I've never felt so judged by an herbivore in my life.
"Oh shit," I whisper.
The moose continues eating my car with the casual indifference of someone who definitely owns this property and I'm the trespasser.
"Oh shit, oh shit."
My phone is in my hand before conscious thought kicks in, because even faced with a literal ton of wildlife, I'm still an influencer at heart. Muscle memory takes over—open camera app, try to frame the shot—but my hands are shaking so hard the image won't focus. All I can think is this is not the majestic wildlife encounter I had planned. Where's the golden hour lighting? Where's the safe distance? Where's the FENCE?
The moose takes a step toward me, and a sound tears from my throat that definitely violates several noise ordinances. It's high-pitched, panicked, and probably audible from the neighboring cabin because?—
"OH SHIT!"
My shriek escalates as the moose advances another step, a strip of mirror dangling from its mouth like the world's mostexpensive dental floss. The sound I'm making could shatter glass or summon wildlife from three counties over—neither option feels helpful right now. I scramble backward, designer boots betraying me immediately. My arms windmill, my phone goes flying in a perfect arc, and I land ass-first in a snowbank with enough force to trigger a small avalanche from the nearest pine tree.
Snow dumps over my head in a cascading wave, sliding down my collar, filling my boots, and I'm gasping and flailing like a turtle flipped on its back when the door to the left cabin—the straight one, the sober one—explodes open.
A man emerges like some kind of lumberjack superhero, wielding a hockey stick and scanning for threats with the intensity of someone who's done this before. He's tall—easily six-two—with dark hair sticking up in about seven different directions like he just rolled out of bed to save tourists from themselves. He’s wearing worn jeans that fit like a second skin, a flannel shirt hanging open over a thermal that clings to what I can only describe as hockey player geometry—all angles and strength and barely contained power.
His eyes—a shade of grey that reminds me of storm clouds—sweep the scene in approximately two seconds: me, buried in snow like a designer scarecrow. The moose, still chewing contemplatively on my car's mirror. My phone, recording everything from its landing spot three feet away.
Sweet baby Jesus in a snowsuit.
"Don't move," he commands, and his voice—rough and low, like whiskey poured over gravel—makes my stomach do something complicated that has nothing to do with moose terror.
He approaches the moose with the kind of calm authority I've only seen in nature documentaries, the ones with British narrators where everything works out fine. The moose—let'scall him Morris because he needs a name if he's going to be eating my rental car—regards Hockey Stick Hero with the bored expression of a regular at a bar who's seen it all before.
My rescuer makes a shooing motion that somehow conveys both respect and "please leave the nice lady's vehicle alone." Morris considers this, takes one last contemplative chew of the mirror, then ambles away into the forest with the dignity of someone who definitely won this encounter.
I scramble to my feet, which takes three tries because designer boots aren't meant for snow gymnastics. Snow cascades from my parka in chunks. My carefully styled hair is now a disaster zone, and I'm pretty sure my mascara has migrated to my cheeks. But I've spent three years as a lifestyle influencer, and if there's one thing I know, it's how to pivot.
"Hi!" My voice comes out about two octaves higher than normal. "I'm Piper, your new neighbor, and this is actually perfect—would you mind being in my 'Alaska Rescue Hero' content? The lighting is amazing right now."
I gesture at the late afternoon sun filtering through the pine trees, which actually is creating this gorgeous golden glow that would make for incredible thumbnails. My ring light could never compete with this natural perfection, and the way the light hits his cheekbones—sharp enough to cut glass—is basically a crime against other men's self-esteem.
His expression cycles through about seven hundred different emotions in three seconds. First, the protective concern of someone who thought he was preventing a mauling. Then confusion, like he's trying to figure out if I hit my head in the fall. Then incredulous disbelief as he takes in my camera, still recording from the snow. Finally, his jaw tightens with deep, soul-weary annoyance that suggests he's dealt with tourists before and found them severely wanting.
His eyes—and wow, they're even more devastating up close, like winter storm clouds with silver linings—scan my complete disaster of an outfit. The boots with their decorative buckles now caked in snow. The parka that cost a mortgage payment but provides the insulation of a paper bag. My mittens that coordinate with everything but provide zero actual grip. Everything about me screams "tourist with a death wish and a ring light."
He grunts something that sounds suspiciously like "Fucking tourists" under his breath, though it might have been "trucking tourists" if I'm being generous. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks back to his cabin, each step deliberate and dismissive.
I stand there, mouth open, snow melting in places snow shouldn't be, watching him retreat. And okay, I'm a feminist and I don't objectify men, but the way he walks—all controlled power and barely leashed irritation—makes my brain short-circuit just a little. Those shoulders could probably carry a moose. Those jeans should be illegal in at least three states. That flannel shirt swaying with each step is basically assault with a deadly weapon.
His cabin door closes with a decisive thud that somehow manages to convey "stay on your side of the property line and we'll both survive this."
"Okay," I tell the empty driveway, my voice small in the sudden silence. "So the grumpy mountain man thing is apparently a real personality trait, not just a regional aesthetic choice. Good to know."
Morris the Moose has left moose-sized tracks leading into the forest, along with my side mirror and what's left of my dignity. My suitcases sit scattered across the snow like expensive casualties of war. My ring light lies on its side, looking as defeated as I feel.
I pick up my phone, which miraculously survived the fall and captured everything. "Well, Piper Pack," I say to my followers, forcing my trademark smile despite the snow melting down my spine, "welcome to Alaska, where the wildlife eats your car and the neighbors hate you on sight. This is going to be... interesting."
The word "interesting" comes out like a question, because honestly? I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. I came here to escape humiliation, to rebuild my brand, to find content that doesn't involve my ex's betrayal. Instead, I've found a moose named Morris, a neighbor who looks like he stepped out of a "Hot Men Who Hate You" calendar, and a tilted cabin that's probably going to collapse the moment I plug in my ring light.
I gather my suitcases, beginning the long trudge to my tilted refuge. Fourteen more to go. The sun is already starting to dip toward the mountains, painting everything in shades of gold and pink that would be breathtaking if I wasn't slowly freezing to death in designer outerwear.
Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of movement in Hockey Stick Hero's window. He's watching, probably making sure I don't attract any more wildlife with my city girl pheromones. I wave cheerfully, because killing them with kindness is basically my brand, and I swear I see him shake his head before disappearing into the shadows of his perfectly level, mortifyingly practical looking cabin.
"Day one in Alaska," I mutter, dragging my ring light through the snow like a cross I've chosen to bear. "Going great. Just great."
