Face to Face with Crotalus Horridus by Kirk Wareham

Nature provides us with opportunities to face our fears with grace and courage.

Life, by definition, involves risk and danger.

We have two choices. We can play it safe, decade after decade, and die of boredom.

It’s a lot more exciting to catch the flying daisies while gale-force winds swirl around your head. There will be plenty of time, after the storm has passed, to comb your hair and straighten your tie.

Life is too good, too precious to let it slip away passively. Passivity is not a clarion virtue, in my opinion.

Abe Lincoln was challenged to an armed duel by a disgruntled political opponent. When offered the choice of weapons, Lincoln’s reply was anything but passive. “How about cow-dung at five paces?”

Yes, I’ve taken some risks in my life. But I’ve never clung to the rumpled couch because something “out there” might go wrong. “Out there” is exactly where I want to be.

And so far, I’ve managed to keep that shadowy fellow with the wicked-looking scythe and black hoodie at arm’s length. But when he does call my number, he may need reinforcements, because I’m not going willingly.

I’ve noticed one thing, though, and that is that, as I age, my sense of danger has become more acute. When you are young, and have the world by the tail, you think you are immortal, impervious to pain, affliction, and danger.

For example, in my younger days, I once scaled the sheer cliffs at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia. Without a rope.

Not wise, I know.

But wisdom generally comes with age. When I became a husband and father, my outlook on risks and safety changed dramatically. When we began taking hikes with our children, they were not permitted anywhere near the edge of a cliff.

The view is quite lovely back here, my dears.

I was, according to my dear wife, paranoid. I figured that was just a fancy word for safe.

***

These days, though, I’m a veteran hiker. I’ve done trail maintenance in the Catskill Mountains for years, which was really just an excuse to climb one more mountain. Training for a marathon a few years back, I climbed fifty-two mountains in a year, one for each week.

I’m also a hopeless bushwhacker, and that’s where I get into trouble sometimes.

I quickly lose interest in trails that are clearly marked, and often leave the road well-travelled with hardly a thought. If something looks interesting, I go. I don’t plan it that way; it just happens. I call it unpremeditated reconnaissance.

My wife calls it self-indulgent stupidity.

To preserve the domestic tranquility, we forge a compromise.

“Where to today?” she asks when she sees me donning my gear and filling my water bottle. Her tone is guarded, somewhat skeptical.

“Here, let me show you.”

I pull up Google Maps on my phone and describe the plan as best I can, trying to reassure her.

“I’ll text you every couple of miles and periodically send photos so you can keep track of me.”

We have enabled Location Sharing on our smartphones. She is, at any moment in time, able to see exactly where I am in this wide world. It’s a cool tech feature; all she has to do is look for the little red dot.

The only trouble with Location Sharing is that it only works if there is cell service, and many of the wilderness places I frequent are out of range.

But recognizing my propensity for making unplanned route changes, I take precautions. I wear sturdy hiking shoes. I wear long pants for protection against snakes. I carry a light knapsack with a few provisions, a knife, a water bottle, a couple of energy bars, some band-aids, and an extra layer.

But most importantly, I take my extendable aluminum hiking pole.

I have found that there’s something quite comforting about a hiking pole in the hand. For one thing, it is a versatile third leg when traversing steep and rugged pitches.

Secondly, if I happen to run into an attack dog or a disgruntled bear (both of which happened to me recently, but that’s another story), at least I will go down swinging and sell my life dearly.

Thirdly, where vegetation is thick and obscures what might be underfoot, I use the pole for probing the trail ahead of me. And three times in the last twelve months, on two separate continents (America and Australia), that hiking pole has saved me from death.

***

Yesterday it happened again, this time with one Crotalus Horridus.

A venomous, deadly Timber Rattlesnake.

There is something distinctly eerie about coming face-to-face with death. You see your whole life flash before your eyes, all those things you value most and which, if you don’t survive this pickle safely, you stand to lose.

In this case, I was far off the marked trail, exploring a deep canyon wilderness.

I was alone.

There was no cell phone service, and little room for error. 

The rattler gave no warning at all.

It lay coiled directly in my path, camouflaged by dead oak leaves, utterly quiet. Two more steps, and I would have walked right on top of it. The only reason that I saw it was that, knowing they were in the area, I was actively, intentionally, looking for snakes.

I stopped dead still, then looked carefully to my left and to my right. Where there is one rattler, the rest of the family may be lurking close at hand. In retreating from the one snake, I did not want to run into another one.

After confirming no other snakes were close by, I pulled out my phone and got some wonderful photographs from various angles. The photo below was taken from about four feet away from the snake. If you look closely, near the bottom of the picture, you’ll see ten rattles tucked neatly in between the coiled sections of the body.

When I had all the photographs I wanted, I tried to rouse the snake to action. I wanted to see if it would strike . . . from a safe distance, of course.

With my hiking pole extended to its full length, I reached the tip forward to within a couple of inches of the snake’s head. Its eyes and tongue flickered, but it did not move. I reached further forward and tapped it directly on the nose. It still refused to strike.

Then I got that vague sense that the guy with the hoodie and scythe was heading my way. So I backed up carefully and got the heck out of there.

As I hiked, I did some quick mental math. Had the rattler sunk its fangs into my leg, I would have needed to accomplish the following:

• boulder-hop across a small river
• climb up and out of the rugged canyon I was exploring
• find the trail and hike a mile to my car
• drive for 17 minutes to reach the nearest hospital.

Total time, I figured, would be around an hour, assuming I was still breathing by the time I got there.

The theory is that, if bitten by a venomous snake, you want to keep your pulse rate slow to prevent the poison from spreading throughout your body. But how, I wondered, do you keep your pulse rate slow while clambering out of a steep canyon, to say nothing of the paralyzing effect of fear?

Here in the northeast, we have two poisonous snakes, copperheads and timber rattlesnakes, both members of the pit viper family. Pit vipers are named as such because of the hollow or pit in the cheek located in a triangle with the eye and the nose. The pit gives them the ability to sense if an object nearby is living, has a warm body and a pulse. I’m guessing that the reason this one did not strike at the aluminum hiking pole was that it could see a cold, inanimate object, not a living being.

Another identifying feature of pit vipers is the vertically oval pupils of the eyes. (The pupils of a harmless snake are round.) The final identifying feature is a single row of scales under the tail end of the body (as opposed to a double row on harmless snakes).

Realistically, of course, all three identifying features are almost impossible to see on a living snake. You would have to get uncomfortably close for that, like maybe kneeling in front of it. A little too risky for me.

***

Not far from my house is a popular local swimming hole. The stream has carved a crevice through the bedrock and created a lovely pool at the bottom end. It’s a wonderful place to swim and, given the easy access from the road and parking lot, on hot days it is packed with swimmers.

There’s just one problem.

An ominous sign posted by the property owner says, “Nesting copperheads in area. Use caution & do not disturb.”

I have frequented this pool for years and never seen any poisonous snakes.

Until earlier this summer.

I was standing near the edge of the pool when I heard some children, on the slab of rock above me, talking.

“Look,” said a small voice. “There’s a snake.”

“Oh,” said an older voice. “It’s just a garter snake. They are harmless.”

Given the signs posted around the area, I was skeptical. I stepped up the bank and around a large boulder to investigate. A group of children were gathered around a small, thick thornbush, and there was the snake, clearly visible, sunning itself.

It was a copperhead without a doubt!

I looked around for responsible adults, but seeing none, I told the kids, “Stay away from that snake. It’s a copperhead, and very poisonous.”

They wandered off, and I went back to standing at the edge of the pool.

As I prepared to jump into the water, a fellow on the rock ledge opposite me said, “Watch out, there’s a snake behind you.”

I turned. Yes, there was a snake in a crack of the rock face, only two feet from my neck. 

I stepped away quickly. I did not take the time to check if its pupils were oval or round.

***

All of this discussion about Crotalus Horridus has inspired me with a brilliant idea. Someone should write an app that informs us where the rattlesnakes and copperheads are in a given area. How cool would that be, little gold stars blinking all over my Google Maps screen!

The next time I go rogue, the next time I go bushwhacking, all I have to do is check the app. Zoom in on the area I’m exploring, and Woops! There’s one, forty yards to my left; I’ll steer a little to the right to avoid a confrontation.

The ladies would love this thing.

We all have our fears. My experience is that nature is well equipped to teach us respect for the very real dangers that are out there. But nature also provides us with an opportunity to face our fears with grace and courage.

So enjoy the abundance of life. Catch some of those flying daisies. Share them with those you know and love. But please, do it judiciously.