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January, 2007
The Trade
By Peg Dwyer
Looking over at the wall, it seems a million years ago. It seems like maybe its lower Kennebec fiction, like the time my brothers hired that stripper to go to the nursing home and she offered my Dad super sex (Punch line "Uh... I’ll take the soup.") Or when Corie tried to buy a white wedding dress, (‘nuff said) or... But this one’s true.
Anyway. So there I was, six trips ago, on my first canyon trip, day 7, 75 miles into that 225 mile corridor of magic that makes all boaters in the know go all misty-eyed and nostalgic.
The day before had been really really weird . Just after putting on that morning, the two other kayakers and I stumbled through the back door to Disneyland. Time stood still while we tried every ride in this far-as-I-know-namelesss rapid - I remember thrilling, hull-banging surfing and perfect escalator eddies on either side seductively offering "just one more" until our arms about fell off. When we finally realized how long we’d been playing, we guiltily put our heads down into the wind and started paddling hard to catch up with the group. They’d have stopped for lunch, and we’d surely catch them there. Y’d think. We paddled all afternoon. Disappointment and growing anxiety discolored every spectacular bend in the river, No rafts.
Sure, it was our fault for lagging so far behind, but by late afternoon, it started to feel pretty serious. Why wouldn’t they pull over and wait for us? Was somebody hurt? Could they possibly be behind us? No. You don’t pass 5 rafts on a wilderness river without noticing. We were tired. We were ravenous. Not a map between us. Two of us were first timers. John had been down the river a few times, but - typical kayaker - hadn’t paid much attention to landmarks, and until we got to Hance, couldn’t say for sure where we were or what to expect.
He remembered Hance vividly, and made us get out of our boats to take a look. We found ourselves wearily eyeing a toothy class 8 rapid, with a boulder choked entrance and a thousand opportunities for a sincere sunset pounding. After much deliberation, we decided to stop for the night. Surely, if we didn’t show up at camp tonight, they’d stay put until we got there. We’d run Hance in the morning, with fresh arms and plenty of daylight, and catch them afterwards. They’d probably be pissed, and they’d probably worry, but what else could we do? We were pissed and worried too.
We took stock of our assets and resources. We were pitifully unprepared. Between the 3 of us, we had a liter and a half of water, a Snickers bar and a tube of lip stuff (my contribution.). Lifejackets for pillows. We were just trying on the reality of a night without our companions, supper, dry clothes, or booze when the first raft appeared upstream. Yup. Upstream. We’d spent the whole damn day chasing after the rest of our trip only to be reminded that no matter how hard you push and how long you paddle, you’ll never catch up to the trip behind you.
How the hell did that happen? Well, it took quite a string of pretty amazing coincidences. But that’s not the story I’m going to write about tonight, ‘cause the next day was really memorable.
We woke up to find that a large patch on one of the rafts, an ancient old bucket boat rowed by a geologist on his 12th trip, had finally failed, and we weren’t going anywhere fast. People gladly slid into layover day mode while we waited for the glue to dry. There’s a TON of work to do every morning - packing up personal gear, cooking breakfast, washing dishes, breaking down the kitchen, lugging gear down to the boats, and in general, doing everything you can to get the show on the road as quickly as possible. For me, most mornings contained a certain amount of anxiety. It always seems as if it’s taking me too long to take care of my stuff and maybe I’m not doing my share. Not that I didn’t want to - I just couldn’t seem to move as fast or as efficiently as all of the others in the group. It’s not easy to be the new kid traveling with a bunch of pros and overachievers. It’s all different on a layover day, though. Everybody kicks back, and whimsy trumps structure for a while.
A few people got creative with a dutch oven. I remember thinking that I’d never smelled anything so enticing as whatever it was wafting through camp. It turned out to be a fabulous coffeecake with pecans and raisins and cinnamon. I poured myself a big cup of coffee, and almost felt I was taking sacrament as I accepted a huge hunk of warm cake in two cupped hands. In a somewhat reverent frame of mind, I climbed up the slope behind camp. I settled myself on a comfy boulder, took a deep breath, and looked around.
God, what a gorgeous morning! Way down below, a few people were moving around camp. Upstream, the sky was so blue that it vibrated at the line where it crashed into the Kaibib plateau on the other side of the river. Way off downstream, a couple of ravens drifted in the breeze. I took a sip of coffee, and called to them.
I watched them tumble playfully on the wind, and slowly, the two tiny dots at the canyon rim spiraled in my direction. I called to them again, in my best "I imagine this is how raven’s talk" tone. They came closer. They put on an amazing aerial display. They pitched and tumbled in high-speed tight formation, taking turns rolling onto their backs and flying upside down, claws outstretched, mirroring each other, their incredible acrobatics demonstrating where the Blue Angels got their moves. I applauded in Raven.
They landed on my side of the river 100 yards away, and hollered back at me. We exchanged greetings and insults over the next maybe half hour or so, as they came closer and closer to check out the weirdo. It wasn’t too long before I could tell them apart. One was large and more confident, while the second, smaller bird seemed really nervous about being in the same zip code as me. I deployed the secret weapon, hurling a tiny piece of coffeecake just as far as it would go*. Coffeecake doesn’t fly all that well, so I was pretty surprised when they started talking seriously about going for it, right there at the end of my feet. And talk about it they did. I’ll spare you the next hour, or two - I honestly have no idea how long I spent with these birds, but I can tell you I was totally captivated for the entire time. They made an incredible variety of sounds, and their conversational style reminded me of two old ladies sneaking gin in church. Clicks, clucks, chuckles, purrs, rumbles, chatters, singing...I put my two cents in every once in a while (I’m a chronic interrupter). They were as tolerant of my bad dialect as that Taxi driver in Rome. Maybe, like the cabbie, they appreciated that I was making the effort.
Eventually, they were right beside me. The larger bird always kept its body between me and the smaller bird, and, once we violated that last taboo and food was taken from my hand, it would pass every other tidbit or so to the little one. I say little - both of these birds were enormous. They were well over two feet long, and I’d have to guess that their wingspan was twice that. The beak was about the size of my ring finger. They were playful - once, the dominant bird took a bit of cake from me, gently offered it to his companion, then, just before the transfer, snatched it away and chowed it instead, giving a yuk-yuk laugh that would have done two of the Three Stooges proud. He/she played with me, too. The coffeecake was going too fast, so I started offering smaller and smaller pieces. I held the last of it in my fist, and the raven used his beak like a pry bar to lever open my fingers apart and get at the goodies. I was permitted to touch the beak, and stroke the weird, coarse hairs over the nostrils. Finally, there was only one morsel left. The raven was trying hard to break my grip and open my fingers, and, not wanting it to end, I clenched my fist, resisting for all I was worth. The strength of that bird - the force it was able to exert, with complete precision, was awesome. Think of the toughest arm-wresting you’ve ever seen at Hotel Cocktails. It was like that, except no one was yelling (the other bird was definitely following the action, but cat had his tongue). Finally, I conceded. I opened my hand flat, making my final offering of one fat, moist Peg-plumped raisin, right in the middle of my callused palm.
Instantly, the raven quit too. Instead of grabbing the treasure, as I expected, he/she ignored it altogether. Game over. I sat there with my hand outstretched while it fluffed its glossy black feathers, practically doubling in size, then went into an elaborate preening routine, curling its head back to straighten each tail feather, one by one. Then it shook its wings and tossed its head, and turned back to face me with a feather in its beak. I swear to GOD I am not making this up. It very deliberately laid the feather across my palm, and THEN took the raisin. I never think about this without the hair on my forearm going up just a little. I swear to GOD I am not making this up. He made a trade.
We parted company, shortly afterwards, and a piece of my soul went with them as they disappeared into the canyon blue. I stumbled down to camp and tried to tell the group about what had just happened, but I was pretty much overwhelmed by the intensity of the communication I had just experienced, and I’m sure I didn’t make much sense. I put the lustrous feather in my ammo can, and for the rest of the trip they called me Sister Ravenhair.
Five years later, one of the Coloradans from the trip came east, and mentioned that he had kind of a neat picture of me from the trip that he really should send to me sometime. I cringed a little until he said that it was with me and "those birds." He’d hiked another ledge with a new telephoto lens, and zeroed in on me and my fine feathered friends. That photo has become one of my most precious canyon remembrances. It’s right here on the living room wall, with a travel-worn black feather stuck into the corner of the frame. It helps remind me that this story’s real.
Every once in a while, even when something really important is going on, something shiny catches my mind’s eye, and I check out and drift off down some random trail after it. At our orientation, the ranger by all accounts and consistent with every trip since, told us in no uncertain terms NOT to feed or touch wild animals. I never heard it, if I’d thought about it for a millisecond, I would have known it was wrong. (I would have done it anyway.) I’m much more responsible now. A fed bear is a dead bear. A fed raven is a depraven raven. Don’t feed wild animals. Bad Bad Bad.
Peg Dwyer, aka Sister Ravenhair, is a woman of vast ability and character. She lives on the Androscoggin River in Livermore.
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