Wildlife watching in Sweden

It’s fair to say that I’ve become moose obsessed. It stems from a childhood watching Northern Exposure, having Canadian holidays and never actually spotting one of these long-legged giants. Over the years I’ve tracked moose poo in the snow and perfected the ‘honking’ mating call through my nose in the hope to tick this off my bucket list. If you’ve never heard a moose call, it sounds a little like a dying duck so perfecting this is quite a challenge.

This is a difficult passion to sustain when you live in Australia so I hoped to satisfy “the itch” with a moose safari camping weekend in Sweden. The forest, Lunsen, on the outskirts of Uppsala is a magical little haven of shallow swamps, scurrying squirrels, and moss spotted beautifully with blueberries – a perfect location for my first encounter.

The midway resting point was a smoky log cabin and as we settled in for some coffee, we had a guest: a local forest ranger checking in on the visitors. He could be described as Sweden’s Crocodile Dundee, with the stocky build of a working man, a huge grin and he was well up for a chat.

I take the opportunity to ask if he has seen any moose around lately.

“Oh yes”, he says, “I’ve seen a moose”. This is fantastic news – so far we’d seen none, but it looked as if we could get lucky.

“Where, where, where?”

My heart rate rose with anticipation. I could feel I was on the verge of a magical moment where I would see a moose in the flesh for the first time. I could picture it frolicking in the clearing not far from the cabin.

“I killed one yesterday”, he adds. He dramatically slams his hand on the table for effect. Just imagine my despair.

“It was in here”, he continues. I look around the tiny cabin, taking in the heavy latched wooden door and narrow doorway you had to stoop under. It was so tiny, you couldn’t swing a cat, and I’m confused how a moose would enter.

“No, no! Not mouse” I say, “moose”. Ranger Sven looks blank, unable to hear the difference in these two words.

“Elk”, I try. “Alg, älyeee”. I’m pulling out my finest Swenglish but we’re lost in translation.

I wonder how we ended up here: a normal conversation gone wrong and now it’s like a Mexican standoff with neither of us sure how where to take the conversation from here.

“Oh Australia”, the Swede cries. He embraces me in a hug and I laugh, because a hug is a universal.