Rattlesnake Ridge

By Jean Henry Mead

Several weeks ago I wrote about our mountain mini-ranch and that it's a retirement paradise. But every Garden of Eden is inhibited by a serpent and we've been adopted by a five-foot rattler of our own.

Much of the property is covered in buckbrush, which serves as a hideout for a variety of creatures, including deer, antelope, elk, coyotes, rodents, wild turkeys and sage hens. The brush is also home to large flocks of birds and we gladly welcome their presence.

But rattlesnakes are a different tale. Those of you who regularly read this blog know that I’m a research hound, and I decided to read about our unwelcome guest. Here's what I learned: there are some thirty species of rattlers as well as many subspecies. Their scientific name is Crotalus, which comes from the Greek word kporalov, and means castanet. The snake’s rattle also shares its name with the sistrum, an ancient Egyptian musical instrument.

Rattlesnakes give birth live and have no need to care for their young, which at birth are literally on their own. The infant rattlers are born with fangs capable of injecting venom and are considered more dangerous than the adults because they have less control of the amount of venom they inject.

Some 7,000-8,000 people are bitten each year and five of them don't survive. About 72% of those bitten are males. Antivenom, when applied in time, reduces death to less than 4%. The snakes can strike up to a distance of two-thirds the length of their bodies and their venom can kill rodents, small birds and animals within twenty seconds.

According to the Wikipedia: “Quick medical attention is critical, and treatment typically requires antivenin/antivenom to block the tissue destruction, nerve effects, and blood-clotting disorders common with rattlesnake venom. Most medical experts recommend keeping the area of the bite below the level of the heart. It is important to keep a snake bite victim calm in order to avoid elevating their heart rate and accelerating the circulation of venom within the body.

Untrained individuals should not attempt to make incisions at or around bite sites, or to use tourniquets, as either treatment may be more destructive than the envenomation itself. Any bite from a rattlesnake should be regarded as a life-threatening medical emergency that requires immediate hospital treatment from trained professionals.”

I think we’re going to name our mini-ranch Rattlesnake Ridge and we’ll definitely acquire an antivenom kit. Hopefully, our uninvited guest isn't a female ready to give birth, but just in case, we’ll be prepared because the nearest hospital is 30 miles away by flight-for-life helicopter.

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.