The Raven

Written by Luke Nelson

Photo by Blair Speed

I pulled myself over the crest, and crumpled on to a rocky outcropping. Tears filled my eyes. It was a raw, desperate moment that had been building for months, maybe even years, and now it was here. I could no longer push it in the corner or hide it under the rug. It was overwhelming. I still find it difficult to accurately describe what had caused it all to happen, but regardless, it did. The challenges of long term partnership, professional development and progress at work, the burden of constant empathy with patients, co-parenting three amazing and driven kids, the uphill battle, and often frustrating work, of environmental activism, training, and trying to perform at the highest levels of endurance mountain running, and not enough time spent on self care combined to become an unbearable weight. It was not a singular thing, rather the summation of all things in life that had become too much, suddenly. I no longer felt capable of carrying it, and there, in that moment, I broke. Emotion poured out of me, tears transformed to sobs, a full blown collapse.

I was alone; very much the usual on long runs. There was no one to witness my breakdown so I didn't need to hide it out of embarrassment or shame for not being strong enough. It was just me. And the Raven.

I did not see or hear the Raven arrive; maybe I had arrived to it. Either way it was there, perched a few feet away. The long, dead tree branch ended just below me, putting the Raven at nearly eye-level as I slumped on the ledge. It observed me with what seemed concerned curiosity, head tipping from side to side, turning periodically. It did not fly away. It stayed. As the emotional wave crashed and then began to ebb, the Raven stayed.

It seemed like I sat there for a very long time, the focus of the Raven's attention. After a while I spoke to it, simply said, “thank you for staying.” It did not speak back, but again cocked its head to the side. I pulled a GU out of my pack, knowing I must soon get up to resume running. I had been out for several hours and had many miles yet to run. I needed to get back to my family, and to the weight of work and life that demanded my attention. As I shifted to stand, the Raven called out, three short bursts, “caw, caw, caw” and flapped its wings, but did not take off. A distant single “caw” came from over my shoulder, and a moment later a dozen more Ravens crested the ridge and began flying around us. Tears again filled my eyes.

I struggle to find words that accurately describe the moment. It seemed as though the immense burden that crushed me in to a sobbing mess on a nameless rocky outcropping was being lifted, shared by the Ravens that swooped and encircled me. Outwardly, nothing had changed, the sum of my responsibilities had not changed, but I started to feel differently inside, lighter. I felt the lift of the Raven. I rose. The Ravens continued their flight, swooping, diving, climbing and gliding all around me on the ridge. The lightness of their movement lifted my own mood and somehow lightened the weight. I again thanked them, and resumed my run. They stayed near me until I left the ridge a few miles later and descended the final miles through the forest back to my van.

As a young man, I heard or read that the Raven symbolized those who had passed on the mountains, friends gone too soon. I’m not sure what the source was but I have always held to that belief. It allowed me to remember people who were important to me and those who inspired me. My memory flooded with thoughts of Wray Landon, Ben Parsons, Steve Romeo, and others. There was also something else, something beyond. That singular moment, on the ledge, deepened my relationship to the Raven; it transformed into an amalgamation of memory, a symbol of comfort, a confidant, a teacher, a guide and a friend. The Raven was there, in all of it.

That moment was a beginning. Every single time I was out in the mountains during the following year I encountered the Raven. Perhaps I hadn't paid attention before, but I started. I am in the mountains a lot, nearly every day and sometimes multiple times in a day. Early mornings, late nights, hiking, climbing, paddle boarding, biking, and running, of course, and the Raven was there. At home and during travels, both domestic and international, the Raven was there. It was a comfort, it brought a smile and a warmth. The Raven was there. Its presence feels amazing.

I tend to shoulder everything that comes my way, relying solely on myself to accomplish whatever needs to be done. When it gets difficult, when I get overwhelmed, I withdraw and the responsibility compounds. I spiral into a quiet storm of isolation and anxiety, taking on too much and trying to do it alone. But during that extended moment on the ridge and the year that followed, the Raven taught me the importance of community. It showed me a need for connection I had not fully appreciated, taught me the importance of having someone to lean on. The Raven showed me how to depend on them, and trust them to be there. A skeptic may say that it was all coincidence, a religious person would call it a sign and frankly, it doesn’t matter. I needed the experience, the lesson; a teacher, a companion, a reminder.

I have been practicing the lesson. I share my challenges more than I used to, and accept help from others. I also say "No" more often. I can reach out for help, for guidance, for adventure, and make myself present for others. I still stumble, and there is a long way to go. It has been years since the moment on the ledge but the Raven is still teaching, and I am still learning its lessons. I see the Raven most days, always when I am struggling, but also, often, on days that I am not. I am grateful for the Raven.