Buffalo Mountain

Trooping the Line

Someone knows Spring is around the corner! The boys are warming up, but the girls not yet impressed. You'd think the boy's butt muscles would get tired holding that display up, wouldn't you?

Fred First: Ravens on Buffalo

A cold front had come through the day before our hike to the top of Buffalo Mountain. Temperatures on Saturday would be crisp but not cold, and with the humidity so low that visibility would stretch to the farthest horizon. What a great day to be on that high spine of rock with friends, near the peak of the leaf color change!

But the wind gauges from Blacksburg showed a constant gale of 30 with higher gusts—and it would be even worse at almost 4000 feet of the bare windswept summit—brutal, with chills in the thirties. We'd dress for fall at the bottom and winter at the top of our hike. Ann had never been up, and I wanted it to be a good experience for her. She's no sissy, but I've been miserable on that mountain more than once.

By the time we reached the first open glade near the crest, the temperature was pleasant, and the wind blew over us rather than at us. We turned through the obligatory 360 degree survey of the horizon, a clear edge 30 to 70 miles away, taking our bearings, soaking it all in. Friend Dennis had brought his binoculars, and with his familiarity with the North Carolina terrain, he easily picked out the tallest buildings in both Winston-Salem and Greensboro. And of course, Pilot Mountain was conspicuous to the south. From the top, to orient to our home in northeastern Floyd County, Ann and I could see even without the binoculars the white ball of the NEXRAD tower on Coles Knob just two miles west of Goose Creek.

Even though I’d carried my camera bag and tripod to the top, I didn't expect much from the day, photographically. The cloudless sky offered little interest; the colors were surprisingly subdued a week short of peak, and we'd have to leave before the late afternoon lighting began to add shadows and pictorial interest to the scenes below. And then we heard the sound that changed everything.

"Raven!" I said immediately, though it came from behind me. Dennis spotted them through the binoculars just beyond the steepest end of the mountain—the head and shoulders of the resting buffalo. There were five of them. "I think they're crows" he replied, as I shielded my eyes to watch them rise and fall in the unrelenting wind.

"I'll admit I've never seen more than two ravens together in the same place at the same time, and those birds may be crows, but what I heard was definitely a raven."

It didn't take long to realize that these black birds were larger and far more acrobatic than common crows we thought them at first to be. And they were obviously enjoying one another's company, if you'll forgive my attribution of human emotions to other kinds of creatures. I don't think this is entirely in error in this instance, nor would you, had you seen the joy in this performance.

Our friends were first to notice as we stood on the highest point of the mountain, our daypacks resting on the metal rod that benchmarked the spot for map-makers. "One of them is carrying something" and the rest of us trained our eyes on the lead bird. I stood up for a photograph with my 200 mm lens—about half of the power I would have preferred to close the distance on this swift, black subject. A gust of west wind pushed me back down.

The raven who carried the dark object was "it" and the others followed nearby—usually below, in case the lead bird were to drop the parcel, which I can easily imagine would be a rule of this game. I drop it. You catch it. Five minutes later, a bird appeared with a conspicuous white something, first in its beak, then in its talons. The object had indistinct edges, and I am almost certain it was a downy white feather. Again, at least one more bird pursued the carrier, and if birds know play, we saw it in their interactions on the Buffalo.

To watch their rolls and tumbles, spins and dives gave us a pleasant vertigo, as if it were we who were hurtling through space. We watched them find the stronger currents in the constant 30 mile an hour west winds as clearly as we find a marked trail in forest. They entered those rivers of air the way a surfer takes the best wave. First one bird, then the next rode turbulent tubes of wind up the rocky notch below us. At the head of the ravine each surfer found the still point, hovered briefly, and fell with wings pulled tight, disappearing below our line of sight, only to reappear a few minutes later when it was his turn again.

We watched enthralled until we realized our faces and fingers were going numb from the cold wind. But the ravens did not feel the cold, or know the fear of heights or sense the risk of hurtling at great speed toward rock walls. They reveled in their medium and their time together, and for a giddy moment, we were able to ride the currents with them. (You can see a gallery of raven images from that hike at http://tinyurl.com/trgdb )