Stalked by a Raven

I celebrated the coming of the new year outside Petrified National Forest in northeast Arizona. The goal was to spend three days hiking, centering myself, and developing my goals for 2022.

Nature had other plans.

The first day it rained. No problem, I thought. Still two more days.

The second day it snowed and then the biting wind picked up, whipping the snow into peaks and drifts. We weren't going anywhere.

On the final day, the temperature reached a high of 10 degrees Fahrenheit, but it was sunny and not too windy. I packed the pup up and we headed for the ancient forest.

The park was incredibly busy, despite the less-than-ideal conditions, and we had to wait in line for 2o minutes before we gained entry. By this point, it was already late morning, and we still had to drive five hours home after the visit.

This was my first time back at the park since 1998, and it was the pup's first experience with real snow. She thought it was the coolest thing ever and barreled down trails filled with snow-covered ice, pulling me along as I did my best not to fall. The fact that I didn't is nothing short of a new year miracle.

After the first two hours of hiking some of the shorter trails, we stopped at a small parking area for lunch. As I was getting treats for the pup, two ravens landed beside my car. One of them started stalking the dog -- whose 40 pounds of muscle were begging to get back inside the safety of the car. She did not like the preternatural look of these birds.

I can't say I blamed her, especially when one of the ravens scooted all the way up to the car, demanding his share of the visitor tax, which he would be happy to collect in the form of snacks, goodies, and even dog treats.

We ate the rest of our lunch in the car as the raven hopped up onto a short wall to get a better look, staring us down the entire time.

We hiked a few more trails, but I found myself watching the skies instead of the ground. Finally, I called it a day and headed out for the long drive home.

As I drove through the White Mountains, with dusk falling sooner than I expected, I delved deeper into the whole Stephen King-vibe that had taken over my thoughts. The ravens hadn't been afraid of anything, not even the dog.

Had some form of their ancestors survived the giant reptiles that lived in the area some 200 million years ago? Perhaps they had overcome their fear of the early dinosaurs and passed that fearless trait down through the genes, strengthening it each time it was passed on to a new generation until reaching the modern-day ravens that emerged 2 million years ago.

No wonder Miss 40-pounds-of-muscle hadn't phased the birds.

The trip home did little to calm my disquiet. Driving the last two hours in pitch black, winding around mountains while watching for beings from another world that might step into my path had me on edge.

That night, once safely tucked into my own bed, I couldn't shake the staredown the raven had given me. My dreams were filled with piercing eyes and beaks that could shred skin faster than any knife.

The next morning, with the sun shining brightly, I reviewed my photos from the half-day of hiking. I laughed when I saw the raven's photos. Why had I been so moved by the actions of one bird? How had I let it affect my thinking for so many hours, long after I had left the park -- even interrupting my sleep?

That afternoon, as I was working in my office, I heard a noise outside that sent chills down my spine. Kraa-kraa. In disbelief, I looked through the window to see two ravens sitting on the lowest branches of a tall Western white pine tree.

The dog heard them too, but this time they were on home territory, so the pup shot outside to let them know who's boss around here. They remained on their perch, watching the dog dance around and bark at them. Each time she barked, they answered with the kraa-kraa.

Eventually, the dog got tired and came inside. The ravens must have gotten bored because they left as well.

But they came back. Every day, in fact. Right around lunchtime.

They sit in the tree outside my window and kraa-kraa until I acknowledge them. Sometimes the dog goes out to say hello; more often she doesn't.

The ravens never stick around for very long, just long enough to remind me that they're here, watching me, waiting...