I sat alone deep in the forest having found a small grassy clearing in which to enjoy a patch of early-morning sun. It gently warmed my closed eyelids. My legs folded, I took slow deep breaths and emptied my mind. The lightest of breezes, a remnant of the chilly night, emerged from the shadows of thick brush and lightly caressed my bare knees. Still, like a pool of water, I hovered in bliss.

From behind me a large presence appeared calmly in complete silence. I felt it immediately, goosebumps rising up my spine under my t-shirt. I turned oh-so-slowly and made eye contact with the beast not ten feet away from me. My instincts took over. I curled into a ball, tight, eyes closed, and a very quiet voice inside my head prayed. Go away moose, go away moose.

I soon heard it bound through the clearing and on into the woods. I inhaled with relief and sat up again. Behind the moose followed my traveling companion with his camera. Knucklehead.

I returned to my mediation. The sun climbed, promising a hot summer day and chasing away the last of the coolness of the forest. Insects began to hum. Again a slither of adrenaline down my back. Her mate. So. Huge. His antlers wide, perhaps six feet from end to end. Like a bug, I tried to push myself into the earth. Please. Go. Away.

And he was pursued by an idiot, my dear old friend Abe clutching his camera loaded with slide film, his choice of medium as an artist. I gave up and headed back to camp for a breakfast of oatmeal and tea. We ate, me in silence, he chatting animatedly about his amazing experience with the moose. Neither of us knew that moose kill more people than bears, though no part of me felt that chasing one had been wise. Abe's enthusiasm remained undeterred, one of his charming qualities. After packing up, we hiked out of the forest to the car to find a town where Abe could develop his film.

A few hours later, I sat in a cool red plastic booth of an air-conditioned diner debating whether I should order a cheeseburger or chicken strips and wondering where I might get my next shower or maybe a swim. Abe crossed the street, hot enough now to see a shimmering mirage above the asphalt, to pick up his slides. He returned a few minutes later sweaty and deflated.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I got so excited I didn't set the shutter speed correctly. They are all overexposed," he said, setting the box of slides on the table and reluctantly picking up a menu.

I felt badly about my friend's disappointment. "Sorry, Abe," I said. "Maybe some experiences best if they just remain in our memory."