wrong.
As I listen to the walls and beams around me, there is a special bang that always makes me drop what I am doing and turn off the evening lights so I can clearly see outside. The bang comes from the back the house or the side, just below the windows. Sometimes I see nothing when I peer outside. Sometimes I see the willow tree dip towards the kitchen window or hear it rub against the siding. I stand on a chair or press my check against a wall by a window. I stare towards the outside. I wait. Always I am rewarded with a wide dark back or a sturdy elongated head.
Yes! A moose has come to visit!
Minutes pass as I watch it pull down the willow to reach the leaves atop. It closes its mouth around a branch or narrow trunk then uses the tree’s willowy springiness to its advantage, letting the tree right itself while teeth and tongue strip off the tasty leaves and side-twigs as the tree passes through the moose’s mouth on the willow’s way back to its normal standing. The moose chews as it walks to the next willow or interesting-looking plant. If it is spring or summer (and I had no lights to turn off), I can watch the moose top the fireweed growing along the side of my house, detach the bright green needles from young spruce, or nibble on other new growth. I learned my lesson the first year I tried to grow veggies: neighboring hare might devour parts of my plants, but moose can remove all but a stump of a plant with one eager chomp. I am glad that the herbivores appreciate the taste of my efforts, but after the hard work I would like to be the consumer of the harvest. I now raise all of my plants on the deck behind its fence-like railing.
Today the moose I watch looks small. Its head does not come up to the base of the window. Odd.
[Please note that my house is built up on pilings so I walk up seven steps to reach my front door. The lower window sill therefore is 7 feet 10 inches (2.4 meters) from the surface of snow-covered ground.]
Ah. It’s a calf.
Is this young moose solo or does it still travel with mama…?
Found her.
Mama is resting on the ground in a depression made by her much larger body, by a telephone pole, feet tucked under her, head up, eyes and ears alert. I watch her. She looks like the same moose who has voyaged by my house since I moved in. An abrupt sound from the road makes her lurch up and trot to the spruce stand. She stops there, head and neck blocked by the tree trunks. All I can see is her body from withers to rump.
For a moment I wonder if she is like a human tot who thinks that when her eyes are covered then no one can see her. I rather doubt that. If I were a prey animal (like her), walking near the residence of a potential two-legged predator (like me), I would be careful to protect myself and the little one with me. And that is probably what she is doing: watching out for her child. From her angle she probably has a very good view of her babe.
I continue to watch. Mama moves forward to snack on a small cluster of short vegetation and I lose track of the baby since it is so close to the side of the house.
Another distinctive bang. I do not see a bouncing willow. This time perhaps the calf’s shoulder has knocked against the side of the house.
I dash upstairs to look out of a second-story window for a hopefully wider view of them both. Yep. There they are. My brow wrinkles slightly. Both moose look exactly the same height. I guess the angle from below made them look differently sized. It’s all about perspective. But why are the two traveling together still? And then mama steps forward into view.
It’s a cow with two calves!
I am so excited. Two! Usually moose bear only one calf each spring. There must have been a lot of food this past year since she has borne twins. Come spring these two will be off on their own as mama’s attention turns to her next newborn.
She watches them still as together they climb the hill created by the house’s leech field, tugging on the smaller willow as they go. Mama lets them move up and over as she takes the long way around to the other side of the mound, and within only a few breaths, all three ungulates are out of view, and I am left with a peaceful smile on my lips.
Moose resource: https://www.adfg.alaska.gov/index.cfm?adfg=moose.main