Of moose and men . . . Alaskans try to coexist : In Anchorage, 230,000 people share the city with 1,200 of the big beasts. Sometimes they butt heads.

The traditional Easter egg hunt was not going well, even before the unscheduled appearance of the 1,000-pound bull moose.

Two feet of snow covered the park. Hundreds of children fanned out across the snow, but soon many were complaining of freezing fingers and toes. Several got stuck in waist-deep snowbanks. Several were reported missing after wandering into a thick forest.

Veteran police Officer Fred Jones was dispatched to help round the kids up. He was trudging through the woods when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and there it stood--a seven-foot-tall brown hulk with antlers. It was just a few feet away and was apparently not happy to have company.

The moose lowered its head and charged.

It’s hard to blame the moose for being testy. After all, the moose and his kind were here first. Long before Anchorage was settled early this century, the area’s lush wetlands and willow patches were prime habitat for the giant ungulates.

Today, 230,000 people live in Anchorage, and as many as 1,200 wild moose remain living among them. People here see them all the time. The animals navigate across six-lane highways. They stroll through mall parking lots and suburban neighborhoods. Last winter, two bulls spent a day smack in the middle of downtown, ambling past office buildings and through alleys.

Haphazard urban sprawl has left patches of moose paradise in the city--miles of woods, swamps and empty lots between subdivisions and malls give the animals room to feed and bed down away from people. They especially like city parks and the strips of birch forest that hug creeks flowing through town.

But sharing the city isn’t always easy for man or moose. Common are exasperated tales of a hungry moose cleaning out garden beds of cabbage, broccoli and Brussels sprouts, and munching their way through ornamental lawn plantings.

Despite their bulk--between 600 and 1,500 pounds and up to seven feet tall at the shoulders--moose are seemingly docile. But no question: They are wild. They kick furiously when cornered. Attacks on people are very rare, although moose often turn obnoxious after being fed, rubbing against windows, nosing up to doors and chasing people to their cars in pursuit of another handout. Biologists plead with residents not to offer food.

Moose are also stubborn. Cross-country skiers routinely face-off with moose that prefer the cleared trails to deeper snow. Last year, a moose stepped into a city intersection and refused to budge. A policeman arrived and inched his car forward to try to get the animal to move on. The moose reared up, stomped on the hood and walked off.

Until recently, about 100 moose a year were killed on Anchorage streets and highways in collisions with cars. The worst spot was the Glenn Highway leading out of town, an expressway that crosses a moose migration route. Moose weren’t the only casualties--people were regularly hurt, and a state study found that moose collisions on the Glenn caused an average of $5,000 damage to vehicles.

Then three years ago the state erected a nine-foot mesh moose fence lining both sides of the highway, and constructed a special moose underpass to funnel them beneath the road safely. Biologists had to put cabbage in the tunnel to lure the moose at first, but now the animals use it regularly and moose kills on that stretch of road are down 70%.

But there doesn’t seem to be any way to avoid accidents in many other parts of the city, especially on busy highways. And when people and moose have run-ins, the moose usually loses.

Which brings us back to the Easter egg hunt. The lost children were retrieved. Three were sent to the hospital with frostbite.

And Jones, the policeman, found himself alone in the woods with a mad moose. The animal charged, knocking him into the snow. The cop yelled and waved his arms. He radioed for help. He said later that the bull looked like it was about to come after him again.

So Jones drew his pistol and fired into the snow. The moose wasn’t deterred.

As the moose charged again, Jones shot it. The animal was killed. The meat was distributed to charity. The jarred policeman wound up in the hospital with an injured shoulder and elevated heart rate.

Biologists weren’t sure what to make of the incident. The animal may have felt trapped in the crusty snow, they said. It may have been annoyed at all the children invading the normally quiet park. And after months of snow and cold and thin pickings for food, it may have just been fed up.

“This time of year is the worst for them,” said Dave Harkness, a wildlife biologist with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. “They’ve about had it with noise and cars and people. They’re stressed out. They want winter to be over.”