During the summer of 1962, I was working for Bell Telephone as an engineering student. I didn’t set out to become famous as “the student who ---”. But I did, and this is how.
Late in the summer, I was working with Jean-Paul, a senior engineer from Montreal, on a field trip to the Rainy River area. This involved visiting radio sites, many of which were accessible only by little-traveled roads.
Before the trip, Jean-Paul outlined the procedure to follow if we encountered a moose at night. It was really pretty simple – stop, kill the engine, kill the lights, and don’t blow the horn. Fair enough. I could manage all that. But when he went through it several times more during the trip, I began to think he was a bit obsessed with the subject. Then he told me his story.
On a previous trip to the same area, he rounded a corner to find a bull moose blocking the road.
He stopped. Flashed his lights. The moose looked at him.
He put the car in neutral and revved the engine. Counterproductive. The moose stayed put, and he had gained its undivided attention.
He blew the horn. The moose charged. Misjudging its target, it went by a foot from the open window. At this point, Jean-Paul finally made a good move. Shifting into Drive, he stepped on the gas and left the area with all possible speed.
So we proceeded, secure in our belief that I had been properly briefed and could deal with the local fauna.
On our way back from one of the sites, I was driving our rental car along a paved secondary road. There was little traffic, except for a set of headlights following us at a comfortable distance. All was right with the world. Then it all changed.
We crested a small hump in the road, and beyond it was a skunk, in the process of crossing the road, about four feet on my side of the centre line; the worst possible position.
In one of those moments of clarity when time slows down just before disaster strikes, I could picture my situation in all its complexity, and could foresee the consequences (all bad) of the obvious courses of action.
The rental car was a brand new full-size Pontiac. To clarify this for the modern reader, these 1960’s land yachts came complete with vague suspensions, bias-ply tires, and crude power brake and steering systems which eliminated any road sense. Trying to steer around the animal would result in loss of control. If I braked hard, I might get stopped without leaving the road, but the skunk or the car behind or both would get me.
In the same instant, I realized that I had two things in my favour. The enormous V-8 engine could produce head-snapping acceleration in a more-or-less straight line, and the skunk had not yet reacted; its tail was still down. Accordingly, I made a small course change to aim the middle of the car at the skunk, and floored the pedal. Two seconds later, it was all over. No thump, no smell, and we were well out of spray range -- although I still have no idea what happened to the car behind us.
Fine. At least I’d be famous for missing the skunk, not for hitting it. Get the car back into the lane, let the speed drop off. Everything was peaceful. Too peaceful. Jean-Paul was silent. I looked over, and his face was white in the moonlight. After another 30 seconds or so, he started to sputter.
Then, “Pp—pp—pp—Sacrifice, Bob! You must ’ave gone right over ’is tail!”