Yellowstone National
Park, spring last year. Marypat and I have stopped for a
picnic break on our annual April ride through the Yellowstone. We
prop the bikes against a bridge railing, take our sandwiches and
stroll to a grassy patch near a creek. It is quiet and tranquil in
a way it never is during tourist season. The sun is warm. A herd of
bison grazes in the distance.
Part way through my
sandwich, I glance up at a raven flying past. In silhouette, it
looks like it is carrying an entire bagel in its beak. The dark
bird lands a short distance away.
“What the heck has that
raven got?” I ask, standing up.
I walk closer. The bird
flies off before I can identify the object. Then I turn around.
The first thing I notice is my green wind pants, which
are dangling from the bridge, waving in the breeze and about to
drop into the creek below. I sprint up the rise to the road, grab
my pants before they slide into the current. Like the owner of a
burgled home, I start assessing the crime scene.
The
raven did not have a bagel in its beak. It was my apple, which had
been zipped inside the bike pack. The pack is now open wide,
completely unzipped. The bird went through the contents, tossing
out my pants, dropping our camera in its case on the ground and
pilfering a couple of carrots before taking wing with the apple. I
hadn’t been away from the bike five minutes before that trickster
had the joint cased and the burglary in the bag, or beak, so to
speak.
Canyonlands National Park in Utah, this
spring, a year later. Our family is backpacking into
Chesler Park to a campsite. We stop to snack in a drainage and
decide to leave our packs while we hike up to an arch. I notice a
couple of ravens flying close overhead, and one that lands below a
nearby juniper tree. The bird watches us closely with that
glittering, intelligent stare.
This time I take note. “OK
guys,” I say. “We need to stow everything away and stash the packs
under this overhang.”
I don’t really believe that ravens
as a species have figured out zippers, but I’d been victimized
once, and these birds seem altogether too interested in us.
Our side-hike takes a couple of hours. Approaching our
packs again, I can see from 20 yards away that I’ve been had.
Despite being under a sandstone overhang, and being zipped up
tight, the packs have been violated. All the side pocket zippers
hang open. Bandanas, blister band-aids, pocket knives, a pair of
binoculars lie strewn around like an apartment bedroom after it’s
been ransacked by bad guys.
“Man, it’s a good thing they
haven’t mastered buckles and toggles, or we’d have nothing left!” I
say, looking over the mess.
When we hike up the trail, I
catch myself flinching whenever the shadow of a bird passes over.
Ravens aren’t the only species that has figured us out.
Check out the chipmunk scene on Angel’s Landing in Zion National
Park, or ask rangers in Glacier National Park how good bears are at
opening coolers and car doors. To some extent, we leave animals no
choice but to figure us out. We keep encroaching on their habitat,
forcing them to retreat or find ways to cope in our domain. Hence,
bears raiding garbage cans and bird feeders, deer nibbling our
gardens, skunks in the compost, peregrine falcon preying on pigeons
from perches on skyscrapers.
So far as I can tell,
violations featuring ravens and zippers seem limited to the
national park system. That, after all, is where backpacks and
zippered compartments protecting goodies abound. The knowledge may
not have spread beyond park boundaries yet, but I’m thinking it’s
only a matter of time.
Anymore, when I park the car in a
national park, I make sure to lock the doors. I’m not worried about
being ripped off by my own species; usually there’s nothing in
there worth the trouble. But I’m just a tad paranoid that I’ll come
back in time to watch some critter driving off, giving me a wave of
a paw as it rounds the bend.
Alan Kesselheim is
a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High
Country News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). He is a
writer in Bozeman, Montana.
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