A Tale of Two City Parks

American cities love their parks. Even the most densely populated cities carve and keep sacred respites of grass and trees and ponds and pathways. New York City hosts 11,253 people per square mile, and at its center lies the aptly named Central Park. On the other side of the world, the 151.8 people per square mile in Anchorage, Alaska wrap their residential arms around their city's pride and joy, Kincaid Park.

Both parks offer peaceful safe havens on crispy fall days. The wind gently ruffles the yellow and rusty leaves of their trees. Birds leap from tree branch to bush, squirrels run insanely in circles preparing for the approaching winter, and the air is filled with the sometimes dry and toasty, and other times damp and mushroomy smells of fall.

When the sun is shining and the sky is clear, a person can lie on his back in the grass of Anchorage's Kincaid Park, look up and into the rich earth tone patchwork of its flora and fauna and easily imagine that he or she is in New York City's Central Park. But there are differences.

On a beautiful, blue-skied and breezy fall day in New York City's Central Park, I once saw a man crapping between two parked cars. I saw a woman covered from head-to-toe with pigeons. I saw vendors along the perimeter selling their best attempts at artwork. I saw runners and walkers, rollerbladers and bikers, game players and boat rowers. I saw people with dogs and people with ferrets. I saw people in wheelchairs, and people with walkers and canes. I saw babies in buggies. I saw people dressed in professional business attire, people dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and people dressed in drag. I saw people talking with other and to themselves. I saw people eating picnic lunches, people eating hot dogs, and people eating in the Crystal Room at Tavern on the Green. I saw people reading books and magazines. I even saw Dustin Hoffman reading a newspaper. There, in the grass, in the ponds, on the benches and the bridges, the paths and the hills, was plenty of space for all them to enjoy their day.

In Anchorage's Kincaid Park, I saw only one other person, a man, and he startled me. He was a small, thin man with oily black hair, and he was sitting on the bench at the Pia-Margarethe Overlook. I did not see him at first. I was mesmerized by the collage of color beyond the overlook. I had never seen the water of Cook Inlet look so blue.

"Have you seen any moose?"

The man's question snapped his presence into my focus. His small dark eyes seemed to be without lashes or brows, and they were set well within a small, square and very white face that twitched when he spoke. "I saw seven so far. I'm looking for a young bull. He's got to be around here somewhere. He's still in velvet. Have you seen him?" Regretfully, I hadn't. The man stepped forward, and I stepped back.

"I saw him yesterday," he said. "I followed him for six hours until he bedded down. He stayed down for two and a half hours. I stayed with him. If I don't see him on the trail soon, I'm going to start bushwhacking. That's what I do." I warned him to be careful about following moose around. He responded with confidence that bull moose usually aren't aggressive when they're in velvet.

I could not recall seeing any moose in New York City's Central Park, but I was sure there were many men like this one. In New York, they call them stalkers. He did not appear to be homeless, he was too clean and well kept for that. His freshly laundered plaid shirt was buttoned up to his chin and tucked neatly into his tidy blue jeans. He carried a backpack that appeared stuffed full and heavy. With what, I wondered? Again, I stepped back.

For a moment, I flashed on one of my worst nightmares - encountering a psychopath (a moose stalker?) in the remote quiet of the countryside, the kind of place where your dismembered body parts wouldn't be found for weeks or months if ever at all. I always said I'd rather take my chances on the mean, but well-traveled and well-lighted streets of a bad neighborhood in a big city than go one-on-one with some odd lot on a deserted country road.

It was a 45-minute walk back to the parking lot, maybe 20 if I could manage to run. I doubted my ability to outrun this man and his short and wiry, but fit and fast legs. I assessed my chances of overpowering him in hand-to-hand combat and was wondering if he was carrying a concealed weapon when he said, "well, see ya" and started hiking down the hill and away from me. I hoped not, but answered "yeah, see ya," anyway, and even added "have a nice day." I tried not to be obvious about watching him, but I kept him in my line of sight until I was sure he was well on his way down the path.

In front of me, the brilliant turquoise of Cook Inlet held steady on the horizon. On top of it, the Sleeping Lady mountain reclined comfortably in the sunshine. The gray of the dead and dying spruce trees between me and the Inlet stitched themselves into the tapestry of a landscape that was brushstroked by the neon yellow of birch trees and the rusty reds and golden browns of prairie grasses. It was quiet. I was alone, and somewhere in the woods behind and beyond me, a small strange man searched for a young bull moose in velvet. At that moment, I knew that despite its immense proportions, Kincaid Park wasn't big enough for the both of us.

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