Shake that Bush!

A few days ago I spent an entire (and I mean ENTIRE) day perusing Pioneerwoman's archives. I'd never read her earliest posts and decided to start in 2006 and work forward. Once begun, I couldn't stop.

There was a momentary hitch when I reached this point, though.

I don't like rattlesnakes. Call it a little quirk, bordering on a phobia.

When I go searching in books or the web for hikes, those magic words, "watch out for rattlesnakes," make me cross that destination off the list, unless it's at a time when I know they'll be in hibernation. They do hibernate up here, luckily. Of course the snakes don't read the same books I do. And, after all, this is THEIR land. They were here first. So when we humans go traipsing into their wilderness, we should expect the occasional surprise.

In the years I've been on the trail, I've managed to avoid the critters, except for once. And that once was because of my being a smart-ass, pure and simple.

Shirley Spencer, our Elderhostel naturalist/instructor extraordinaire, had taught a class that week, and I was lucky enough to be able to accompany one of the program's field trips. As we wandered through the meadows in Yosemite Valley, Shirley pointed out the various species of flora that abound there. When she came to one, she remarked, "you can always tell a member of the mint family because they have square stems." She had us get up close to examine the characteristics. I've always been able to tell common mint by its smell, of course, but no one had ever taught me about its square stems.

Friends Shevy, Gail and I the following beautiful October Saturday decided to hike Eastman Lake, a man-made reservoir/dam surrounded by wonderful trails outside of Raymond, CA. All of us had done this trail previously; it's one of our favorite early/late season treks, ranging from spectacular in the midst of spring to merely beautiful otherwise. We'd walked about 4 miles out from the Raymond bridge, turned around and were headed back to the car, perhaps a mile out. Shevy, as usual, was a "fur piece" ahead of me. Gail was behind me. I looked down and spotted something familiar.

In my most officious, obnoxious, supremely educated voice, I announced, "I know what this is. This is a member of the mint family. I can tell because the stem is square . . . "

The "square" had not died from my lips when the bush began to rattle. Surprised, I backed off for an instant, then leaned forward again. The bush rattled again.

"Rattlesnake." I shouted at the top of my lungs. I jumped about three feet in the air. Unfortunately Gail, being behind me, had to skirt the part of the path where the creature was ensconced. She gingerly crept past, keeping her eyes peeled for slithering shapes.

When she was safely beyond the bush, she said, "whew, he was a big guy. Did you see him?"

"No, I didn't." And I was glad.

At the sound of my shriek, Shevy had turned around. "Where's the snake? Let me see!" He raced back to where we stood.

The thing was rattling furiously, still in its bush, but Shevy couldn't hear. "If you can't hear it, you stay away!" I yelled.

He didn't like that answer but, for once, didn't press the issue.

I assume Mr. Snake went back to his nap after we left, probably shaking his head at our stupidity.

***

Luckily this was a sound I'd heard previously, and once you've heard it, you never forget. Otherwise I might never have recognized what it was and continued to stick my hand where it didn't belong. Friend Deb likens it to natural gas escaping from a pipe. Except that generally gas escaping doesn't start and stop. A snake does.

The first time I'd ever experienced a snake's rattle was after I'd moved to Cascadel. When Frank and Deb went off on gigs, I would take care of Deb and Frank's deaf/blind/diabetic Dalmatian. One afternoon I took Spotty Dog out for her constitutional, following the tried-and-true path around the back of the house. We were creatures of habit, Spotty and I, especially after she lost her eyesight and depended on me to be her seeing-eye human. We'd just rounded the corner when I heard a hissing, rushing sound from a few feet away, from somef tall grass close to the path leading up the hill to the garden terraces.

I stopped. Listened.

It stopped.

I moved forward a foot or so. Hiss, rattle.

I stopped. It stopped.

Forward. Hiss.

Suddenly I remembered Deb's description of that sound and knew exactly what it was. But I couldn't see it. Knew about where it was but couldn't be certain. Was afraid to move in any direction but back where we'd come from. And Dotty Dog was oblivious to the danger lurking in that grass. All she knew was she needed to go potty. I turned the dog around, wrestled her back up the deck stairs and out to the area in front of the garage. This was completely opposed to our regular routine, she couldn't imagine what we were doing and fought me all the way.

I, however, knew what I was doing. I was shaking uncontrollably.

As soon as humanly possible I shoved Spot back in the house and pondered my next move. I needed to get from Frank and Deb's house back to mine, some 500 feet away, and a vicious rattlesnake was somewhere out there threatening my every step. As soon as my legs would support me, I crept out of their house and kept my eyes peeled for any wayward movement on the path to my house, ears alert for any rattle.

Home safely, I knew I couldn't face going back to Frank and Deb's later that night for what should have been Spot's last walk of the evening. But I also couldn't risk Frank and Deb's coming home to a reptile lying in wait. I called the club where they were performing and asked to speak to Deb.

"I-I-I  j-j-j-ust w-w-w-ant you to know there's a r-r-r-rattlesnake outside your back door. Or at least he was when I left your house. Please don't be mad if you come home to a puddle on the floor. I just can't go back over there tonight. But watch your step when you get out of the car."

I swear I heard a snicker on the other end of the phone.

"Hey, Jude, thanks for the warning."

For all I know that snake was as scared of me as I was of him because he wasn't seen again.

Unless, of course, he migrated to Eastman Lake and got his revenge.