Selected entries
Annika has kept a log of sightings since 2018. Here are a handful. The log lives in the Vestibule in a dark-green notebook with a birch-bark cover; guests are welcome to read it, and occasionally to contribute.
Autumn 2018 · first entry
Third week of September. I came down from the workshop at dusk and there was a cow moose standing in the compost heap, chewing apple cores with great deliberation. She looked at me the way a cashier looks at a coupon they're not sure they can accept. I stood still. She finished the apple cores, stepped over the wire, and walked into the alders. The whole visit took maybe eleven minutes. That was the first one.
Winter 2019 · with a calf
Found them along the north fence on a Tuesday morning — hers and a smaller set, close together. Teo thinks she dropped the calf in late May somewhere in the Hauta Creek drainage, which would explain a skinny-looking summer. We never saw the calf directly, only the tracks, on and off, until March. We assume it made it. Moose calves have about a 50/50 year; we choose to believe hers was on the lucky side.
Summer 2020 · the dock incident
A guest named Rauni was rinsing off on the porch when she saw something dark moving in the water near the point. It was the moose, swimming steadily, leaving a wake that looked boat-sized. She came ashore about sixty meters west of the dock, shook herself off, ate a leaf, and vanished. Rauni insists to this day that the moose made eye contact with her. Rauni has since booked the Calf every August.
Autumn 2021 · the naming debate
The list, which I still have in the notebook, included: Hilma, Suvi, Ukko's Cousin, Big Deal, Salad, and — Teo's suggestion — Susan. We decided against it. A name turns a neighbor into a pet. She's not a pet. She's a neighbor who eats our apple cores. Susan, however, is still in the running if we ever need a backup name for the business.
Winter 2022 · the quiet one
From late October until early March, nothing. No tracks, no compost raids, no sightings across the water. I worried. Moose don't usually leave a range they know. Then on a Thursday in March — the Thursday Teo was re-stacking the stones — she walked across the frozen inlet in full view of the Big Moose's porthole. Two guests were in-session. They did not speak of it for several minutes and then the younger one said, very quietly, “oh.”
Summer 2023 · the antler (not hers)
Moose cows don't grow antlers, so this wasn't from her. A bull must have passed through in the night. Teo mounted it above the Vestibule door with two small brass pins. A guest last April asked if it was the moose's, and I said no, but I didn't elaborate, because the story is more interesting if you have to ask twice.
Autumn 2024 · the encounter
Early October, 6:12 a.m., checking the cedar cover. She came out of the alders maybe fifteen meters off. We looked at each other for perhaps ten seconds. I did not move. She stepped toward the water, put her nose to it, turned, and went back the way she came. I finished checking the cover. I did not tell Teo for a full day. I don't know why. Some things you want to hold alone for a little while.
This past week · new
Fresh set, Thursday, a single animal, walking at a steady pace. Bix noticed, considered, and lay back down, which is his entire analytical method. She's still with us. Thirteen years old now, give or take. I'd like her to be here as long as we are.
— Annika. A note on the log: entries are copied in once a season from a field notebook kept in the Vestibule. If you see her while you're here, leave a line. Pencil is fine. The good pen is for gift sessions.