The three of us climbed steadily up the side of a “Pennsylvania mountain,” or hill in more realistic terminology. Forested by trees and laurel bushes, it was beautifully green and dappled by sunlight. I was in the lead. At 12 or 13 years of age, I was impatience in sneakers. Dad was right behind me and Bobbi Jean, my younger sister, brought up the rear. Dad had warned me to watch where I stepped, there were rattle snakes in the woods. I knew Dad was very knowledgeable about all things outdoors, so I took him very seriously. Which was good.
As I started to step around a curve in the trail, I saw the
snake and the pattern on its skin. I stopped short, I think out of shock that
Dad was right and there really was a snake. The thought of danger came later.
Dad stopped too. I whispered over my shoulder, “Dad, I think there’s a rattle
snake here!”
I forget what Dad said exactly, but I know he thought I was
being overly dramatic and looking at a stick. He crept up to look over my
shoulder and said, “I’ll be darned. That’s a rattle snake, all right! See the rattles?” His tone was one of
surprise, admiration, and joy.
My sister didn’t see the entertainment value in this and
started running directly down the hill. She was making a bee-line. The idea of
a trail was not in the sphere of her consciousness. Dad said, “she could run
over 20 snakes on her way home.” He gave it some thought. “Well, there’s no
point following her. She’ll be back to the cabin by the time we catch up with
her.” He turned his attention back to the snake.
I hadn’t moved. I had an agreement with that snake. “I won’t
move if you don’t,” was the gist of it.
“That’s a good sized snake,” Dad said, “let’s just back up
slowly.” So we did.
I was still game for our hike, so I asked if we could go
around it somehow. Dad had other plans.
“I wish I had my revolver. I don’t think we should just walk
away and leave it there. Someone else could come up here and get bit.”
“Then can we scare it off the trail?” It seemed a little
tricky, but a reasonable solution if Dad agreed it could be done.
“No… I think we’d better kill it.”
The lack of logic in this answer wasn’t lost on me. But my
Dad was an expert, so he must be right. He was still Dad, the answer man! So he
started picking up rocks. He told me to get some too, as large as possible but
not too big or too heavy to throw. This was getting exciting. We were bonding
in the great outdoors.
He said, “Move back down the trail, and if it starts coming
at you throw a rock at it.”
I began to have my doubts.
When Dad picked the rock up over his head, and hurled it
down at the snake with both hands, I got my first clue. Dad had just turned
into a caveman. Maybe a gorilla. The snake started rattling and moving off into
the woods. I thought it might be game over.
“Did you hit it, Dad?”
“I’m not sure. I think I might have stunned it.”
“That’s good then. Let’s just walk by it.”
“No…it’s mad now. We really can’t leave it here.” He hurled
another rock – louder hissing from snake height. The third rock – thrown harder
than the first two - sent the snake swirling out of the leaves and down the
trail toward me.
I didn’t run. Some part of me figured the snake and I could
return to our earlier agreement. "I’m not moving, so don’t you…" and the snake
stopped. I started thinking again. Here I am, a rock in each hand, and a
poisonous serpent is watching me, sniffing around with his tongue. How the hell
was I supposed to kill it with a rock? It wasn’t a slow snake. It could come at
me and bite me before the rock left my hand! Then it turned and headed off into
the leaves.
Smart snake. Nice snake!
I was smart enough to back a little further down the trail,
and look at my Dad, who was scaring me more than the snake. His recklessness
and desire to kill something was completely out of character. Worse yet, he was
creating a dangerous situation. And I began to think the snake and I were
smarter than him at that point.
I don’t know how he felt about my next move. I told him I
was done with this, dropped the rocks, and walked carefully down the trail. I
stopped about 40 yards downhill and waited to see if he was going to be bitten.
He told me to go back to the cabin and tell Uncle Peter to bring a hoe. So I
did. Uncle Peter was nearly as excited as my Dad, when he trotted up the trail
with a shovel and a broom and a gleeful smile on his face.
The lessons about testosterone and manhood, snakes and the cultural
symbology of serpenthood, were a few years into my future. At the time I was
just mystified by these adults’ transformation from peaceful, logical authority
figures into Tarzan wanna-be’s. But I did feel the excitement of seeing a wild
and lethal creature in its own world. And I was proud of myself for not being
scared and having seen the rattler first. I could be a hunter, too. Right up to
the moment I had to kill something.
Today it is a fond memory. I always wished I could have met
my Dad when he was a young man, hunting with his father and uncles in the
Pennsylvania woods. That was as close as I ever got. I really wish I could have
seen him firing off a revolver at a man-killing snake. But I am satisfied with
this picture of my father and the sound of his voice over my shoulder.
“That’s a rattle snake all right. See the rattles? That's a good
sized snake!”
Thanks, Dad. I found it all by myself.
