In December '94 I was running through Banff at a speed that was ridiculous for winter driving even before we consider it was a white '91 geo metro and 1am in a snowstorm.

And there it was. But, night-zoned and lulled by the hyperspace homage in snowflakes lit by the headlights, the first thing I saw was just a series of knees.

"Oh fuckfuckfuck," said my brain to itself as I executed a classic Moose Check maneuvre at an ungodly rate of speed in absolutely unsuitable conditions, missing the moose by a distance smaller than the amount of caring our conservative political candidate really has for the plebes he wants to manage for fun and profit.

After an interminable series of fishtails from trying to straighten up after going nearly sideways on the slippery roads in the blizzardy dark in a frightenly remote part of the highways, in a car that wouldn't be seen in the ditch or ravine by searchers or passers-by until some later Spring, I managed through luck and wordless appeals to a capricious god to straighten the attitude of the car and keep it on the roadway.

And my future wife woke up in the passenger seat and asked what was going on, sleepily wondering why the turns are so sharp and why I'm cursing.

"It's fine; but I saw a moose back there. Really close, too!"