’Twas a beautiful, post-rain hike. Sure, a little squishy, but not enough to soak low outdoor sneaks to sodden pulp. The grades were steep, the aspens yellow and glowing magically, the vistas expansive and technicolor. All in all, except for the effort at altitude, a perfect afternoon.

Just past the halfway mark on this intended jaunt, I came upon a pair looking completely shell-shocked. I asked what was wrong. The older couple, both in their 70s, related a tale of grave woe. They had both just retired and had come for a two-night celebration of the fact. The high point of their little adventure was to be a leisurely three hour hike. Instead, they had encountered a cow moose, her calf and a very large bull, agitated and occupying the only stream crossing on that section of the route.

Apparently the two had come upon the moose family, and the husband went close—“20 feet, that’s all”—to take smartphone photos of the enormous male. I was shown the photos. He was a magnificent specimen, his shoulder appearing nearly as tall as my head. The bull did not appreciate the attentions of husband-with-smartphone. He began making lunges.

The wife started yelling, soon joined in duet by her husband, while they backed away and tried to put the larger aspen trunks between themselves and the moose. The bull charged four times. At one point the wife began pelting him with rocks. He stopped perhaps two feet from her, antlers down and apparently quite prepared to do some damage.

The wife, a singer, decided the logical solution was to belt out “Amazing Grace” at the top of her lungs.

This did not convince the bull moose to reconsider his position.

Hence my meeting with the shocked, crestfallen couple retreating swiftly up the rocky trail.

I then began noticing things. Neither had warm clothing. Each carried a partially filled bottle of water. Sneakers. No food or snacks. No hiking poles. Nothing much at all for spending an unexpectedly long afternoon in the mountains. We had about three hours of daylight left. Backtracking would take at least two and a half.

There was nothing for it but to “adopt” these two and shepherd them back to the parking lot, helping them through the more difficult passages. The hardest part was convincing them of the urgency of walking briskly. Once the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the temperature would fall quickly, and they weren’t equipped for darkness or cold.

We still had substantial climbing ahead of us, and they were going to need what remained of their stamina. A turned ankle or bad fall could change the equation considerably. Bursting into song was not going to assist in this case.

Suffice it to say, we made it back with the sun just disappearing behind a ridge. As predicted, the forest went dark, the temperature dropped, and everyone returned to their cars safe and sound.

I took several lessons from the afternoon: Twenty feet is too close to an agitated bull moose. Throwing rocks at his face is unlikely to improve his disposition.

And, based upon the admittedly limited sample size available to me, I can report that liturgical wildlife management is a fail.