Snakebite
We live in rattlesnake country and May is rattlesnake month on this hilltop. Last year we had five rattlesnake incidents in May and then didn’t hear from the serpents again for the rest of the year. I’m guessing they were out there, but despite all my traipsing around the hillside every day, they seemed to stay away from me and to whatever extent they were on the property, we coexisted just fine. That is the way I like things. I do not need to feel that I am without snakes in my life, I just don’t want to interact with them.
It is not dissimilar to how I feel about coyotes. If they stay where they are supposed to stay, I don’t mind them running across my property at dawn and dusk (their normal hunting times). When they stop and stare at me I get a bit wigged out (I suspect that is somewhat of a primordial reaction), but then I wave my arms and shout and they always run off. I react somewhat differently when they do something like run up my driveway or across my patio. A coyote crossing raw or even mildly manicured chaparral seems natural and even reassuring that life goes on in all sorts of ways. But a coyote invading manmade space that we use seems objectionable and a transgression of nature into manmade space. Imagine how you would feel is a coyote ran into your garage, and then imagine how you would feel if it ran into your house for a look around. These are the boundaries that nature is not supposed to cross. We don’t like it when an ant crosses over because who can stop ants? And a lizard every once in a while is almost comedic because little if any harm can come from a lizard, but go that extra inch and find a snake in the house and all hell wil break loose.
Do you remember that Samuel L. Jackson movie Snakes on a Plane? I don’t think I would even watch that movie because the concept is so upsetting. Very few people like snakes. And having snakes slithering around in a confined space is particularly upsetting. For some reason that is even more the case when they are in a confined space that is hurtling through space and that you cannot just get out of whenever. You want.
It really is no accident that Genesis 2, right after God creates the Earth in Genesis 1, has Adam and Eve being subverted by a snake. Slithering just looks evil for some reason and that tongue flicking sure doesn’t help much. Snakes have no choice but to move deliberately, inching their way along, all muscle from head to toe, but that slow-moving crawl looks, in its purposefulness, so very devious and downright sneaky that you can’t help but feel reviled by it. I’m not sure if snakes do more staring than other creatures, but given that they are basically a head and a body, with little else of note, when they turn to cast their gaze on you, there it is again, that evil maleficence coming through their eyes and focused entirely on you. Allow me to repeat, very few people like snakes.
As much as I like the chaparral with its interesting blend of dryness and subtropical tendencies, one of the things that naturally comes with the territory is a full array of creepy crawly things that are lead by rattlesnakes. You understand that coming in, but you ignore it because everything else about the landscape of the hilltop is so lovely and conducive to a pleasant lifestyle. After all, snakes are not gregarious sorts and their low-lying stature gives them plenty of cover to stay out of sight. You assume that they are out there and that you will be carful not to go where they are likely to be. Then one thing comes after another and you start tramping around among the rocks and the undergrowth, forgetting that they exist at all. I will bet with a good deal of certainty that I have walked within three feet of 1,000 snakes on my hillside and have never seen them or been aware of them. That’s a good thing so long as I have avoided getting bitten by one by virtue of coming too close or actually stepping on one. I attribute that success to the slow and deliberate way in which I move about the hillside. I could tell you that is because I don’t want to step on a snake, but the truth is that is how I move around anyway to avoid tiring myself out prematurely and to make damn sure that I don’t fall and do some permanent damage to my old creaky self. My worst nightmare would be to fall, injure myself and come face to face with a snake such that he could bit me multiple times while I struggle to get up. That may not be enough to keep me off of the back hillside, but it is enough to keep me moving slowly over it.
I have tromped around my entire property with one noticeable and intentional spot. Like in the movie King Kong, the high ground belongs to the strongest predator. That high ground is the huge upward-jutting boulder in the front yard, just beyond the driveway. It is surrounded by lesser boulders and craggy outcroppings where all manner of native succulents and palms grow. It has a wild, but not unruly look and looks more majestic than dangerous for the most part. The doves and crows like to perish on the top of that boulder as its the best viewing spot for miles. The other day we spotted a large TurkeyVulture up there spreading its winds in the early morning sun. There was something very powerful about that gesture since the beast has wingspan of about three feet, less than the California Condor, but damn big nonetheless, and especially noteworthy with that ugly red head worn by the vulture. It seemed like a declaration of victory. What I like most about vultures and hawks is that besides their elegant gliding motion on the thermals, they like to dive-bomb, snatch and fly off with snakes for their lunch. It’s funny that the vulture perched atop the pointed boulder because it is that very outcropping that whatever nest of rattlesnakes I have on my property inhabit.
I know that about that front mountain because Joventino has told me he has seen giants up there and whenever we have a snake-sunning afternoon, they tend to find their way down either onto the driveway on that side or onto the pavers around the garbage bins. And then, yesterday I had another convincing confirmation. I rounded the corner of the garage, heading for the back to pee in the bushes when I stopped in my tracks with a great big rattlesnakes lying in the sun across several pavers, enjoying the sunshine. There is a part of me that wants to just leave rattlesnakes alone, but then I also realize that it could easily have been Kim or Betty coming around that corner, so I mobilized to deal with the snake. I got my snake grabber (a 50 inch pole with a grabbing claw) from the garage and then circled around behind the garage to get the shovel. Armed with both weapons I approached the snake from the back. It immediately turned to the left and started to head slowly to the hillside from which it had presumably come. That was my confirmation where snake home-base was on the front mountain.
The idea is to grab the snake behind its head and then use the shovel to disassociate the head from the body. To start with, this is optimally a two-man operation, but cityboys Gary and Oswaldo were keeping their distance and I didn’t want Mr. Snake to get away up the hill. So, I finally got the grabber working well enough (I had already jammed and wounded my right hand trying in my adrenaline-infused rush) and I used it to grab the snake around the middle (he was a good 2.5 inches in diameter, meaning he was an older gentleman). He didn’t care for that much and tried to reach up at me, but that is why the grabber is 50 inches long. It took perhaps four downward thrusts of the flat-blade shovel to cut through his muscled neck. I was not proud of my mangling of this beast of God, but man is meant to protect his home and family from threats and I contend a rattlesnake in the garbage bins is a threat. When I looked at my right hand after disposing of the carcass across the road, where the birds and beasts of prey could find it, I saw that I had a small bleeding wound on the fleshy part, symbolically right where my snakebite might otherwise have been.