If the Devil Had a Garden
If the devil had a garden, then it would certainly look like this.
Smooth sandstone in knobbly, surprising configurations that invite you to go further down the trail but don’t allow for easy navigation. Deep sandy foundations so that when the hoped-for rain infrequently occurs, it slips between the grains and disappears before absorption by a thirsty plant root. Holes and faces etched into the rock by the eroders of wind, rain, ice.
Despite the odds, this devil’s garden does have plants. Those odds are many: snowy winters, cold in the shade and at night. When neither of those is present there is the full wrath of the sun. The desert seems content, maybe even gleeful, with its extremes. Much like the devil would be, I imagine.
Perhaps the plants are the reason for the ravens (because where there are plants there are birds) but in truth, it’s likely closer to home: they’re here for the trash. The size of the birds speaks to the volume of our leavings, our forgotten snacks, our crumbs, our sandwiches left in the heat. What we are finished with is merely the start for the ravens. It is how they grew to the size of the motorcycle engine one particular bird was standing next to in the parking lot as we finished our midday hike.
“There was plenty of activity to which the raven could have responded but it was unbothered. Kingly. As if everything was proceeding as expected.”
The raven hopped its giant body alongside the dust-covered chrome of the bike. It surveyed the area in the way of an intelligent creature seeking something specific. It did not waste movement, each hop moving closer to something that could be or provide food. Or perhaps it was looking at itself in the reflection of the curved, once-shiny gas tank cover. But the bike had been through the desert and the red sand in Southern Utah permeates every possible crevice, so the bird would have seen only a warped version of itself.
It performed this dance to the tune of cars being started, backing out of their parking places, children complaining about sunscreen, and the crinkle of snack wrappers being stuffed into backpacks. There was plenty of activity to which the raven could have responded but it was unbothered. Kingly. As if everything was proceeding as expected. Or, really as planned, this royal raven having domain over the area. Maybe the scraps weren’t leavings, they were offerings.
The bird hopped closer to us. I suppose we looked like we had food even though we’d already finished it. Or maybe we had yet to pay the proper homage. We crossed the street to our parked car on legs wobbly from hiking and rock scrambling. Sand fell off our shoes as it had for many others before judging by the orange dust filling the depressions in the asphalt. We put away our backpacks and sank gratefully into the seats of our car. The raven only responded by perching on the handlebar of the motorcycle. He spread his wings and resettled them against his sides.
“Maybe there was a thread of recognition that passed between us, our paths having crossed before, and that’s why I noticed it. ”
The first time we visited Arches, I took a photo of a raven sitting atop our car in that very parking lot. Four years later, here was this one only a few hundred feet from before. He was still there, and large, and surveying the area with the confidence that comes from long-term residence.
I wonder if it was the same one. They seem like the kind of creatures that would live longer than expected, out of cleverness or stubbornness or both. Or perhaps it was an ancestor. Maybe there was a thread of recognition that passed between us, our paths having crossed before, and that’s why I noticed it.
The raven stayed there, watching for what would come his way next. Confident in the next offering. Then, we flew away down the road, winding between thousand foot walls of patina-covered sandstone.
Inspired by events in Arches National Park, Utah
on land belonging to the Ute (Noochew), Navajo (Dineh), Paiute (Nuwuvi), and Hopi (Hisatsinom) - source.