Just as the bull moose disappeared into the early evening shadows, my neighbor commented, “You’re not gonna be seeing this in Seattle.” 

A few minutes earlier, he’d phoned me and asked, “You lookin’ out your window?” I hadn’t been.

“There’s a moose walking down the middle of the river in your direction.”

This was a first. I’ve lived along the Okanogan River — a humble little tributary to the great Columbia — for forty years. I’ve seen an extraordinary variety of wildlife: eagles, osprey, all sorts of ducks, raucous Canada geese, beaver, river otters, great blue heron, fish jumping, sun-bathing humans on floating inflatables, and one time (I’m not making this up) a pelican. But never a moose.

I almost didn’t see this one. Despite my neighbor’s phone alert, I didn’t immediately spot the moose as he waded past my house. He was camouflaged in the reflection of trees that grow on the opposite river bank. Then, a few yards downriver, he suddenly came into view, backlighted by the last glimmer of twilight. If my neighbor hadn’t called, I would’ve thought it a mirage. 

Moose are, after all, larger than life. They can weigh up to sixteen hundred pounds and measure six feet from hoof to shoulder. At this time of year the Okanogan River is so shallow, this fellow had no trouble keeping his massive head and horns above water.

“I wonder where he’ll get out,” I said to my neighbor.

“Anywhere he wants,” was the reply.

Those fleeting moments — staring at a moose on his evening promenade — felt like a final gift from a river that has nurtured and inspired me through the years. At the end of the month I’ll move to the thirteenth floor of a high-rise in downtown Seattle with a view of city skyline. I don’t mean to be totally self-absorbed, as if the moose’s appearance were some kind of sign meant just for me. Still, I asked a Native American friend what it might’ve meant. His response was both practical and mystical. He said it’s time for the moose to migrate in order to thrive now and in the future. Conditions are always changing, and moose know when the time is right. Yes, it was a sign.

Signs have been coming my way for quite a while. At first they’re just little nudges, fleeting thoughts, offhand comments that somehow resonate. At some point, you begin to pay attention. You wonder where this is leading. Finally the signs become billboards in flashing neon. The direction is clear: time to follow a different path.

After the decision comes the checklist: 

• Inform and try to explain the decision to family and friends (not to mention myself). Check.
• Hold a gigantic moving sale that, with a lot of help from friends, was bigger and as much fun as any party I’ve ever hosted. Check.
• “Stage” the house to make it look livable but not personal — like a hotel lobby. Check.
• List the house for sale with all the necessary marketing tools, signs, photos, internet videos. Check.
• Accept an offer on the house within an unbelievable twenty-four hours. Check.

Again, it’s evening. As I write,  I watch the rosy glow of sunset reflected on the river. No moose tonight but the ducks are staging an aerial show that never fails to take my breath away. Flying in perfect formation like Air Force Blue Angels, they land as a squadron with a singular splash.

Not long from now, when the river freezes over, the ducks will head to open water on the Columbia. Earlier today I heard the sandhill cranes overhead on their way south. 

The signs are always clear when it’s time to move on.