Mrs Carolina 1995 and I were on a road trip. NYC-Maine. we stopped at Govonis Italian Restaurant, 521 Lost River Rd, North Woodstock, NH for a plate of veal and a couple of bottles of wine. it was biker weekend. A lot of leather. As we were fixing to leave, several of them warned, “Be careful about the moose.”
“You want me to drive?” My driving scared Mrs. Carolina 1995.
“I been riding these roads since I was six.” Most of them as a hitchhiker or backseat driver behind my father.
All the hotels were filled in Laconia. It was biker weekend. The only rooms were in Conway, 30 miles across the White Mountains. I drove along the Kankamangus Highway at 50. a safe speed on a full moon night. Nearing the pass I spotted movement in the underbrush.
Yeti?
No, moose. A whole tribe of them gamboled onto the road. I jammed on the brakes. They turned their heads with disdain, as they ambled across the road.
“Moose?” Mrs. Carolina 1995 eyed the passing herd.
“Moose.” The biggest was a bull. 10 feet tall with 15-foot broad antlers. An accident with him would have been a fatality and the bikers back at Govonis could say, “He said he knew all about moose.”
I drove away from the pass convinced that moose were the king of the road.
At least up north they own the road.