Ravens to the Rescue
It was against all the unwritten rules I’d learned early in life. I went alone into the woods on cross-country skis late in the afternoon on a winter day, and I chose a remote trail that wrapped around the mountain at nine thousand feet, circling it like a shiny white ribbon.
I
was an adequate skier, and my equipment was almost new.
I had water and something to nibble on in my backpack. I
carried a spare sweater and socks in case I got wet.
I believed I was prepared. And yet a voice whispered in my ear, warning, “If there is an accident and you are by yourself, nobody will be there to help.”
An unusual light drew me out of the house around two o’clock that January afternoon. The northern New Mexico sky was bright with streamers of color, strawberry red and lemon yellow. A recent storm had dropped nine or ten inches of powder at the highest altitudes. I gave in to the impulse to grab my skis and be on my way.
My decision was spur-of-the-moment. There was no time to find a friend to come with me.
I drove ten miles up the snow-packed road and parked next to my favorite trail. In minutes I was skimming along through a shadowy forest of ponderosa pine, the dark green branches layered with new snow. What is more exciting and beautiful, I wondered, than the woods after a fresh fall of snow?
I went fast, a swirl of ice crystals flying up behind. The noise of air rushing past my ears was all I heard except for the whooshing sound of my skis on the snow. I was in a blissful state of joy when the trail suddenly banked sharply to the right. I was going too fast to take the turn, and I moved into the air like an ungainly bird with desperately flapping wings.
I heard a snapping sound when I landed, maybe a bone (or bones) breaking. I knew I was hurt, but strangely there was no pain at first.
My poles were on the slope above me, piercing the snow like a pair of weird knitting needles. My skis were out of sight in the deep canyon below.
I had no room in my head for worry about my equipment. My backpack was still on my shoulders. That was all that mattered. If some part of me was broken, I’d use my extra sweater to wrap it. I’d find a way to stagger, or slide if necessary, down the mountain to safety.
I undid my backpack, aware of a throbbing in my right ankle. I touched the spot, under my leggings and two layers of socks, and I winced. My ankle was either broken or badly sprained.
I packed gobs of snow around the ankle, under my clothing, so the chill would have a pain-killing effect. I wrapped my leg with the extra sweater and stood up. Only then did I realize how dark the sky was.
Night
was near, and I was alone in a snowy wilderness with an
injured ankle. Instead of allowing myself to cry, which
is what I felt like doing, I set off.
The pain in my ankle increased as darkness slipped across the snow. Shadows moved through the trees like ghosts in dark robes.
I struggled to keep going, watching the night coming on and picturing myself a frozen corpse left undiscovered until spring.
Then I heard the ravens, a flock of twenty or thirty. They exploded from behind me, a loud chorus of gleeful lunatics, a raucous band of low-flying birds.
The flock surrounded me. Some ravens dropped to the snow. Others landed in the trees. Soon they were off their perches and flying, half the flock behind me, the rest in front.
At full dark the ravens were still with me. I could not believe my eyes or ears. They never once left me. All the while they cawed, screeched, and chattered in their raven language.
I called to them, saying, “Please don’t leave me.”
I knew this plea would have no effect on what they did. But somehow it helped me.
The ravens stayed with me until I got to my car. The pain was terrible, the night was scary, but my heart beat with new strength. I had made it, thanks to the ravens leading the way.
Later, safe at home and nursing my sprained ankle, I wondered what the ravens were really up to. It had seemed they were saving my life. I knew better.
Ravens rely on large mammal kills, mainly deer, to survive the winter months. Deer are brought down by bobcats or mountain lions. After these predators get their fill, the scavenging ravens devour what remains.
To the ravens I was a meal not quite ready for eating. Too bad I had to disappoint them by getting home alive, especially after all they had done for me.
