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.

What's in a Name?

In the big city planners devise streets with number names as well as streets with letter names. That's not unusual. Up here, in Madera County, there are streets with number names--and regular names. Trouble is, the same streets have at least one of each. Are you confused yet?

Here's the deal:

Road 222:  starts in Oakhurst, winds around Bass Lake and without warning becomes Road 221, which is also known as Crane Valley Road.  Where it intersects with Manazanita Lake Road, it turns south (I think) and winds down to the little hamlet of North Fork, where it goes down Main Street and becomes (in addition to Road 222) Auberry Road.

Road 426:  starts at Highway 41 in Oakhurst, where it is also known as Talking Bear Road. As it goes up into the hills, it is called Crane Valley Road (again), then in the Bass Lake Heights area turns toward Bass Lake. Straight ahead it becomes Road 223, AKA Teaford Saddle Road, which dead ends at Road 221.

Road 420:  is also Thorneberry Road

Road 274:  Malum Ridge Road

Road 225:  Mammoth Pool Road

There are Roads 425A, 425B and 425C. Trust me on this.

There are also 1/2 and 1/4 roads, such as Road 18-1/2, Road 36-1/4.

I've lived here nigh onto 20 years, and I still can't figure out the rationale behind this.

WHY is it necessary to have more than one name for a single street?

WHY does one street have to change its name without rhyme or reason? You would expect that Road 222 would continue straight ahead and that the turn the road makes at Manzanita Lake Road would take on another number (IF a number were necessary, which I contend it is not). Instead, Road 222 becomes 221 at the intersection with Manzanita Lake Road, which becomes Road 222.

The road that leads from Highway 41 up the mountain into North Fork is Road 200. As it turns, in the middle of town, where it meets with the infamous 222, it becomes 225. Go figure.

At least in Yosemite Lakes Park, as far as I can tell, the developers didn't use numbers for their streets. But they did decide there was a limit on the names they could use, so that there are Revis Road, Revis Lane, Revis Court, Stetson Drive, Stetson Circle, Stetson Court, etc., etc., etc. I guess when you figure that if you can find Revis Road, all the other Revises take off from there, and you can sort of find your way around.

In addition the passes over the mountains leading in and out of town have names, such as Deadwood Pass which goes up and and over Highway 41 between Coarsegold and Oakhurst. Some enterprising soul has installed a real-time webcam facing southbound toward the crest of the pass. This is wonderful for those of us who have to traverse Deadwood during a snowstorm. If you take a look, you can even spy a sign for Road 425B . . . so you'll know I'm telling you the truth about our street weirdness. The other pass critical to local residents is Chepo Saddle, which goes up and over Road 222 from Oakhurst to Bass Lake.

I can see you shaking your heads in disbelief. Is it any wonder visitors up here get so confused? Can you begin to see how we got so lost that first night we tried to find the Pines Resort?

I love the anomalies that set us apart from city folk, but even I shake my head when I try to figure out the rationale behind Madera County's street names.

Midnight, Dark Road

Moving to a rural area after living in the city for way too many years brought some changes to our way of thinking, as I've alluded to in previous posts.

I was thinking back to the time between when we made the offer on our first house in Bass Lake and when it closed escrow. Farida and I made several trips up here before the house officially became ours, and on several occasions we took the opportunity to check the new house out in the evening. After dark.

In Orange County this wouldn't mean much. There's traffic all night long on the street where Nasreen lives. What we didn't realize--until after we'd moved into the Bass Lake house--is that traffic, especially after, say, 9:00 p.m., is cause for questions.

The street on which that first house is located is a circle, situated off Road 221 (otherwise known as Crane Valley Road, but that's a whole other issue), and it's not someplace you'd generally go unless you meant to. That means that any strange vehicles are likely to attract attention. Those that cruise the area after 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.? A full-blown alert. Because it just doesn't happen. Farida and I had a good laugh over the stir we must have caused the night we cruised the circle close to midnight, just 'cause we wanted to see how the house looked late at night.

That difference was brought home even more noticeably one night not long ago when I was visiting Farida at her house in Cascadel Woods. The traffic within CW at night, especially in Farida's isolated location, makes our original house in Bass Lake Annex look like the 55 Freeway at rush hour. Imagine our surprise as Farida, Hunter and I were enjoying a quiet evening--and there was a knock on the door.

There is NEVER a knock on that door. NO ONE comes to that house without an invitation and without our knowing they're coming.

Farida and I looked at each other.

"What the . . . ?" we asked each other.

"Who the . . . ?"

The knock sounded again.

Luckily there's a window right next to the door, so Farida didn't have to open it.

Farida looked out, and I peered over her shoulder. A strange man--at least one neither of us knew--stood there.

"Is this the Hansons' house?" he asked.

"No."

"Never heard of 'em," I chimed in, with emphasis, waiting for him to turn and walk away.

He persisted. The man seemed perplexed, but not nearly as mystified as we were. Who was he? Why was he here? In the middle of the night? (It was actually about 6 p.m., but it was pitch black outside.)

He tried again. "Is this Cascadel North?"

"This is a driveway. You're not on the road."

"I know, but am I on the right road?"

He obviously didn't get the message that I--even more than Farida--wanted him gone, and NOW.

"But they told me they lived at the top of the hill."

Farida really tried to be polite, but I was getting nervous. "They don't live here, and I've never heard of 'em." If my voice could have underlined the words, it would have.

After a couple more halting attempts, slowly, reluctantly, he turned away. We couldn't see where he was, and we hadn't heard a vehicle come up the driveway, so we had no clue where he'd headed. I looked out of one living room window, Farida looked out another, and Hunter was really curious about all of this. In his innocence and youthful exhuberance, he was ready to run right out there and try to help this guy, but we held him back.

Finally, after what seemed an etermity, we heard an engine turn over, saw headlights come on--right at the foot of the driveway to our house. How could we not have heard him drive up?

I, for one, breathed a sigh of relief that at least now we knew where he was and didn't have to worry that he was an axe murderer hiding out in our basement just waiting for all the house lights to go off so he could attack. (It didn't occur to me until now that he could have dropped off an accomplice.)

For those of you who think this was clearly an overreaction to an very ordinary situation, I lived in this house for 8 years before Farida and Jason moved in. In all that time I'd had only one person who didn't live on the property knock on the door--and that was in broad daylight. We don't get and don't want unexpected visitors.

Such is the joy of country living.