The Moose, the Mayhem, and the Miracle of Triplets

Spring in Alaska, and the calves are here.

It all began early on March 16th with a message from a friend:

“I’m watching a moose and her newborn calf. There’s another pregnant cow nearby.”

And just like that, moose calf season was on.

This spring, I set my sights (and my lens) on one goal: photographing newborn moose. We spend so much time in fall focusing on big bulls with even bigger antlers—this year, I wanted to celebrate the reason for the rut: the wobbly-legged, big-eyed, absurdly cute little calves.

So began the daily pre-dawn ritual: dragging myself out of bed to search for moose calves, fueled by caffeine, hope, and the promise of a perfect shot. As the sun rose earlier and earlier, the challenge got real.

That first morning, I met up with my friend and got eyes on my first calf of the year. Cue the involuntary oooohs and ahhhs. The tiny thing was still figuring out how its legs worked, like a baby giraffe wearing stilts. We kept watch, trying to shoo away too-curious onlookers and their off-leash dogs. Mama moose don’t mess around—especially not with a newborn.

Later that day, while checking back for better light and angles, I spotted a different cow tucked under a pine tree. Something moved. Two somethings. Twins! I sat down to watch from a respectful distance, waiting for a better view. Then—screams.

Real, terrified, human screams.

It was coming from the direction of the first moose and her calf. Within minutes, sirens pierced the stillness, and emergency vehicles came barreling down the wide park trail. My stomach dropped. I knew what had happened.

A woman had been attacked by a mother moose—likely the one we’d been watching that morning. Her off-leash dog had gotten too close, and the fiercely protective mom charged. The woman suffered broken ribs, and her dog was badly injured. It was a brutal reminder: moose are not gentle giants, especially not with calves on the ground.

Meanwhile, the twin mom and her babies remained hidden under their pine tree, unaware of the chaos nearby. Eventually, they tiptoed out just enough for a few difficult shots before fading back into cover.

The next day, I returned, but something felt off. Fresh moose tracks crisscrossed the trail… and among them, bear tracks.

Not just any bear—a mother black bear and three large yearling cubs.

And they had a moose calf.

Whether it was the twin pair or the single calf from the attack zone, I couldn’t say for sure. But the signs were there and it was mere yards from where the mother and single calf were the night before. What a cruel twist: a mother moose, forced to fight for her calf one day, only to lose it to predators that very same night. Heartbreaking. But nature doesn’t play favorites. Those bears, with their glossy black coats, were thriving—and hungry. The calf meant survival for them.

The twin mom had likely fled the area. And just like that, we were back to square one. We searched, hiked, hoped—and came up empty.

Until…

We spotted a lone calf—tiny, trembling, and right beside a busy footpath. Likely left by its mother while she fed, but still… far too exposed. We watched from a distance, silently rooting for the return of mom. Having to take care of a few things in the gallery I left, but checked back in the evening. Still no sign of mom and the tiny calf still lay near the trail, crying. My heart ached for the little calf. Morning came. and the calf had vanished. We searched everywhere. Nothing. I told myself the mom came back. I hoped she came back.

Days passed like this. Rising early in hopes of some good images of mothers and their calves, but the opportunities were scarce.

And then, a miracle.

While driving a side road, I spotted a cow I’d been watching for days. I stopped, waited, watched. She crossed the road—and behind her popped one, two, THREE tiny heads.

Triplets.

TRIPLETS.

Moose rarely have triplets, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I called Adam and we watched in awe as these newborns wobbled behind their mom, looking like plush toys on pipe cleaner legs.

For a while, she stayed with all three. Then, she took the biggest and left the other two to rest while she fed. This behavior would repeat throughout the day, taking one and leaving two behind. When evening came, she left a single calf behind—again near the road. The hours dragged on. The calf began crying. Loudly. Heart-wrenchingly. I had to shoo away a photographer sticking a lens in its face. Seriously?

The rules are simple: wildlife comes first.

By 10 p.m., mom still hadn’t returned. I went home with a knot in my chest. Morning came, and the calf was gone. Just like before.

Days later, a local posted saying Fish & Game confirmed the family had reunited. I desperately hope that’s true.

So far, spring has brought joy, sorrow, awe, and a few gut punches. But that’s life in the wild.

Moose calves come into this world delicate and uncertain—and their survival depends on fiercely devoted mothers, safe distances from predators, and a whole lot of luck. I’ll keep showing up, camera in hand, heart on sleeve, rooting for them. Because even in heartbreak, there’s magic in witnessing these fragile new beginnings.

And if you're ever lucky enough to spot a moose calf—give it space, hold your dog tight, and soak in the moment. You’re watching the wilderness at its most tender… and most wild.

I’ll try to add some more photos in a few days….spring is not over yet and we’re still on a moose mission!