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While on assignment this year in the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador for The New York Times, my attention turned to big game — moose, that is.
In 1904, four moose calves were introduced to Newfoundland as part of a plan to lure big game hunters from outside the province to the island’s railway. The railway, known with affectionate sarcasm as the Newfie Bullet, is long gone. But the moose remain.
Without any significant predator — other than people — moose have thrived on the island, and they now number between 120,000 and 150,000. That’s about one moose for every four people who live on the island.
That’s good and bad news. The annual moose hunt is a major cultural event in Newfoundland, and moose are an important food source for some locals. But on the highways that arrived long after the creatures did, cars and trucks hit moose at a rate of 1.5 collisions a day, which often result in serious injuries and death, for both people and the animals. Well-meaning but ill-conceived attempts by people to alter nature — and the consequences of that — have always interested me.
As I began my reporting this spring, the photographer Ian Willms and I faced two challenges. First, I struggled to find people who had the misfortune of striking a moose with their cars. Second, we also needed to see some actual moose. Aside from photographs, I thought it was important to at least have a look at the primary subject of my article.
That second task was the more anxiety-inducing. Three years ago, I wrote about Canadians’ love-hate relationship with beavers, the country’s national animal. While I had seen many of the creatures throughout my life, not one appeared during my reporting. It took the photographer Nasuna Stuart-Ulin several stakeouts to find one swimming. Moose, I feared, would be equally shy.
In Ottawa, where I am based, I regularly drive through a large provincial park in Ontario that’s also known for moose collisions. So I know how moose can turn a seemingly benign drive into a white-knuckle experience. I drive slowly during the spring, when moose sometimes come to the highway to lick up the road salt. A large moose once galloped beside my van before I could stop. And tourists in the park sometimes create added danger by slamming on their brakes and then dashing out onto the road for photos of the moose grazing.
We traveled from Ontario to Newfoundland in April and asked residents about their terrifying experiences with moose. Nearly everyone we met quickly volunteered near miss stories, including the province’s premier, Andrew Furey. In Glenwood, Newfoundland, Harold Pelley, a taxidermist, told us he once clipped a cow moose, or a female adult moose. (The moose walked away, and Mr. Pelley’s Mustang suffered only a small dent in its fender.)
Before he retired, Mr. Pelley worked for the provincial wildlife department, where his duties included killing moose that had been badly wounded by collisions. It seemed best to leave those grisly tales out of the article.
During our trip, we also visited two scrap yards. Moose can weigh more than half a ton and are capable of collapsing car and truck roofs when they slam into them, injuring or killing passengers. At one of the yards, an oversized forklift — with tongs the length of a full-size sedan — trundled out three mangled vehicles. One pickup truck was severely damaged, undermining the local wisdom that these vehicles offer more protection from moose than cars do.
But aside from a nearly life-size plastic moose on display at a local dollar store, we had yet to see the animal in real life.
To find them, we did what everyone told us not to: We drove a section of the Trans-Canada Highway at night, which is particularly dangerous because their eyes do not reflect the light back from cars, and their fur has little or no sheen and no bright patches.
During our drive, we passed very few communities. It began pouring, adding to the dark and foreboding atmosphere. At several points, we saw semi-trucks with their front ends transformed into metal battering rams meant to withstand collisions with moose. It made us fear a little more for our safety.
The drive was terrifying, exhausting and fruitless. Rather than quit, we sought guidance from Shawn Leroux, a professor of biology at Memorial University of Newfoundland who is also a moose hunter.
He directed us to another highway with the assurance that it was prime territory for moose sightings. I slowly drove along the road as the other Ian peered out of the sunroof of our small S.U.V., his two cameras at the ready. But the road was equally unsuccessful at turning up moose which — I suspect — were mocking us from deep in the forest. Defeated, we both flew home.
A few weeks later Ian was on another assignment for The Times in northwestern Ontario. In a text, he said he had spotted four moose.
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