The Raven-submitted

THE RAVEN

By Steve Messman

Northwest Coastal Indian legends hold the Raven as the most important of all creatures. The Raven of ancient legend took many forms. He was a cultural hero. He was a creator as well as the deceiver. A creature of antics, the Raven loved to trick, to cheat, to tease.

I believe those legends, if not to the letter, then certainly to the spirit. I have always welcomed the flying trickster at my paragliding sites. I love watching this maligned and sorely underestimated bird play with the air. The Raven has attitude, and flies with one. He soars in the air, looping, rolling, upside down, folding wings and maneuvering wingtips like a combat-seasoned F-16 pilot. The bird is also a teacher. If you watch closely, you can tell if he is working at playing, or playing at working. I have on occasion decided not to fly because of what this excellent soaring pilot told me about the day’s air.

On this March day, I sat waiting for my mentor to arrive like a shadow in the sky. It was definitely a high-pressure day. The sky was clear, the blue of deep ocean. Not a single cloud marked the sky except for the occasional wisp stroked onto the blue canvass by The Painter Himself. A low haze hung in front of distant ridgelines. However, there was no Raven.

Winds were coming straight in about three mph, but it was only 12:30. The sun had insufficient time to heat the west side. I scanned the sky. Nothing. Yet another weather check confirmed that this was not a strong thermal day. The winds were still coming in, and they were still very light. There were no workable cycles. It was safely doable, though, so I decided to fly. A couple of quick passes across the face of the hill found not the slightest iota of lift. I turned my wing toward “the point” where a chunk of south-facing earth might help produce at least a little air time beyond the expected sledder. Little teases of lift kept me airborne, but refused to raise me to satisfactory heights. I got to 2000 feet, then dropped to 1900, then returned to 2000 or less. This dance of the elevator ballet continued for a few minutes before it became more work than play. I could hang on, but no more. I began to plan my landing.

From my perch, I watched three horses cross the middle of the LZ, so I decided to play with the lift for a little longer. Then I saw four more horses with riders, so I decided to continue bantering with the little bit of lift available. When the horses cleared the LZ, I headed in. As my wing fell gracefully to the ground, I considered the beauty of the flight, and the exquisiteness of where I was. Mt. St. Helens glowed in the sunlight. The valley floor, recently awakened from its winter slumber, displayed patches of emerald green. The sound came quickly and suddenly to my ears. My eyes darted skyward. The Raven.

There it was. Finally. As agile and accomplished in the air as any red-tailed ace that ever graced a thermal, the Raven circled in the same area of lift that I left just minutes earlier. The bird proved its skill, and soon it was 100, 200, 300 feet higher than I could get in that same area of lift. I swear that the bird turned its head to look down at my grounded wing that now simply waited to be folded. The Raven winked at me. I swear it did. As the trickster with attitude, and apparently a sense of humor, departed to the northeast carried by the still-slight winds, it’s unmistakably sarcastic tone, intended especially for me, crossed the Toutle Valley.

HAA!