The next morning was quite chilly, the Sun diffuse through high thin clouds, and I missed my warm coat, having already donated my old one to the Salvation Army.

My coat and I were surely out of the honeymoon phase of our brief time together, oh you wild ride cathexis. I wasn’t wearing her anymore long into midmorning when temperatures would dictate shedding a layer, hadn’t lately been treating her like the golden fleece I did those first couple of days we were together, secretly hoping for a chill in the air, an excuse to get close. Being careful not to stuff her in the bottom of my bag where climbing gear might do harm to her fine fabric, careful to fold her neatly when I did take her off – no more was this kind of attention. If I had been still cathecting her yesterday anyway, I wouldn’t be here right now and she wouldn’t be in a freaking birds nest!

I was not doing very well with my sudden loss, could still smell her newness and feel her soft touch against my skin and now that she wasn’t here (and always wanting what I can’t have) feeling once again committed to her well-being. So shivering a bit in an old hooded sweatshirt, I began to hike across the sandy parking lot to the middle-gorge trailhead. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

It was this commitment (or more likely just Curiosity) that had gotten the best of me as I took a pair of binoculars down to the bottom of the gorge to try and spy up from the bottom from the spot where I could see the robber’s roost yesterday, the base of the climb we did hoping that maybe the birds had no use for her after all and tossed her out of the nest or somehow lost her in last night’s gusty north winds, either way hoping that I’d find her at the base of the cliff as good as new.

My bino’s though, these were not those of a birder with any experience. They had nothing quality about them even when they were new being some off brand that had the look but not the ability, poser, and now they were even less than that having been dropped at least once, which left their look rough and me looking slightly cross-eyed as I poked around through the lenses and prisms at the far side cliff’s chossy face. This made me nauseous. I tried closing one eye which helped, but the best I could tell was that the perps were indeed still up there, I could see their heads, but no signs of my coat. So laying down the lenses too roughly once again, I hatched a new plan.

I resolved to rappel the cliff a la Wild America and get to know these big birds up close and personal. I know this is exactly what I said I wouldn’t do but damn you Curiosity, you are such a driving force with we humans and all that we do that I felt almost robbed again! This time pick pocketed of my own free will, compelled to do your bidding regardless of how foolhardy it would seem. I had to, there was no choice, lower myself off the side of that cliff and have a closer look. And anyway, it seemed to fit kind of…curiosity having killed the cat and cats being so enamored with birds – or at least that’s what I told myself as I hiked back up the trail to the car.

I hear the raven’s gurgle and cluck as I hurl the coiled rope over the lip, it zinging past their fortress of a nest. I rummage through my gear to find my harness, stick my legs through the leg loops, shimmy it up like a pair of tight shorts, tighten down the waist belt, and finally clip on a rappel device heading over the edge.

What is he up to? The ravens croak again and take a defensive flight beneath me fearing the worst (bird hater, egg thief, nest destroyer, asshole human), then perch on a nearby ledge watching me, clacking their beaks with a worried concern. Is that the guy from yesterday who you stole the coat from? Yes dear. I told you this would happen! I told you he’d come looking! That was too nice of a coat you fool! I know you did honey, I know you did. I imagine them quarreling.

I did some research last night which now, halfway down the face, made me wonder if this close encounter was a good idea as thoughts of these two attacking me from behind, their black claws sinking inches deep into my neck or fist-sized rocks being bombed from above, snuck into my head. It’s okay you two, I reassured the three of us in a soft voice, I’m not here to hurt you, just see what you did with my coat.

The nest itself, down off the edge fifty feet or so, was a massive thing just to my left. All in all, this nest had to be two-feet thick bottom to top, and wider than my arms could span. I swung in for a closer look to see what composed its bulk. Bone-dry sticks and bleached out bones, scavenged, tucked and woven with an innate skill that nobody had to teach.

There were several black rubber strips, the working edges of wiper blades I figured out after touching them (no doubt pinched from parked cars) that looked like dark sticks sticking out against the lighter woods, but were far more pliable and useful; a length of fishing line, a fishermen’s frustration and the lure’s sharp hook, both still bedded in a branch deep past the barb.

In the center was a deep nook lined with softer things, an adjective none too common in this thorny desert environment. No, these were more pilfered goodies, most notably my warm coat. She was pushed and pulled through the stick and bone superstructure holding her firmly in place and also weighted down by six beautiful eggs, the lightest of green, sea foam streaked in dark speckles, life.

There was also a single wool sock sitting next to a left leather glove, which struck me as odd…raven’s pair for life you know, but so do socks and gloves.