A place where everyone knows your name…

I’ve never been a big fan of Cheers. I’ve never hated it – after all, it’s silly to waste the energy hating a television show. But I really have to be honest here: I’ve just never liked it. Maybe I don’t like it because I don’t find any of the characters funny. Or maybe it’s because I think that the plots are unbelievable. Unbelievable because every time I’ve watched – which is, unfortunately several times too often, no one other than the regulars ever ventured into the bar. At this point, I can already hear a bunch of premature objections from my audience saying, “But that was the whole point of the show! Everyone knew each other!” And, I understand that objection. But I’d like to look at this rationally, which may be somewhat silly for a TV show, but when you think about it this way, any bar needs a regular stream of patrons to keep it afloat. When I watch Cheers, I never see a stream of patrons.

If it was just the absurd economics of the show that annoyed me, I probably wouldn’t even be writing these sentences right now. What really annoyed me was the total disconnected-ness of the characters from reality. The whole concept just never felt real to me. Watching Cheers to me was like watching a completely disconnected caricature of real life. One time, when I was in Boston, some friends of mine dragged me to the Cheers bar. The whole ride there, I was peppered with phrases such as: “You can’t/won’t believe how awesome this place is!” Perhaps because I was a predisposed, cranky critic when I arrived there, I felt completely underwhelmed. But, I went in with my closed mind and looked around. Within five minutes I had to leave, because I felt like my hand was about to punch through the plasterboard walls of the set.

Again, however, in all honesty, maybe I’m so hard on Cheers because I’ve been to some amazing dives. As a student in Oxford, our college had a pub that we frequented nightly, where between overflowing warm pints, we’d alternate between uber-competitive darts competitions and yelling at football at the television in our loudest drunkest voices. When I was living in Portland, there was this bar that let you bring your dog into the bar while you quaffed a variety of microbrews. And that’s just the top of my list. My point is that there are two things that make a good bar: the people, and the hazy memories you form there with those people. I guess if it came down to it, that was why I really never liked Cheers, because I felt that it didn’t capture those qualities.

Because of my perennial Cheers frustration, and my long mental list of favorite bars, I was naturally skeptical when a friend of mine kept urging me to go to his bar on Thursday nights. I wasn’t just skeptical about his bar; I was unconvinced, because, after all, it was Thursday night. One didn’t do just anything on Thursday night. I was always busy on Thursdays. I’d definitely eat dinner because that was a classic Thursday standard. Sometimes I’d even cook the food I ate. Then, there was television, a crucial and important thing to watch, with such enthralling shows as Book TV and some variant of the nightly news. I could also walk the dog, wash my hair, watch paint dry, or actually head out to some other bar, unless after all, I had to go to bed early.

But, I eventually ran out of lame excuses, and realized that I should go because the person asking wasn’t just any friend, he was one of my best friends. I had known him for years, back from elementary school and all the way past college. And, according to him, it wasn’t just any bar, it was also a pizzeria that had micro-brews and wheat crust pizza with the beer baked into the crust, and, if I was lucky, I might see some other people that I knew from the past. The last part was something I could do without, but after being asked to come for the twenty-seventh time, I stopped being anti-social, and decided to go check it out.

Winter Climbing Mt. Whitney, 2005 Style, Part 4

At dawn, the sun rose from the east, cutting through the shreds of high clouds in the east, and illuminating the Sierras in all of their glory. The early morning light came down and reflected off every snow covered cornice and crevasse of the mountains, brilliantly casting the snow in pure white light and the sky in royal blue. I quickly placed my sunglasses on to forestall snow-blindness and reapplied sunscreen on my exposed areas, and inside my nose as well. All of the lakes I passed were hard frozen; Mirror Lake and Consultation Lake, both a glacial blue. At ten, I was at trail camp, just below where the switchbacks would normally be.

The switchbacks weren’t present, which wasn’t surprising – after all, the trail hadn’t been present for the ascent after the first half-hour. There was, however, a direct line to the Trail Crest that had been tramped in by mountaineers. Ahead of me were two parties of three people each, roped in and headed slowly up the face. After a brief rest, I fell in as a distant third party in the line to reach the summit. Uphill at this point was a laborious slog through hard ice and a slowly melting top layer of snow. Each step, I checked my balance and footing. The air was thin, and the wind coming over the mountain ripped at each breath I exhaled. It was miserably and hauntingly enjoyable.

Looking back down the valley from the face, I gazed at the white expanse I had trekked up, clear and empty in the morning air. I watched the two people in front of me struggling on the slope. I knew that I would not be joining them on the summit. It was already ten-thirty in the morning, and I was tired. I had been moving – slowly, for sure, but moving nonetheless over for seven hours. Noon was my drop-dead time; the time where I had to turn around and head back the distance to the car. I knew that although I had made good progress, there was no possible way for me to reach the summit in an hour and a half. I sat and let my breathing smooth, taking in the pristine surroundings.

The mountain had triumphed, and I felt very sanguine about it. I had been to the top before, and had nothing to prove to anyone. There was no one around to hassle me for miles, and the day was fantastic. I slowly eased one step back down, back to my life which I had left at the bottom. I also knew two things; that I would remember this climb better than my two prior climbs in which I had reached the summit; and I also knew that I would be back again, because it was there.

Winter Climbing Mt. Whitney, 2005 Style, Part 3

The Backpackers Camp at the Portal was mostly covered in large swaths of snow, and the parking lot was partially occluded. It was cold for May – very cold. We found the only snow free site in the campground, and made camp. I checked my gear for the next morning and we sat down to eat dinner. During dinner, my fiancé looked up at the mountain – and queried again how long the hike was. Upon re-learning that it was twenty-two miles, shook her head dismissively and asked why I would put my body through such torment. At the time, I was stymied for a correct answer.

At the early morning though, as I slipped into my clothes and boots, the answer hit me – it wasn’t particularly original – it was Hillary’s answer after all – “Because it’s there”; but it seemed very appropriate. Once I was dressed, I light my headlamp and started for the trail, passing two other groups of aspiring climbers also headed for the summit. The main trail receives the most complaints for the series of ninety-nine switchbacks that head to the ridgeline. Personally, I’ve always found the most difficult of portion of the trail to be the first four miles. It’s dark, I haven’t become used to the weight of my pack, thoughts of sleep are present, and the summit seems extraordinarily far away.

It was no different at the start this time, except this time I was hypersensitive to groups behind me. The bobbing motions of their headlamps did give the early ascent the look of a drive uphill. I had pole position, and after half an hour of hiking, had decided three things. First, the stars under the winter clearness were spectacularly brilliant. Second, despite the monotony of my footsteps, it had been a good decision to leave my iPod behind at the car; the crisp silence was eerily refreshing. Third, the snow obscured the trail a lot sooner than the two miles I had been lead to believe, because it was inconceivable that I had covered two miles – uphill – with a thirty pound backpack in thirty minutes. There was nothing left to do but get out the map and compass, strap on the crampons, and unhook my ice axe from my pack.

Midway through the first snowfield – or perhaps you could call it the only snowfield, as the rest of the ascent was covered in snow and ice, I looked back at the lights of my erstwhile companions on the mountain. It took me a second to realize what they were doing, because their lights were moving about in an erratic manner; but it quickly hit me when the lights began to recede from my view; they were heading back down. From that point on, I had no company but the crisp wind in my ears, and the solid crunching of ice beneath my crampons.

Despite what people may say about the trail, and my own opinions about it, at this point in the season, it was all moot – there was no trail, which is what had lead to my solitude; and what was going to be my challenge for the day. Over snow and ice I traveled, headed relentlessly uphill. As there was no trail, I made somewhat regular checks of my route with my map and compass. There was little risk of becoming lost, as I was familiar with the area, and after all – it was simple enough, as I was heading for the highest point. Nevertheless, it was still a good check on my skills, to keep me from inadvertently humiliating myself by getting lost. There were tracks throughout the snow heading in a variety of directions, and I definitely wasn’t going to follow blindly for any reason at all.

Winter Climbing Mt. Whitney, 2005 Style, Part 2

Regardless of the complaints, I had never had a problem with the permit system. Perhaps that was because I had always applied for a day hike permit; permits which were notoriously easier to obtain, or I had applied in the “slow season” for my permits. As for the trail, the other arguments seemed a little bit like the “Chicken and the Egg”. There were too many people because of the trail, but since there had been too many people before the trail, the trail was needed. I had no problem with the trail, nor saw any reason to find fault with climbing the mountain in that manner. It was an eleven mile hike one way, twenty two miles round trip. The trail climbs from eight thousand feet to fourteen thousand, four hundred and ninety six feet – an elevation gain of over six thousand feet.

The first time I had climbed the mountain, it had been in the dead of summer with a friend, and it had been hot, dusty, and there had been a lot of other people. We completed the hike in a day. The second time I climbed the mountain, it had been May, and the vestiges of snow still lingered on the mountain, requiring me to use my ice axe and crampons at points. When I had come down, I had stated empathetically that I would never climb the mountain again. Both times I had found the trail much easier than a technical ascent, without a doubt, but still extremely challenging to accomplish in a day.

That was three years ago. If one enjoys mountaineering, it is like having a sickness. At times, the very idea of any sort of high-altitude excursion sounds appalling. At other times, it’s like a form of dementia, a constant idea that is impossible to get out of your head. For me, the sickness had gripped me for weeks on end. I wanted to see what Whitney was like during the winter, during a year in which California had received prodigious amounts of rain. I also wanted to test the “highway” theory, and climb the mountain on my own – because the last times I had, I was accompanied by the duty of work, and the expectations of friends.

Before one climbs Whitney, one retrieves their permit from the Forest Service station in Lone Pine. The Forest Service employees will describe all sorts of prohibitions for the Whitney Zone – namely, proper food storage, so as not to invite a bear incident, and proper waste disposal. Previously, the Forest Service had attempted to deal with human waste in a variety of methods – the conventional burying, and the use of composting pit toilets. The new – and by far superior method for dealing with human waste was to have the owner pack it out in plastic bags. While this method may seem abhorrent and unreasonable at first blush, upon second glance it is entirely reasonable – and prudent for them to adopt this new protocol. With thousands of hikers and climbers entering the Whitney Portal region, proper disposal of waste is a large environmental issue. It would be impossible for that much waste to biodegrade on its own, and would only serve as a blight on the land should it remain there. Packing one’s waste out is a common feature to climbers as well, who on multi-day big wall climbs utilize what is called euphemistically, a “poop tube”.

I had no problem with the baggies – what I wanted was information. In the summer, trail conditions are simple – dry and direct. In the winter, with snowfields and snowmelt, the conditions of the route are imperative items, as they will determine what gear that a climber or hiker carries with them. The caliber of information provided to me about the trail was vastly improved from the years past. However, they forgot to tell me that the road to the Portal was closed near the top. This led to some confusion when I arrived at the sign several hours later. After much dithering on my part, we bypassed the sign – like the other twenty or so cars in the lot, and parked.

Winter Climbing Mt. Whitney, 2005 Style, Part 1

Author's Note: Seeing as how I never got paid for this submission from 2005, I think I'll post it here! Hope you enjoy it!

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At three-thirty in the morning, the last thing one wants to hear is the shrill tones of an alarm clock; especially the type of alarm that is built in to a standard cell phone. I’m already awake at this early hour because I’m uncomfortably hot. I’m uncomfortably hot because I’m wearing long underwear and ensconced in my sleeping bag. I’ve placed myself in this unusual position of being awake at an odd hour and physically uncomfortable because I want to climb Mt. Whitney for the third time. Rather than ignoring all of the above problems, I fumble for the alarm, turn it off, and slip out of my bag to see my excess heat radiating off my body.

Mt. Whitney is the highest mountain in the continental United States. It is located on the southern portion of the Sierra Nevada range, and stands at 14,496 feet above sea level. The mountain is located in the Inyo National Forest, but does border Sequoia National Park on its western side. There are no roads that lead to its summit. The summit of the mountain is not close to any major amenities. The closest town to Whitney is Lone Pine, California. Lone Pine sits directly on the Interstate 395, which runs North and South along the Eastern Side of the Sierra. Lone Pine is a picturesque small town, with signs and placards proclaiming it the “Gateway to Mt. Whitney and the Alabama Hills”. Behind its few city streets, the Sierras rise in majestic splendor.

From the middle of Lone Pine, most people drive up the road, through the boulders of the Alabama Hills, and up into the Sierras to Whitney Portal, a combination of parking lots, campgrounds, picnic grounds, and one store at eight thousand feet. From the Portal, the main Mt. Whitney trail snakes eleven miles to the summit. There are many ways to summit Whitney; one can approach from the Western Side via the John Muir trail, one can technically climb the mountain’s face, one can take the mountaineer’s route in the winter, and one can, of course, do what most people do, which is to hike the main Mt. Whitney trail.

It is this trail that earns the mountain its greatest degree of contempt. As the tallest mountain in the continental United States, the mountain is viewed as a challenge to be conquered by all manner of individuals. Consequently, the Forest Service created the eleven mile trail that passes two campgrounds before reaching the summit. In the summer, the trail is packed full of people walking and straining to reach the elusive goal. The main Mt. Whitney trail, while an asset to those attempting to hike the mountain, has also become a source of discontent. Some feel that the trail makes the summit bid an easy, simple affair – “a mere walk up of a climb”. Others are unhappy about the access it provides to the public; especially in the height of summer, when hundreds on a daily basis attempt to summit the mountain in the dry, hot air. A contemporary of mine once stated to me dismissively that the trail should just be paved, and then they could properly name it the “Whitney Highway”, because in his opinion, that is what it was.

The main complaint about the trail is the permit system. The Whitney Portal zone receives thousands of people each year who wish to attempt to hike and or climb the mountain. The trail, much maligned for superficial reasons, was therefore causing a real problem – the access it provided was causing harm to the sensitive high altitude environment. As a result, the Forest Service instituted a system in which access would be limited to a certain number of day hikers and overnight hikers per day. The permitting system would be based on a random lottery for individuals applying far in advance, and then based on the number of spaces remaining on a first come, first served basis for the remainder.

Reflections on the Ongoing Angora Fire

This post will probably surprise some of my readers because it’s actually topical (Even I have to admit that trail reports and random musings aren’t always cutting news!) and it contains photos and links, rather than just straight text, which, I suppose, makes this my “bloggiest” post ever. But in any case, that’s not really important. What is important is the Angora Fire. Like everyone else with a TV, access to the internet, or a newspaper subscription, I learned about the fire shortly after it started and was able to view the devastation that it has caused. And, probably like everyone else, I didn’t give the story my full attention. But, when I started to hear the names of the places that were affected by the fire, Tahoe Mountain and Fallen Leaf Lake, I listened to the story intently because it was another place I knew that had been fundamentally changed.

I grew up in San Diego, and enjoyed the mildly forested areas of the backcountry as a child. I can still remember the distinct smells of the trails running through Cuyamaca State Park – a mixture of dry, dusty dirt, and sprouting growth. That smell, and a large percentage of the forest in the area disappeared in the 2003 Cedar Fire, along with thousands of homes and other backcountry areas. (See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cedar_Fire). Four years later, the forest returns slowly, but the smell is currently gone – replaced by one of smoke and ash. In 2002, when I was climbing mountains for a non-profit, I was in Colorado for the Hayman Fire, and watched waves of heat and smoke burn the sky from the fire’s progression. (See http://www.wilderness.org/Library/Documents/WildfireSummary_Hayman.cfm ). Before that, I worked for the National Park Service, and like any seasonal employee in my division, had wilderness firefighting training. From my training I learned that the professionals and seasonal employees that fight these fires have one of the most difficult – and dangerous jobs around, despite being some of the most dedicated individuals around.

The point about all of the above is that, sadly, I know a lot about wilderness fires. I’ve been to many areas pre-burn; and many areas during a fire; and many areas post-burn. It is worth noting at this point that many wilderness fires are unpreventable – meaning, that they are acts of nature. A lightning strike can ignite dry brush, and away the flames spread. But equally, it’s also worth noting that many fires are the work of people. The main point about all of this is to remember what we as people lose with wilderness fires. There’s the certain costs – the destruction of people’s homes and property which carries a hard mathematical number. More importantly, there’s the uncertain costs – the emotional stresses on people who are in the line of encroaching fires; the stresses on firefighters and other first responders; and the despair of people who lose property; and in some tragic cases, lose lives.

Beyond that, there are the intangible costs. While fire is a part of the natural process, it can – and does severely damage habitats and areas for an extended period of time. Moreover, it also places an added strain on ecosystems in an age where wilderness is increasingly sparse. Last, it also deprives the public of beautiful and scenic areas. It is a fact that people will fight to preserve things that they can see and appreciate. Conversely, it is very difficult to get people to conserve something that they cannot see or that has already been destroyed. With the Angora fire, I know we’ve lost – and are losing a lot of wilderness that will not be restored for a long time, if ever.

What have we lost in this? We’ve lost more than I can remember. I remember in 2002, when I was in Tahoe to climb Mt. Tallac, I parked at the Fallen Lake Leaf trailhead, and started to hike up the trail. The soil had that earthy, mountain forest smell. The trees rustled in the hot summer winds, brushing leaves against each other to try and cool off. At some point, my hiking partner and I stopped at one of the lakes midway up the mountain and watched a mother duck shepherd her young around the lake. Back behind us, the forest stretched off to the lake and South Lake Tahoe city.

Ducks on the Mt. Tallac trail

Fallen Leaf Lake, Desolation Wilderness, South Tahoe, circa 2002

A couple years before that, I was looking for a place to cross country ski away from the masses at the many resorts encircling the basin. I had stumbled across the area on a Wednesday, and soon found myself alone in utter silence. All I could hear was the crunching snow from my skies and the odd sounds of a lonely bird. It was a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle that is ski season in Tahoe. I imagine those recollections are just the tip of what has been lost. I’m sure the ducks have moved on easily, having wings, but left at the mercy of the Angora Fire are hundreds of other animals who have had to flee the best they could from the destruction. The green expanse in the second picture is no doubt gone - most likely replaced by an ugly black scar. When winter comes, the snow will fall on the ghostly remnants of trees. Unfortunately, the area will now live up to its name – “the Desolation Wilderness”. Before, the name reflected the pristine beauty of the lodgepole and red fir trees. Now, it will be a grim reflection of the destruction that this fire has brought.

The tough thing about this fire – and others is that there is no easy solution. As noted above, wilderness fires are a part of the natural process. But, just because a solution is not easy to come by, does not mean that we should not work for a solution. George Skelton, of the Capitol Journal suggests that homeowners should take more responsibility with regard to their property, and strive to clear dry brush. (http://www.latimes.com/news/columnists/la-me-cap28jun28,0,7113779,full.column?coll=la-home-center ). This is clearly a start. Another idea would be to enact stricter laws regarding the setting of wildfires. While arson is a felony in California and most states, perhaps a stricter penalty would serve as more of a deterrent to prevent individuals from committing such atrocities. (Such a crime, could potentially be called “Habitat Destruction” or something along those lines. As noted above, at this point, it is unknown how exactly this fire started.) Other ideas could include a larger budget for firefighting and wilderness preservation agencies. These funds could provide more jobs to prevent fires, and mitigate the extent and severity of such fires.

Last, changes could come about from working to slow the progression of climate change. There is probably an argument to be made that without the global change in temperature and climate patterns, this area of California would not be experiencing as severe of a drought as it currently is. Without such a severe drought, this fire would probably not be as large as it currently is. This, however, is all speculation. The point is that each and every one of us needs to work on enacting change to protect our environment, because otherwise all we will have left is our memories and several handfuls of ash.

Grand Canyon Tips: Watch those ravens!

Several years ago, we were at the Grand Canyon during the second week of June. We arrived late in the afternoon, and waited in the dry heat for the harried campground ranger to find us one of the remaining campsites that were still available. Our car, our tent, and everything else were stuffed into a small site that was stuck between two immense R.V.’s. We didn’t care about the location because we were just happy to get a spot. The next morning, we woke up at the crack of dawn so that we could see what permits were available at the Backcountry Office. We had oatmeal for breakfast, as well as some hot coco. After breakfast, I went over to the car to get my sponge to clean the dishes. As I reached the car, I heard the sound of scrabbling talons; and I had the distinct impression that I was being intently watched.

I turned around quickly. Our campsite had three things in it: our tent; a firering full of ashes; and a standard metal picnic table that was chained to the ground to prevent theft. I had left the dishes alone and unattended on the table. The table now had the dishes, and three new diners atop of it. The new diners were three of the large ravens I had seen while walking around the campground the day before. These ravens were some of the most confident birds I had ever seen. The day before, I had watched them briefly, strutting around the gaps between trees in their cocky hopping manner. They had been unfazed by the assorted humans that had waived various implements at them to scare them off; and had not even deigned to fly at such threats. Now, sensing another opportunity for a free meal, they had occupied our table.

I froze. The rearmost raven froze too. His inky bright black jaunty eyes stared at me with boredom. He cocked his head in my direction. Nonchalantly, he stretched out his wingspan. I had to admit that it was impressive. He was probably close to being about eighteen inches tall, and was clearly, very well fed. Once he saw that I wasn’t going to feed him for his display, he indignantly folded his wings. His two comrades weren’t interested in posing for photos – they were interested in scavenging. They continued to step around the table, peering into empty metal bowls and plastic cups. I wasn’t concerned – I knew there was no food on the table. I also knew that I was going to go back to the table once I had my sponge which would cause them to scamper away, unfed. That was my plan. It didn’t solve the problem about animal habituation to humans; but at least it didn’t contribute to the problem.

Suddenly, the first raven seized an empty plastic spoon in his beak. I still wasn’t concerned. At best, there were a few licks of oats on the plastic. I watched him more or less “beak” the spoon for a second before I decided that I was going to intervene. After all, it probably wasn’t good for a raven to be chewing on a plastic spoon; and it probably wasn’t good for my spoon to have all sorts of beak gouges in it. I took a step away from the car, intending to shock the bird into dropping the utensil. My action had the opposite effect: the second raven picked up the second spoon that was on the table. I took another step forward. The ravens - as a group – and still with the spoons - all took a collective step backward. We had a standoff.

I knew that they weren’t scared of me. And I wasn’t sure what exactly I could do to make them scared of me. I also didn’t really care if they were scared of me; I just wanted them to realize that the spoons weren’t edible and that they didn’t really want them. There was also an alternative to scaring them – I could bribe them. I had plenty of food in the car; it would have been easy to waive a piece of bread at them to get them to come to me, and drop the utensils. I didn’t like that idea because it would only encourage their hostage taking behavior. It also seemed a little ludicrous to be more or less, negotiating with a gang of birds over plastic spoons that I owned.

I decided that I would rush the birds. I thought that if they were chased, they’d drop the spoons and fly off. I ran forward. I didn’t waive my arms, or yell, or do anything really crazy; I just ran. The ravens hopped from table to bench, and then off the bench, placing the table squarely in between us. They still had the spoons. By the time I was at the table, I was beginning to doubt whether my gambit was going to work. One step later, I was at the midway point of the table. At this point, the ravens took to the sky with my utensils. Off into the wild blue sky they flew, with my spoons firmly clenched in their beaks. I had been outsmarted by a group of birds. Later, after dinner, they returned to our table to look for food, and more utensils. However, this time I was ready. I had taken the utensils with me when I left the table. It had only taken me two meals to demonstrate to the ravens that I had the superior intellect, and that I could protect my eating implements. Unfortunately, my superior intellect had to eat his oatmeal with a fork for a large portion of the remaining trip, because I couldn’t find a replacement plastic spoon for quite some time.

This spring, we returned to the campground. I was curious to see if the ravens would still be there; and whether they still would be interested in acquiring a full set of knives and forks. My first question was quickly answered. Shortly before dawn on the first morning, I could hear them talking to each other in croaks and rattles, with an occasional “caw” mixed in for good measure. As I ate breakfast, I watched them traveling around the empty campsites with their lazy swagger, looking for leftovers from careless campers. It was comical for a moment to watch the ravens walking in a dispersed line and going from campsite to campsite looking for food. But it was also tragic to watch wild animals acting in such a tame and habituated manner and looking for things that it shouldn’t eat. Across the road from us, our neighbors disassembled their tent, packed their car, and left. They were probably glad to be away from the creepy unshaven guy looking around the area while he ate his breakfast.

Within minutes, the raven search party arrived and found plenty of items in the dirt. Rather than bagging and packing their trash, our neighbors had left it lying on the ground, something that I hadn’t noticed. The ravens, noticed this fact right away. They easily found the abandoned half sandwich and several hard-boiled eggs; and immediately there were seven very large birds pecking and carrying the constituent pieces of food off in every direction. I considered driving the birds off, and picking up the rest of the trash, but by the time I had come to that decision, and made it across the street, all the food was gone; carried off into thin air.

My second question was answered quickly after that. We were keeping our dishes in a mesh bag on the bench of our table. On top of the dishes, we placed the plasticware. The utensils were still visible to the eye; but they were secured in the bag, and the bag was way too heavy for the ravens to carry off, despite their super size. After breakfast, I washed the dishes, and placed them in the bag. I then left the table for to go pack my bag for the day’s hike. As I sat on a nearby rock, placing items in the bag, I saw a raven land on the table. He could tell that there was no food. It didn’t matter. He was still curious about what was going on. Absently, he pecked at the closed stove. He walked around the closed cooler. Then, he saw something he really liked.

He saw the white plastic utensils in the bag. He hopped over to the bag, and grabbed on to the end of what was a fork. He frantically tugged on it for a moment before realizing that it was caught by the bag. Then, he stepped back, and began to size up the bag. I could see the mental wheels turning. He knew that if he could get into the bag, he could have a lot of utensils. Enough for a dining set. While I was curious to see if he would – or could figure it out, I decided that it was better to intervene, so I drove him off – empty beaked. Over the next several days, I saw several attempts by ravens – some half-hearted – some not – to finagle our utensils. These attempts – for the ravens – were unsuccessful. We left the park with all of the forks, spoons, and knives that we came in with. The whole series of incidents, however, has left me somewhat puzzled. It’s easy to understand how animals become habituated to human food. But it’s harder to understand how – or why animals become involved in a utensil stealing ring. Maybe spoons make good nesting materials. Or maybe the raven who has the most spoons becomes king. I’m not sure. But what I am sure of is that people should attempt to limit the amount of human food animals consume. I’m also sure that until the animals around the Grand Canyon get un-accustomed to human food, people should continue to watch the little things – because it’s likely that they will be confused for food and carried off.