I arose with Yosemite’s dawn and made my leisurely way through morning camp chores – mostly drinking coffee and watching dawn’s fingertips stroke Glacier Point.  I finally tidied up breakfast and made ready to set off on my hike – a jaunt up the Snow Creek Trail. My pack was packed except for a few munchies – two ziplock bags filled respectively with dried fruit and peanuts – which I removed from the steel bear box and set on the picnic table. I stepped to the open rear of my van to retrieve my pack and heard a commotion behind me.

I whirled, but my bags of goodies were already headed for the deep woods in the clutches of two large ravens.

I dropped my pack and gave chase. Some distance into the trees, I realized – Holy EXPLETIVE!  I’m sprinting! It’s been a decade or two since I did that and I decided it was best to quit, especially since the ravens, even burdened, were widening the gap between us. Uttering raucous, mocking caws, they soon disappeared.

I returned to camp and sat pondering my losses with a third cup of coffee. After a few minutes, up flapped Mr. Raven. He settled on a high branch, cocked his head to one side and peered down at me, seemingly hoping that I’d offer him a second course of breakfast. I addressed him in a conversational tone and told him that his ancestry was more than suspect. He listened attentively until I finished. When he was sure I had no more to say, he flew away.

A few minutes later, he swooped down and dropped my stolen baggie of peanuts at the edge of camp and alighted on his comfy branch.

I plucked up the fat baggie, found it to be in mint condition and glanced up at Mr. Raven.

He spread his wings and dove into morning’s pine shadows.