Sunset Summit on Mt. Benson:

I take a high step onto a wet root and reach my left arm for the slim cedar trunk, slick and darkened by the oils from hundreds of other hands hauling their bodies up this steep coastal trail. I swing my momentum and reach for another tree up and right, heart pounding and lungs burning as I flow against gravity towards the summit. The steep forested trail widens abruptly and a few braided paths are presented in the snow-covered bedrock on the summit ridge. I opt for the low line — I think I’ve taken this before, making a mental note for next time, in case it does or does not go direct. The angle lets up and the path is icy where other feet have packed the aged west-coast snow before me. Distracted with summit fever, I’m slipping and running with comically low efficiency atop the off-camber ice, glinting blue illuminated by the golden January sunset.

An untracked snowpatch, receding in the afternoon glow

I approach the summit and two ink-black ravens notice me rushing toward their rocky perch, I slow down and let them study me, reaching for the camera in my running vest, this is why I brought it. Before I remove the lens cap — one hops gracefully from its sentry post, an old concrete tower footing, and casually spreads its wings to take flight. I point the camera toward the second Raven, still looking down sturdy bristled beak at me. She too must have thought me a threat, or a nerd in short shorts, and decided she didn’t want to hang. With a backlit crow-hop, she disappears into the abyss off the southern bluff. She reappears instantly, wings spread and rocketing skyward on the strong thermal the sunset was baking on the windward slope. She didn’t beat her wings once, effortlessly controlling her direction with wedge-shaped tailfeathers and upturned wingtips, following her gaze toward the radio tower 200 meters southeast. The thermal carried her to the pointy top of the latticed red tower, reaching high above the other summit, her friend waiting in that relaxed Raven posture.

Unable to get a closeup, I sprayed and prayed for some inflight frames

I lower my camera, somewhat disappointed to have missed the mysterious duo. In sport, grace and style can be equated to the perceived effortlessness with which a master can perform their craft. In this moment, I felt grateful to witness perhaps the most graceful form of flight, traveling hundreds of meters over and upward with the slightest opening of wings to ride a breeze.

I pause my watch and take in the 360-degree view from the summit. It’s beautiful. My lungs and legs relish the rest as I raise the camera to try and capture the moment, I missed the squirrel on the way up and tell myself I have to shoot something at the top to justify bringing the camera. The obvious subject is the flagpole, I’ll take a shot of it to get the creative juices flowing and hope for something more interesting to reveal itself. Through the viewfinder — I see the Coast Mountains standing proud across the Salish Sea. The Sunshine Coast is alight with the last of today’s rays. Thormanby Island, the site of Kendra’s family cabin at Buccaneer Bay, floats amongst the dark blue, stirring memories of sunshine and solitude. Despite the cold January wind against my pale thighs, the proximity of that island makes summer seem nearer. I dial in the settings and snap a shot.

I just learned Canada Jay (and Grey Jay) are alternative names for the Whiskey Jack

A blur of grey streaks through the frame and I lower the camera. Surrounding me is a band of Whiskey Jacks, with more on the way. The summit tax collectors are eager for an offering from this lone visitor. I’m strapped with a fresh chocolate chip cookie but baiting for wildlife photography seems unethical. I keep it stowed and let the pudgy birds dictate our encounter without a sugary incentive. The curious birds advance within arm’s reach and hop around innocently, unaware their cuteness will not yield a snack today. I put the lens between myself and a well-lit little one perched a few meters away and snap some shots. The sound of the shutter spooks her into a 180 and she bounces to a further perch.

Unimpressed by my lack of generosity

Airborne and outta there

The Whiskey Jacks take off north, departing in unison. It wasn’t for lack of treats — a Raven was in flight.

Soaring, pinion feathers outstretched

The second Raven leaps from the tower and spreads her wings, this time slower, her destination is a lower elevation and the thermals are more than strong enough to float down and across to this summit without a flap. She drifts sideways above the ridge, scanning for a suitable landing below. She approaches her partner in the same spot they stood sentinel upon my arrival. She overshoots by a few meters and leans back making herself tall in the breeze. She slows her descent in the ridgewind and lands with a silent controlled hop beside the other onyx bird. They look beautiful in the horizontal rays, feathers absorbing sunlight with the same glimmer as wet charcoal. I take it in with warmth on my face and cold on my legs. Before I have the chance to capture the moment they’re off again. The same effortless escalation as before.

Below, evidence of other animal inhabitants on this peak

These two have it figured out. It was a well-planned circuit for them, staging on the precipice — they teleport between peaks without flapping a wing. What a wonder. If only I could join them for a few laps. Perhaps their grace comes from years of errors and failures and learnings and effort. There are clumsy birds too. These two seem to fly with the artful grace of masters, the same way an excellent skier rides powder or a great surfer paints beautiful turns on a the face of a wave. I look forward to seeking their flight in runs to come, perhaps we’ll become friends if we all frequent this spot. I take note of the wind conditions to increase the odds of a future encounter. I admire the view once more, thank God, draw a deep slow breath, stow the camera, start the watch, and stride down the icy ridge — racing last light to the bottom.

Lights are turning on in the city below, time to let gravity do its thing