Year of the Raven

It was April 8, 2020. The shelter-in-place had been in effect for three weeks and the city really did look like it was on lock-down with its deserted streets and boarded shop windows. I could cross freeway-like streets such as Van Ness and Geary through red lights. Masks weren’t mandatory yet but more people were starting to wear them. Everyone was keeping a close ear on news updates because there was so much unknown and things were changing by the day. This was uncharted territory for most.

However, my day-to-day life didn’t change much from before. I’d been on a very long break from work and spending most of my days riding bikes. And this truly was the time for riding bikes. I normally avoid the Golden Gate Bridge during this time of the year because the Spring weather infests the bridge path with people who walk 4 abreast and tourists on rented bikes who haven’t ridden in 10 years. Now I rarely saw anyone on the bridge, weekday or weekend.

On this day Marin Headlands seemed particularly deserted — almost eerily so. When I got to Hawk Hill at the top of the climb, the parking area was completely empty. I found out later that the entirety of the headlands had been closed to motorized vehicles indefinitely, turning it into a once-in-a-lifetime paradise for cycling.

I had been up here hundreds of times but for the first time I saw a serenity that had been obscured by people and cars. Now the only people I encountered up here were few cyclists and even fewer hikers — people who had to put in an effort to earn this view. They seemed to truly appreciate this place and respect others who were here. No one behaved like they paid good money to get into an amusement park so they damn well deserve to make as much noise and take as much space as they pleased.

I brought donuts that day — a passionfruit chocolate chip and a chocolate spiced from Dynamo Donuts — which made this day in paradise even more paradise-y. So I took pictures of the said donuts against the backdrop of the headlands. That’s when two large black creatures suddenly appeared. It was as if they could sense the presence of donuts from miles away.

My first encounter with ravens was nearly 20 years ago in Death Valley — first at Artist’s Palette then outside my motel room in Stovepipe Wells. And I might’ve seen ’em occasionally here in the Bay Area but I hadn’t given them much thought. Something about this day, though, made them a fixture in my mind and they soon took center stage.

I did not share my donuts that day. Bread is bad enough for birds and I figured donuts are even worse, but they stayed near me through the rest of my stay.

Our next encounter was on Easter Sunday. They appeared while I was carrying my bike up to Wolf Ridge Trail. I assumed it was the same pair.

They continued to make an appearance every time I rode up to Hawk Hill. It didn’t matter if I wore different sunglasses, helmet, and clothes or rode a different bike; they somehow spotted me right away even from far away and flew over.

Without all the people getting in the way, the headlands was able to show its true beauty. And most of the roads had been resurfaced recently. Riding in the middle of the lane on those smooth, empty roads through a landscape saturated with lushness of late Spring, I could almost believe that I was on another continent, another lifetime. I crossed the bridge every morning because I knew I would regret it if I missed even one day of this temporary paradise.

The paradise came to an end in June when cars were allowed back in.

I started riding more in the city and realized that there are many ravens in San Francisco, too. Now that they were on my radar, I heard and saw them in places I had never noticed before.

I still visited the original pair on Hawk Hill but not as frequently. Our spot on the top of the hill, which we had to ourselves for two months, was now infested with the selfie brigade because it’s just a short walk from the parking lot. “Whoa, look at that huge crow!!!”

During one visit in July I was surprised when a third raven appeared. I quickly realized that it was one of their young who was just about 10 weeks old.

The first time I met the kid, they were still putting food into its mouth (or at least any food that the kid was afraid of because it was new to him) but by the following week they were all fighting over food.

I saw the kid a few more times then he or she (there’s no visual way to determine the gender of a raven) was gone. It wasn’t until six months later that I saw him again. When a lone raven landed in front of me, I didn’t know who it was because its behavior was unfamiliar to me. After about a minute, he took off toward a hill, calling out excitedly. Then a minute later, I saw the usual couple flying toward me without the kid. Somehow he was able to tell them who he saw and where.

No, I don’t think I have some special connection with ravens — at least no more so than I have with cats who like sleeping on me because I tend to sit still longer than the average human. Almost anyone can befriend ravens if they treat them kindly and share treats. But sometimes I like to pretend that those ravens on Hawk Hill came to me on this day last year because they knew that I would soon realize I need them in my life. I cannot, nor do I want to, imagine 2020 without them.

It’s April again. The pandemic isn’t over but any open restaurant or bar is packed and the roads are jammed. The world is in a rush to return to normal and I am starting to feel out of place again. I’ll get my turn at vaccination this month or the next and maybe in late Summer I’ll write my first journal entry in a bar since March 14 last year. 2020 will gradually fade like all memories, good or bad, but there’s a part of me, or maybe all of me, that wishes I could go back to this time last year and stay.

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