Don't Tread On Me!

By Mark W. Danielson

In a previous blog, I featured Benjamin Franklin’s segmented rattlesnake from his famous Join, or Die political cartoon. Franklin’s snake was most likely the basis behind the coiled rattlesnake on Colonel Christopher Gadsden’s yellow Don’t Tread On Me flag (pictured), which he presented to the Second Continental Congress in 1775. Gadsden intended this flag to be used by the Commander in Chief of the American Navy to represent its readiness to strike at any time. Gadsden’s Don’t Tread on Me phrase became so popular that it also appeared on the First Navy Jack and the Flag of the Culpeper Minutemen. Believing the rattlesnake is the perfect embodiment of the early American view of independence, Franklin wrote this passage in the Pennsylvania Journal in 1775:

“I recollected that her eye excelled in brightness, that of any other animal, and that she has no eye-lids. She may therefore be esteemed an emblem of vigilance. She never begins an attack, nor, when once engaged, ever surrenders. She is therefore an emblem of magnanimity and true courage. As if anxious to prevent all pretensions of quarreling with her, the weapons with which nature has furnished her, she conceals in the roof of her mouth, so that, to those who are unacquainted with her, she appears to be a most defenseless animal; and even when those weapons are shown and extended for her defense, they appear weak and contemptible; but their wounds however small, are decisive and fatal. Conscious of this, she never wounds till she has generously given notice, even to her enemy, and cautioned him against the danger of treading on her. Was I wrong, Sir, in thinking this a strong picture of the temper and conduct of America?”

The rattlesnake, specifically the Timber Rattlesnake, is particularly symbolic to the American Revolution because its rattle contains thirteen layers, coincident to America’s original Thirteen Colonies. Credit is given to Commodore Hopkins in 1775 for adding an uncoiled rattlesnake and Don’t Tread on Me phrase to the thirteen-striped red and white “jack” that was commonly used on early American merchant ships to create the First Navy Jack (pictured). Clearly, Commodore Hopkins borrowed elements from Benjamin Franklin and Colonel Gadsden to create this Jack. Debate remains over whether Commodore Hopkins flew the First Navy Jack or the plain striped jack on the Alfred, flagship of the Continental Fleet in January 1776. However, historians do agree the rattlesnake-clad First Navy Jack was flown as the Navy Ensign during the Revolutionary War. Coiled or uncoiled, the rattlesnake is intended as a warning that America will strike whenever provoked.

Soon after the adoption of the June 14, 1777, First Stars and Stripes Law, the U.S. Navy replaced the First Navy Jack with the Union Jack. (The Stars and Stripes Union Jack, also known as the Jack of the United States, should not be confused with Britain’s Union Jack, which bears its country’s colors.) The First Stars and Stripes Law stated that this flag be 13 alternating red and white stripes and that its union be 13 white stars in a blue field representing a new constellation. Although the date of introduction of the Union Jack is not precisely known, a 1785 engraving of the frigate USS Philadelphia clearly depicts the Union Jack flying from her jackstaff—the vertical spar (pole) in the bow of a ship, on which a “jack” is flown.

To this day, flags remain a distinct form of communication between ships, thus seafarers must know the difference between a jack and an ensign. Jacks are additional national flags flown by warships at the head of the ship when the ship is not under way, and when dressed for special occasions. Ensigns are flown at the ship’s stern or island when entering or leaving a harbor, when sailing through foreign waters, and whenever the ship is signaled to do so by a warship. Warships usually fly their ensigns between the morning colors ceremony and sunset when moored or at anchor, and at all times when underway or engaged in battle. Because tradition dictates that if a ship lowers its ensign it is deemed to have surrendered, second and subsequent ensigns may be flown from different locations to ensure the opponent understands the battle will continue.

In some instances, the traditional First Navy Jack has been used in lieu of the Stars and Stripes Union Jack. In other words, the Jack becomes the Ensign. In 1975, the Secretary of the Navy directed that the First Navy Jack be flown in 1975 and 1976 during the United States Bicentennial Year as a colorful and historic reminder of the nation's and the Navy's origin. In August 1977, the Secretary of the Navy then specified that the ship with the longest total period of active service display the First Navy Jack until decommissioned or transferred to inactive service, at which time the flag shall be passed to the next ship in line with appropriate honors. Most recently, on May 22, 2002, the U.S. Navy ordered that all ships display the First Navy Jack during its War on Terrorism as a temporary substitution for the fifty-star Jack of the United States. Most vessels made the switch on September 11, 2002, the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon.

Whether you agree or disagree with our current foreign policies, it is noteworthy to realize that the Don’t Tread on Me flags pre-date our existence as a nation, and that the United States still stands ready to strike against those who dare tread on us.

Rattle Rattle

by Ben Small

Fooled you. You thought this was another L’il Ella story, didn’t you?

Au Contraire.



Yesterday, some friends and I visited a couple of rattlesnake hunters. How’s that for a different experience? Heck, if you’re gonna write a mystery where someone gets bitten or terrorized by a rattlesnake, you’d better learn something about them, eh?

Enter John and Sandy Weber, two Rockford, Illinois transplants, one of whom (John)
I worked with for a few years. Seems John got tired of corporate life and retired early – somewhere around 1977 or 1979, John can’t remember which – for a life in the desert.

Don’t think this is so strange. Wyatt Earp and his wife, after they left Alaska, spent three quarters of every year living in a wagon in the desert.

The Webers have improved on that a bit. They have two trailers, one for a shop, where snake-stuff and rocks are sold, and one for living. Both are a little beat-up, maybe, but John and Sandy don’t care. From the ever-present grins on their leathery sun-dried faces, they’re having a ball.

Finding their shop isn’t the easiest thing, and a GPS may not help you much, as I’m not sure their road, really a two mile driveway, is on the map. They’re located just south of historic Tombstone, off Gleason Road. All that tells you they’re there, except for a steady stream of traffic from people who found it once and are returning, is a dark wood sign.

The museum is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of John and Sandy’s activities. Through some thirty years of networking with ranchers, townspeople and targeting certain areas with metal detectors, John and Sandy have managed to pick up a wide variety of antique implements and weapons. Rusted mining tools, Tombstone gun barrels – wouldn’t you love to learn the story behind them – ancient plow shares, cameras, axes, pitchforks, bull blinders, saddles, and other historical items, plus rifles and pistols adorn their yard, centered by a fire pit and chairs. Looking at the surrounding mountains and rolling hills, and listening to the sounds of the desert, one can only imagine the peace and tranquility John and Sandy must experience in the evenings, except during August.

August is hunting season.

John and Sandy spend most of their August evenings from six to nine, searching for rattlers. And find them they do, the largest so far having reached eight feet. They use a three foot long snake-catcher. “Hey, I’ve got one of those,” I said, my chest swelling with pride, “except mine’s ten feet long.”

They laughed at me. “Three feet’s all you need,” John said. He turned to Sandy. “Ben’s turned into a city-feller.” And then they laughed again.

We talked quite a bit about snakes, how to find them, what to expect, the length of their fangs, how far they can stretch with a full-blown strike, and of course, how to catch them. But John and Sandy don’t do all the hunting. They know all the ranchers in the area, and the ranchers trade them snakes and items for the museum in return for some of John’s goods.
He and Sandy do good work. Need a snakeskin hat band, watch band, bracelet, belt, knife sheath or other snakeskin covered item, they can fix you up, and at prices you won’t believe. And they’re not limited to rattlesnakes, although they dominate the collection. There are also items covered with python skin, coral snake skin, and other varieties, often acquired by trading. Very quickly one realizes, John and Sandy don’t do this for money. They charge for their goods ― the museum is free ― but their prices are low. Besides, I know where John worked; he has a pension. They do this work because they love it. And after seeing their operation, I don’t blame them.

I’m not sure I’ve seen a happier couple.

So next August, I’m going snake-hunting...

Please come visit me in the hospital… And bring some money. Anti-venom is expensive, I've been told.

Check out John And Sandy's website at http://www.rattlesnakecrafts.com/about.html

Rattlesnake Hunt

by Ben Small

You’re at the buzzer on Family Feud. The question is, “Things you’ll find in the Arizona desert?”

Push the button.

"Ccactus” or “rattlesnakes?, one or the other.” You choose. You got a 50-50 shot.

So why have I heard so much about Arizona rattlesnakes, yet not actually spotted one? I've lived in Tucson two years, and I've yet to have a snake-event...of any kind. You’d think by now I’d have a snake farm, maybe snatch a grant to research reptilian weapon potential.

Nada. Nope. None. Not a single snake.

Every year more people are killed by rattlesnakes in the Tucson area than anywhere else in the world. The green Mohave is the most deadly. Bad mojo. It’s aggressive, and its venom is especially toxic. A buddy was biking in a wash and stood his Trek on its fender when he saw a Mohave slither out from behind its bushy cover, ready to greet him. He dove off his ride and was stuck for two hours while the snake used his bike as base camp.

Another friend was hiking and came over a hill in the late afternoon sun. Blinded, she covered her eyes and started down the trail. Rattles. All around her.

Hitchcock should be so scary.

The baby rattlers are the worst. The larger ones know they can’t eat you, so they modulate their venom, just give you enough, supposedly, to scare you away. But the young’uns don’t know any better; they’ll load you up. Same venom, just lots more of it. My landscaper’s friend was nailed by a wee one. It stabbed him as he fished in his tool chest for an Allen wrench. He almost didn’t make it.

Yes, we’re told if one makes enough foot-traffic noise, snakes will move away. But my wife found one in our driveway, a western diamondback, and it was in no hurry to leave. All stretched out, the snake seemed to be enjoying itself, not moving at all. But it separated my wife from the mailbox. At first she thought the snake was dead; it didn’t move at all. But she shuffled her feet, and the snake swung its head.

And tongued her.

You don’t do that to my wife. Not unless you’re carrying chocolate, flowers and jewelry.

Normally, my spouse would have practiced her backswing with the machete, and we’d be having sautéed snake-bites for appetizers, but that day she’d been swimming and hadn’t re-Spartanized yet.

So she pelted the snake with rocks, stomped her feet and yelled. She’s good at that, too.

No rattle, no coiling. The snake just slow-slithered away.

So my wife came inside and alerted me, knowing I’m hot to trot to catch me some rattlers. I wanna play some games with my neighbors.

I mall-ninja-ed up, complete with plated click-and-stick Molle-type vest, tacti-cool cargo pants, parachute cord, personal hydration system, safety glasses, high steel-toed boots, tactical gloves, helmet, knee-pads, a taser, pepper spray, and a six-foot long aluminum pole with a steel squeeze-handle on one end and steel spring-loaded jaws on the other. “Snake-Stick” or something like that. American-made, by Aazel Corporation. Good for long distance snake grabs, plus I’ve found it useful on my bicycle. Neighbor-grabbing, if you get my drift.

Dressed for action, I tip-toed out to the far end of the driveway and then into the desert, looking for slither-signs, round corners in the Etch-a-Sketch Sonoran scape.

I wasn’t as quiet as I’d have liked to be. Some clanking, a bit of pinging, the rub of leather, as my pouches, plates, buckles and slings swung with my step.

Sixty pounds of gear. You try being stealthy.

A promising creosote bush caught my eye, and I heard rattling, although in truth it might have been me. Anyway, I got down on my knees and peered through the evergreen blur. Then, I moved forward, crawling. Kept my head down, used my helmet to brush aside branches and green.

Heard what might be a rattle. I stayed stock still. Moved only my eyeballs. Caught some motion underneath my chin, and I panicked, threw up in my mouth and then had to swallow. Sudden movement might trigger a strike. My jugular was exposed. A bite there, and I wouldn’t make it back to the house.

Imagine my fear.

My eyes focused, and I saw sweat dripping off my chin strap. The drops fell on dried mesquite seed pods, which turned and rustled in the desert detritus. The temperature was a hundred-five, I was scared and wearing sixty pounds of mall-ninja gear. Sweat. Who’d’ve thought?

I exhaled, and smelled my lunch. I found my hydration tube and sucked in stale two-year-old water.

That’s when I felt it. Combustion in my legs. A searing heat. Starting at my shins and moving upward. Stinging, like a bee plague. Burning, like my limbs were on fire. The conflagration pulsed forward.

Flame touched my loins, and I was up and running. Knees high, boots pounding, my arms pumping, I must have sounded like a pan vendor jumping rope. But I was oblivious, too busy screaming and slapping at my body as I hurtled down the driveway.

I stormed through the back gate, straight to the pool. I dove in... and almost drowned.

All that gear, you know. Good thing my wife’s a strong swimmer. Better yet, my life insurance premium was overdue.

Fire ants.

When I get out of the hospital, I’m going to Cabela’s for fire ant gear.