The Ravens Of The Woods

Cold, moist air moved uninhibited through the massive ponderosas as amber streaks of dawn burst through the sparse canopy. Brenton fidgeted in his sleeping bag as we moved with cumbrous angst in the confined space. He took mental note that the tag on the bag said twenty degrees, which he presumed to align with his warmth at temperature that low, but throughout his first night ever sleeping outdoors he realized it was more of a suggestive survivable temperature threshold than a designation of comfort.

The orange nylon walls of his tent, bought only a couple days earlier, quickly brightened as the sun crested higher over the horizon, and the thin walls were thoroughly covered in water droplets formed overnight as the temperature dropped to just above freezing. “Better than being at work,” he thought to himself as he thrust an arm out of the bag and shook the tent walls, curious as to how the beads of moisture would react as a cold shower of false rain fell onto his face. He shook his face and felt suddenly awake from the shockingly cold water. A faint smile crept onto his face as he knew all the stress, anxieties, and pressures of his demanding world back home was a hundred miles away.

Brenton slowly crawled out of his sleeping bag, feeling all the aches and cramps of laying on the rocks, roots, and pine cones that created the forest floor, and opened the zippered door. He’d never been seen the morning light on the woodlands of the Colorado Plateau and was awed by the portrait displayed in front of him. Thick beams of golden light showered upon the brown and tan trunks of the hundred year old trees that towered a hundred feet upwards with vibrant green needles creating a net between the ground and the strikingly blue cloudless sky above. It smelled of freshness combined with a notable tinge of organic plant materials slowly decomposing underneath; a naturalness not found in his usual urban life that allowed limited time for moments of serenity. He felt relief of this wondrous discovery; of finding nature; of overcoming his physical discomforts from sleeping on the hard ground.

Having spent ten hours cocooned in his tent through the night a surge of another need for relief soon powered its way through Brenton. Putting on his moistened boots Brenton got up and walked over to a nearby tree. It was quite the opportune restroom, deserving just for him, and with nobody else around he felt at ease leaning over the bed of pine needles.

Then, out of the ordinary, he discovered a sweet, butterscotch aroma that wafted from the ponderosa to his nose. This required a second, closer inquiry as Brenton postured with his nose stuck deep into the pine tree’s furrows, stunned at the scent the tree gave off.  It was enough to make him hungry, enough that he licked the tree’s bark, but decided that the taste wasn’t going to match the scent as he’d hoped and spit out the woody debris. He continued walking between trees, enjoying the calmness of the pines, seeking another discovery that’d connect him deeper with nature. As awkward as he might have looked to an observer – still holding onto a semblance of suite-and-tie professionalism - he decided that he didn’t really care too much and continued his meandering through the woods as a gleeful wood nymph. Each step furthered him from the routine of his life back home. There was a slight magic, a positive cleanness and burst of energy within the air, which the forest was bringing out within him.

Startling Brenton, he heard the undulating whoosh of a large raven flying overhead as he spied the bird gliding through the under-story of the pine forest. A few more birds followed the same path as they sailed over the small hill just beyond his tent. All of the birds disappeared out of site, but, as Brenton concluded, not too far away. There was something out that way, something those ravens were interested in, and Brenton felt inclined to include himself into the venture. He kept a line of sight on his tent as he walked towards the cawing, but eventually needed to lose the visibility of his home base to continue forward. It’d be fine, he figured, since he could just turn around once he found whatever it was the ravens were congregated around, and then he’d simply retrace his steps until the fluorescent orange tent reappeared.

The butterscotch aroma dissolved from the air as an unpleasant profuseness overcame his nostrils as Brenton narrowed upon the ravenous birds. There were three of them congregated in a triangle that involved plucking and scratching at something. Squinting his still sleepy eyes he noted blotches of dark red on the birds’ beaks as he closed in, moving more cautiously now as he become nervous to what he might find. Suddenly that feeling of stress, that surge of discomfort from opening confrontational emails and dealing with distraught clients all day – the reason for his wilderness escape in the first place – reclaimed his emotions. The logical step would be to just return back to his tent, figure out his gas stove, make a coffee, and just pretend whatever was over there was nothing. Yet, human curiosity forced him forward; to find out what was there; to unearth the mystery of the thinly veiled.

With two strident and careful steps he peaked over the murder of black birds. He gagged as he looked upon a partially decomposed doe that the ravens were voraciously picking apart with their tipped beaks and stringy claws. The deceased animal stared at Brenton with its death-riddled and lifeless black eyes. He let out a screech of panic, high-pitched and resonant, that erupted out of his mouth uncontrollably. The ravens, drunk on animal flesh and blood, turned toward him and instead of fleeing from his presence, shouted angrily with blaring, pugnacious caws. The birds appeared possessed as they hobbled in Brenton’s direction clearly disturbed by his presence. “Intruder!” they cawed at him over and over.

Scared and unduly shocked by the aggressive birds Brenton stepped backwards, but tripped his heel into a rock. Suddenly, he was lying prostrate on the damp pine needles and dirt. He soon found his eyes in line with the three large birds’ belligerent and blood-riddled faces. “Get away from me!” he yelled at them, scuttling away on his hands and knees until he gained his bipedal stature, and sprinted uphill to gain some distance. The ravens continued their serious and unrelenting warnings as he retreated. The birds they stayed put at their carrion feast and changed their note to what felt like cackling to the frightened Brenton.

He only looked back once, to ensure he’d made a clean escape and none of those devilish birds were following, but found that he’d lost his navigation through the monotonous forest. The tent wasn’t yet visible and each tree looked like the next, each opening similar to the one adjacent to his campsite. With a still racing heart, feeling the impending doom of becoming lost in the woods with no one aware of his location, Brenton continued frantically searching for his tent. He could still hear the birds and was unsure of their intentions. From the corner of his periphery he caught a glimpse of the bright orange nylon behind a large pine’s trunk and he took off urgently towards it. His nose was runny from the cool weather and his toes nearing numbness as he fought to keep himself gathered, staggered inconsistent breathes hampered his chest. Finally he reached his tent and decisively went about tearing all parts of his camp down as efficiently as he could manage.

As he clumsily shoved hand over hand of tent, pole, and sleeping bag into his backpack a loud, shrieking caw enveloped his senses once again. Frozen, Brenton followed the flight of two additional ravens as they met up with their feast of dead flesh. “I just need to get home,” he spoke an instructive, survivalist mantra to himself as he took what he’d succeeded to pack into his backpack. Without caring beyond his withdrawal from the gruesome forest Brenton left behind a trail of brand new gear, left behind and unpacked. He booked it back towards his car, which was parked a half mile up the forest trail, furthering himself from the dreadful ravens with each step.

Once he loaded his backpack into the trunk of his car, tossing it with vehemence, he got into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and sighed in the relief having achieved relative safety. Reaching into the glove box with cold, wet hands, he took out his phone and turned it on. As he looked at the sentinel trees looming over, tree that had tricked him into feeling relaxed and vulnerable, he felt the vibration of messages coming through; he’d only been gone for less than a day. It was only when Brenton checked his messages as he was driving out of the forest, cursing as he saw even more ravens flying through the wooded landscape, did he relax knowing the safety and comfort of his routine awaited him back home.