Moose in the willows evoke awe, sympathy

By Jeff Mitton

Early in September and shortly after sunrise, I stood on a knoll overlooking Brainard Lake, scanning the willows for moose. Nothing. I walked along the road south of the lake, through the most extensive stand of willows, listening intently and peering to each side. Nothing.

I became optimistic when I saw a woman standing on top of her vehicle, staring intently into the willows. I tiptoed furtively toward the vehicle, but startled when a bull moose snorted from 20 feet inside the willows. Not a threat, just clearing phlegm.

I left, returned with my vehicle, turned off the engine and coasted to the area where the bull snorted. I climbed onto my vehicle, partly for safety, partly to be able to peer into the willows that reached above 6 feet. A large set of bloody antlers bobbed up and down as the moose pulled leaves and buds from the willows.

During summer, antlers are covered with velvet, a layer of skin with a dense layer of short fur. The skin is highly vascularized to bring oxygen and nutrients to the bone, which grows quickly from spring through summer. But in the early fall, the skin dries and the antlers cease growing. The moose rub their antlers against branches and small trees, scraping the velvet off.

This moose had scraped off some but not all of the velvet, so his antlers were ragged and grisly. Strips of velvet hung from the lower antlers, large portions had no velvet but were still stained with blood and some portions were bare, clean bone.

At the edge of the willows, a tall, slender lodgepole pine caught my eye. It was about 6 inches in diameter, and its needles were lush and green, but its bark was missing from about 3 feet up to 7 feet above the ground. The foliage around the tree had been flattened, and the bark had been beaten off the trunk. Moose had used this tree to rub off velvet, and shreds of velvet littered the ground.



In the distance, another set of antlers, much larger, caught my eye. This bull, tall and stocky with a luxurious coat, had antlers 4 feet across. I stood at the edge of the lake, peering into the willows to watch it browse. But then it began to move, slowly and ponderously, limping heavily. This bull was seen regularly, and his size and limp made him distinctive. People call him "Hobbler."

I watched Hobbler make his way along the margin of the lake to the stand of trees where he sought solace for the day. He did his best to walk on three legs, but he was not sufficiently agile, so he pitched down when his left rear leg took any of his weight. The knee of his left rear leg was badly swollen -- perhaps a broken bone, or a blown knee or an infection. He crossed a small stream flowing into the lake and sunk into the mud.

Mud is no challenge for a moose with four good legs, but Hobbler struggled mightily, nearly falling. Back on solid ground and heaving to get his breath, he turned and looked at me -- no fear, but no threat, either. His long look evoked a wave of sympathy.

Hobbler lives in a wilderness where there are no rescues. His injury will not allow him to feed when the snow piles up deeper than his belly. This is Hobbler's last winter.

Jeff Mitton (mitton@colorado.edu) is a professor in the Department of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology at the University of Colorado. This column apppeared originally in the Camera.

September 2010