the snake was there first
i had no right to freak out
but did anyway
Ok, first of all, a confession: I am afraid of snakes. Irationally so. I can't even look at a serpent wriggling across my TV screen without shuddering; on the rare occasion I encounter one in real life I morph into a whimpering lump of panic. The only other thing that sends the metallic taste of adrenalized terror into my mouth faster than coming face-to-face with a snake is the prospect of a world without Planned Parenthood ... but since snakes are an integral and important part of the natural world and politicized misogynists are not, I have been gamely trying to overcome my horror of the former.
Today that fear came to a head ... literally. Because but for the iron nerves and quick thinking of my friend Leslie, this morning I would have stepped right smack into a rattlesnake's fangs, an act of stupidity that could have spelled the end of my days as MamaKu. Heck, it could have meant the ends of my days, period.
Leslie is my hiking buddy. Although she only moved to Santa Barbara from the East Coast a couple of years ago, she has taken to our backcountry like a bobcat, and knows more about our local trails than I do. (Which is saying something, because I love to hike and have been getting myself lost in the Santa Ynez Mountains since I was ten.) Leslie and I have kids the same age, and lots of similar interests, and it's fun to share notes while we ramble around the foothills. She, I will note, is not afraid of anything, at least not that I know of.
However, since I am a great big baby when it comes to things that slither, I am usually the one with the more paranoid eye on the trail when we go hiking. Leslie has two handsome and well trained Labs she watches while we hike and, frankly, I think we both figure the dogs make enough of a ruckus running ahead of us to scare off any reptiles that might be sunning themselves on the path. Certainly I wasn't thinking about snakes this morning, which was a particularly glorious one, cool and clear. The recent and unusally heavy El Nino rains have rutted the familiar trails behind Montecito into strange, convoluted channels, and wild weeds and grasses have taken over many places where foot traffic usually keeps the trail barren.
I am used to looking for snakes in open spaces, on rocks, seeking the sun. I haven't really considered the provenance of the phrase "snake in the grass" because we really don't have that much grass in our chapparal-covered mountains. That's why I was so stunned when one minute I was walking along the newly-greened trail, chatting away, only to find myself suddenly being shoved sideways so hard I almost fell over.
Imagine that - walking along, talking to a dear friend about something pleasant and personal when *WHAM* that same friend shoulder-checks you into the dirt. I was about to protest - loudly -when Leslie hissed, with steely calm, "snake." She had an iron grip on my forearm and was looking at me with the kind of intensity one usually sees on reality shows when one of the lamer participants is about to do something really stupid and the experienced eventual winner needs to reign her in lest everyone on their team end up dead.
And that was when I saw it. Extending across the path, semi-hidden in the six-inch grass. The part I could see - which included the pointed head I had been about to step on - was about five feet long, dark brown, and faintly marked with the interlocking diamond pattern frighteningly familiar to anyone who has grown up in the environs of the Crotalus oreganus ... the Pacific rattlesnake.
I am embarrassed to admit that, at that point, I shrieked. Loudly. Piercingly. Which was a stupid thing to do, because Leslie and I were still only about eighteen inches away from the animal, and as anybody who watches "Animal Planet" knows, an adult rattlesnake can cover that distance in a lightning second ... especially if you've made it mad.
Both Leslie and I jumped back, instinctively, and fortunately for us, the snake has not yet warmed up enough to take any agressive action. It just stayed there, lying across the path, thick as my forearm, sluggish but potentially fatal for all that. Leslie shot me an irritated glance and ordered her curious dogs to back away. Skirting the snake, she walked a ways up the path and looked at it from a safe distance.
"Big," she commented. "Can't even see the tail." We both knew if we could, the rattle would be disturbingly large. Leslie, bless her, just shrugged and gave me one of the knowing little smiles she uses to such effect. "Are you coming?" We still had another half a mile or so uphill to go, and Leslie started walking. With my heart still pounding so wildly I couldn't catch my breath, I followed my friend's lead and, giving the rattler a wide berth, continued up the trail.
Leslie pretended not to notice when I leaned over and picked up one large rock ... and then another. Not that I really believed the snake was going to follow us - I didn't - but still. For the rest of the hike, I acted like a nervous herbivore, eyes darting everywhere and jumping everytime I saw a downed oak branch that might have possibly resembled a snake. I told Leslie about my irrational childhood fear. She laughed and called me a chickensh-t, which was exactly what I needed to hear. She had carefully noted the spot on the trail where we had encountered the snake on the way up, and on the way down (as I cowered behind her) she reassured me it had moved on.
I put the rocks down before we got to the end of the trail. I know that any real nature lover who had seen me clutching sandstone weapons would have pegged me for a tourist ... worse, an idiot, because we hikers really have no right to pelt snakes with rocks or really, hurt them in any way. The backcountry is their home, and we are just vistors. It's up to us to look out for them when we're on their turf.
I can't say that my herpetic encounter this morning has cured me of my fear of snakes. Heck, my heartrate is increasing even as I sit at my keyboard, recounting the story. But I can say I'm grateful to one snake in particular for not biting me this morning, particularly as it would have been my fault if he or she had. I also owe Leslie a great deal of thanks, both for saving me from doing something dumb and reminding me that snakes deserve our respect and appreciation.
One thing's for sure: I won't tread so carelessly in the future.
i had no right to freak out
but did anyway
Ok, first of all, a confession: I am afraid of snakes. Irationally so. I can't even look at a serpent wriggling across my TV screen without shuddering; on the rare occasion I encounter one in real life I morph into a whimpering lump of panic. The only other thing that sends the metallic taste of adrenalized terror into my mouth faster than coming face-to-face with a snake is the prospect of a world without Planned Parenthood ... but since snakes are an integral and important part of the natural world and politicized misogynists are not, I have been gamely trying to overcome my horror of the former.
Today that fear came to a head ... literally. Because but for the iron nerves and quick thinking of my friend Leslie, this morning I would have stepped right smack into a rattlesnake's fangs, an act of stupidity that could have spelled the end of my days as MamaKu. Heck, it could have meant the ends of my days, period.
Leslie is my hiking buddy. Although she only moved to Santa Barbara from the East Coast a couple of years ago, she has taken to our backcountry like a bobcat, and knows more about our local trails than I do. (Which is saying something, because I love to hike and have been getting myself lost in the Santa Ynez Mountains since I was ten.) Leslie and I have kids the same age, and lots of similar interests, and it's fun to share notes while we ramble around the foothills. She, I will note, is not afraid of anything, at least not that I know of.
However, since I am a great big baby when it comes to things that slither, I am usually the one with the more paranoid eye on the trail when we go hiking. Leslie has two handsome and well trained Labs she watches while we hike and, frankly, I think we both figure the dogs make enough of a ruckus running ahead of us to scare off any reptiles that might be sunning themselves on the path. Certainly I wasn't thinking about snakes this morning, which was a particularly glorious one, cool and clear. The recent and unusally heavy El Nino rains have rutted the familiar trails behind Montecito into strange, convoluted channels, and wild weeds and grasses have taken over many places where foot traffic usually keeps the trail barren.
I am used to looking for snakes in open spaces, on rocks, seeking the sun. I haven't really considered the provenance of the phrase "snake in the grass" because we really don't have that much grass in our chapparal-covered mountains. That's why I was so stunned when one minute I was walking along the newly-greened trail, chatting away, only to find myself suddenly being shoved sideways so hard I almost fell over.
Imagine that - walking along, talking to a dear friend about something pleasant and personal when *WHAM* that same friend shoulder-checks you into the dirt. I was about to protest - loudly -when Leslie hissed, with steely calm, "snake." She had an iron grip on my forearm and was looking at me with the kind of intensity one usually sees on reality shows when one of the lamer participants is about to do something really stupid and the experienced eventual winner needs to reign her in lest everyone on their team end up dead.
And that was when I saw it. Extending across the path, semi-hidden in the six-inch grass. The part I could see - which included the pointed head I had been about to step on - was about five feet long, dark brown, and faintly marked with the interlocking diamond pattern frighteningly familiar to anyone who has grown up in the environs of the Crotalus oreganus ... the Pacific rattlesnake.
I am embarrassed to admit that, at that point, I shrieked. Loudly. Piercingly. Which was a stupid thing to do, because Leslie and I were still only about eighteen inches away from the animal, and as anybody who watches "Animal Planet" knows, an adult rattlesnake can cover that distance in a lightning second ... especially if you've made it mad.
Both Leslie and I jumped back, instinctively, and fortunately for us, the snake has not yet warmed up enough to take any agressive action. It just stayed there, lying across the path, thick as my forearm, sluggish but potentially fatal for all that. Leslie shot me an irritated glance and ordered her curious dogs to back away. Skirting the snake, she walked a ways up the path and looked at it from a safe distance.
"Big," she commented. "Can't even see the tail." We both knew if we could, the rattle would be disturbingly large. Leslie, bless her, just shrugged and gave me one of the knowing little smiles she uses to such effect. "Are you coming?" We still had another half a mile or so uphill to go, and Leslie started walking. With my heart still pounding so wildly I couldn't catch my breath, I followed my friend's lead and, giving the rattler a wide berth, continued up the trail.
Leslie pretended not to notice when I leaned over and picked up one large rock ... and then another. Not that I really believed the snake was going to follow us - I didn't - but still. For the rest of the hike, I acted like a nervous herbivore, eyes darting everywhere and jumping everytime I saw a downed oak branch that might have possibly resembled a snake. I told Leslie about my irrational childhood fear. She laughed and called me a chickensh-t, which was exactly what I needed to hear. She had carefully noted the spot on the trail where we had encountered the snake on the way up, and on the way down (as I cowered behind her) she reassured me it had moved on.
I put the rocks down before we got to the end of the trail. I know that any real nature lover who had seen me clutching sandstone weapons would have pegged me for a tourist ... worse, an idiot, because we hikers really have no right to pelt snakes with rocks or really, hurt them in any way. The backcountry is their home, and we are just vistors. It's up to us to look out for them when we're on their turf.
I can't say that my herpetic encounter this morning has cured me of my fear of snakes. Heck, my heartrate is increasing even as I sit at my keyboard, recounting the story. But I can say I'm grateful to one snake in particular for not biting me this morning, particularly as it would have been my fault if he or she had. I also owe Leslie a great deal of thanks, both for saving me from doing something dumb and reminding me that snakes deserve our respect and appreciation.
One thing's for sure: I won't tread so carelessly in the future.
Oh boy, the first time i've been blogged about!!! How exciting! AND I'm a heroine in the story! Keep up the terrific writing! I'll try to come up with more heart stopping (but not literally) plot lines!
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