It wasn’t Noah.
Instead, I found myself staring at approximately 1,000 pounds of irritated moose.
“Oh, oh.”
The animal stood perfectly still, its massive body blocking my way back to the Jeep. Its dark eyes fixed on me as I held up my hands in a gesture of peace. Which in moose language must have meant something else entirely because it snorted, now even more pissed off.
“Nice moose,” I whispered, trying to convince the creature I wasn’t worth trampling into human pâté. “Good moose. Pretty moose.”
The animal’s nostrils flared, its ears swiveling forward. It took one deliberate step toward me, crushing a clump of wildflowers beneath its massive hoof. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
A soft snuffling sound from the opposite direction drew my attention. I turned my head slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might trigger the moose’s “stomp the city girl” instinct.
On the far side of the clearing stood a smaller moose, with gangly legs and a proportionally larger head. It watched me while chewing lazily on a mouthful of leaves.
The realization hit me like a thousand-pound hoofed mammal. I was standing between a mother moose and her baby. The exact thing Noah warned me I should never let happen.
“Well, this isn’t good.” My mind raced through every wilderness survival show I’d ever half-watched while scrolling through TikTok. Don’t run from predators. Was a moose a predator? Make yourself look big. No, that was for bears. Play dead? That was for ... something else. Not mooses. Meese? Whatever.
“Stay calm.” The irony of giving myself advice I was incapable of following wasn’t lost on me. “Just back away very slowly.”
I took one tentative step backward, and the mother moose pawed at the ground, lowering her head. “Bad move. Very bad move.”
The calf took a few steps toward its mother, which would have been heartwarming if it didn’t require crossing the invisible line that connected me to certain death. Mama Moose’s eyes narrowed, her massive body tensing like a furry locomotive preparing to charge.
I’d come to Colorado to create curated content about luxury wilderness experiences. Instead, I was about to become content for the moose’s feed: #CityGirlSquish #NoFilter #AuthenticWildlife.
“Noah,” I called, a prayer more than a call for help. “Where are you?”
The moose lowered its head further, eyes locked on mine. The message was clear. This would be my last authentic Colorado experience.
“Don’t. Move.” The voice came from above, barely a whisper on the breeze. Every muscle in my body froze, except for my eyes, which darted upward.
Noah hung from the cliff face above me, suspended by climbing ropes and carabiners, his body pressed against the stone.
“Noah?” I’d never felt so relieved in my life.
“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low.
“Me? What are YOU doing?” I hissed back, my neck craned to maintain eye contact.
“Climbing helps me think.”
The moose snorted, drawing my attention back to the thousand-pound problem at hand. Its massive head swayed, hooves pawing at the dirt as its baby watched from the safety of the tree line.
“Don’t make any sudden movements,” said Noah, his voice still quiet.
The moose took another step forward, lowering its head toward my vital organs. I could practically feel its hot breath from fifteen feet away.
“Um … can you come down here, please? Like now?”
“Not even I can make it all the way down there in time.”
“I think it’s going to charge.”
“She’s definitely going to charge.” Noah’s voice was impossibly calm. “But we’re going to get you out of this. I need you to listen carefully.”
My heart was beating so fast and so loud I wasn’t sure I could listen to anything, but I nodded, eyes still fixed on the moose’s flaring nostrils.
