YORK SUNDAY NEWS (Pennsylvania) 09 July 06 The serpent seekers - They gather from near and far, charmed by the snake - especially the rattler. (Frank Bodani)
Sinnemahoning: They come for the rattlesnakes.
They come driving their pickups and their Harleys and their campers. They wear lots of camouflage, show off lots of tattoos and drink lots of cheap American beer out of cans.
They come for the snakes.
Men without teeth, women with canes, people who need something else to hunt besides deer and bears and turkeys. Elk-gawking tourists wander in and ask what all the fuss is about.
They come to the sportsman's club here in Cameron County every year on the first weekend of rattlesnake season in early June. They come because there's something intriguing about a reptile that's bite can change your life forever.
So they stand around and stare at the "snake pit," a fenced-in, sandy area behind the concession stand.
The hunters find the snakes in the woods and fields within a five-county, 30-mile radius of the club. They sack them and bring them back to the pit area. Judges measure them and inspect them and tag them. Sometimes they let them slither around in the sand.
And then you hear it.
Like bacon sizzling. A light buzzing. Maracas shaking.
The rattle.
People drive hours to the middle of nowhere to hear it, and see it. They stare, mesmerized.
The hunt
Search for the hissing, rattling little land mines without stepping on them.
The snake hunters wear snakebite-resistant boots to protect feet and ankles, chaps to protect legs. They carry 4-foot snake-hunting sticks and 4-foot snake "tongs."
They walk through waist-high fields of ferns, briars and bushes. Hike over rocks and tree stumps.
Poke around supposed rattlesnake dens.
Never sure of the next step.
They tap rocks with their sticks. Reflect sunlight under rock ledges with pocket mirrors.
Is that a rattle? Everyone freezes, listens.
Don't bend over without looking first. Don't reach down to pick up anything without looking.
Hearts pound. Certainly, a rattlesnake will show soon. It has to happen. Red Lion's George Bosserman and Mount Wolf's Jack Hagerman said they always find snakes in this spot.
Sometimes two or three in the first 10 minutes.
If only the weather would turn. It's too cloudy and cool for snakes that like to heat themselves under a summer sun, just about bake themselves on rocks.
It's a strange walk through lonely fields and over dirt roads about 90 minutes north of State College.
Giant power lines loom overhead. Wind rustles tree tops.
No one else around for miles.
"If you see one, stand still, stay calm," said Bosserman, 45. "If you fall down, then we've got a problem."
A rattle? A snake?
Nothing. Nothing except a shriveled-up, unidentifiable snake carcass.
They keep walking, watching, hoping.
The hunters
He rolls up his sleeve to reveal a right forearm that looks as if it has been blow-torched.
Or electrocuted.
Travis Labant is smiling, seemingly proud of his scar.
The hunters come in all kinds, all ages. And a few of them are like Labant, 33, a wild-eyed, fast-talking, beer-drinking, story-telling, act-before-you-think kind of guy from Potter County who knows a few things about finding snakes.
He was bitten hard three years ago, the result of a dumb stunt, he admits. A rattler he captured was scooting free and out of sight when he decided to grab the scared thing by the tail. It whipped around and laid into him with all it had.
The way Labant tells it, he was rushed to the hospital, pumped full of 40 vials of antivenin and had his heart jump-started back to life.
"One more bite, and it's curtains," he said with bravado.
He told the story, drank another beer and went out looking for more snakes.
"It's the rush," he said about finding rattlers. "You start trembling.
"And when you live in Cross Fork, there's not a whole lot to do."
Hunters like Red Lion's Bosserman and Mount Wolf's Hagerman drive four hours each June to these tiny towns in northcentral Pennsylvania for the snake hunts.
Bosserman helped get his teenage daughter, Sarah, into snake hunting. He also convinced Hagerman, his nephew, to hunt. And 15-year-old Joe Cederberg, his great-nephew.
Bosserman likes the camaraderie of it, chatting while walking through the fields and woods in small groups, looking for snakes. He likes the thrill.
"Remember the first time you kissed a girl when you were a teenager? It's the same thrill when you handle a rattlesnake. . . . The same adrenaline rush every time."
Like when he was hunting and "I felt something tugging on my leg. (The rattlesnake's) jaw was extended, and it was just hanging on my leg. Usually, they give some sort of warning. But I was just watching the venom run down my pants leg. I was shocked. If I wouldn't have had chaps on, I would have been going to the hospital."
There also was the time he and Ginny Pentz of Sunbury were hunting. Both found snakes at the same time, picked them up and were trying to figure out which one was bigger when Pentz slipped and fell.
She landed on her back. The snake landed a foot or so from her head.
"You should have seen the look on her face with that snake sitting coiled up, ready to go," Bosserman said.
It didn't strike. But, believe it or not, those are the good days, in a way. Better than a few weeks ago at Sinnemahoning when the snakes were buried snug, nowhere to be seen.
Bosserman hunted with Hagerman, who has bad knees, and Pentz, who hiked the hills with a cane because of a bad back. And with Cederberg, a sophomore at Eastern York High, a quick kid with plenty of energy to fly among the rocks after anything that moved.
For hours, they walked through fields and found only the snake carcass and a nearly 3-foot yellow garter snake, though big and feisty for a garter.
They saw raccoons and geese and a turkey. They saw elk droppings. They talked about the times they saw black bears.
But no rattlesnakes.
At least not for them.
Becky and Jason Smith, a brother and sister from Delta, hunted at Sinnemahoning, too. They finally found a few rattlesnakes in the afternoon.
They're in their mid-20s, and their uncle got them hunting a few years ago.
Growing up, the people they knew "were mostly scared of (snakes). They'd see a black snake and chop its head off," Becky Smith said. "But we went hunting and learned not to do that, to respect them. They're interesting."
Becky, 24, is a financial analyst who brings pictures of her snakes into work.
"All of the girls think I'm crazy."
The handler
Bill Wheeler Jr. has handled, hunted and carted around snakes his whole life.
He learned from his father. Bill Wheeler Sr. helped start hunts in Pennsylvania and was the first president of the Keystone Reptile Club. His wife was the club secretary, his daughter the club treasurer. The son had to learn, too.
Bill Wheeler Sr. was a tough man, the kind who would punch a nail through a 2-by-4 with his hand. Also the kind who took the time to explain to people what snakes were really about.
He grew into a snake-hunting legend from that toughness, skill and fearlessness - fearlessness created, at least in part, by drinking a lot of alcohol. He absorbed nearly two-dozen "hard" bites in his life.
"I watched everything he did. And I learned what not to do by watching him," the son said. "Not that he did everything wrong. He had a decent way of explaining things to people. But when he started doing stupid things like reaching into snake boxes and saying, 'Aw, they don't bite,' and then one would nail him. . . . After two six-packs, nobody cares (about getting bitten).
"I guess that's how the folklore started."
Bill Sr. died a year ago, but his son has been carrying on his hobby, his love, for years now.
Bill Jr. once kept 70 poisonous snakes in his York Springs home in Adams County. But his wife, Sherry, drew the line at acquiring a venom-spitting cobra. And when their two children were born, he shipped most of the snakes to a friend, though he still keeps 15 or so, enough to do reptile shows and hunts. He not only organizes the competitions but teaches to all who will listen.
He lectures children and parents about the value of snakes (keeping rodent populations in check) and the safety in dealing with them (Rule No. 1 if you've been bitten: Stay calm to keep the venom from rushing through your bloodstream).
While the hunters hunted at Sinnemahoning, Wheeler stayed at event headquarters to measure and tag the snakes, part of a Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission study. He also let the kids hold small, non-poisonous snakes.
He confidently, comfortably handled 4-foot rattlers while talking to a crowd gathered two and three deep around the "snake pit."
He watched each snake intently, carefully, even though he said up to 50 percent of bites are "dry bites," where no venom is released. "Glorified bee stings," Wheeler said.
But a life can be changed in a flash.
A decade ago, Wheeler was in a "sacking contest" - an outrageous event in which five poisonous snakes are spread out on the ground and a person must pick them up and put them in a sack as quickly as possible.
He picked up a snake and glanced away for an eye-blink. He looked back and two fangs had already sunk into his index finger and pulled away.
A western diamondback had unloaded its venom.
It burned like scalding coffee poured on an open wound.
Five vials of antivenin helped, but the entire side of Wheeler's body still swelled. His hand looked like a catcher's mitt. His skin felt like it was going to explode.
He stayed in the hospital for three days.
Black, dead tissue in his finger. Greenish-yellow blisters over his hand. Red hives covering his body.
He can crack a joke about it now.
But the crooked finger will remain forever.
The snakes
Area hunters and handlers drive so far because you can't find rattlesnakes in York County.
There used to be snake hunts in Wrightsville and near the Indian Steps Museum along the Susquehanna River. But those hunts were for copperheads, one of the other two venomous snakes found in Pennsylvania. (Massasauga rattlers are found in the extreme west and northwest areas of the state).
York Countians eventually lost interest in the hunts, and organizers stopped applying for permits.
Copperheads are typically smaller than rattlesnakes - about 3 feet long - and are often quicker and more elusive. Their bite is potent but often not as powerful as a rattler's.
Even the timber rattler's name (Crotalus horridus) gives chills.
"A copperhead is like 87 octane gas," Wheeler said. "A rattlesnake is like 92 octane."
Both are pit vipers, which means they are equipped with heat-seeking dimples just behind their nostrils. They are deaf - they can't hear their own rattle - because they have no ears. Rather, they feel the vibrations of things around them.
Timber rattlers are thick, and the males can grow quite long - up to 5 feet or so. But they are rather sluggish unless provoked by someone reaching a hand under a log or stepping on them or poking them with a snake-hunting stick.
They prefer a silent escape to confrontation and often go unnoticed because they blend in well with leaves and rocks.
Avoidance is recommended, though, since their venom can work as a neurotoxin, a cytotoxin, a hemorrhagic agent and a digestive acid. Bites can cause extreme pain, numbness, shock, blood-clotting problems, abnormal heart rhythms and tissue damage.
The good news: You're still at least three to four times more likely to die from a bee or wasp sting. Fewer than 10 people in the United States die from poisonous snake bites each year.
You'll just feel like dying.
The show
The first snake wasn't brought in to hunt headquarters until nearly 1 p.m. - five hours after hunters starting searching.
By then, the motorcycles already were lining up. The $5 sunglasses and belt vendors were selling. "The World's Deadliest Snakes Alive" sideshow truck was accepting dollar-paying customers to see a 19-foot python and a black mamba.
And the air was taking on an other-worldly smell of frying chicken tenders and overused Jiffy Johns.
No snake meat was served, though. At Pennsylvania hunts, unlike the bigger, more famous gatherings in Oklahoma and Texas, the snakes cannot be killed. Only males are allowed to be entered, and only one per day.
All must be released where they were caught.
The rules are more strict this year, but organizers claim the numbers at Sinnemahoning were down (from about 75 hunters to 55) mostly because of cool weather and forecasts of rain. Not because the shocking, enticing "sacking contests" were gone.
That's the event where Wheeler was bitten badly, the one that always drew hoards of gasping onlookers to see contestants "drink their courage," to see them get into the snake pit, to see who might be carried away in an ambulance.
They were finally shelved because of liability fears and out of some regard for the snakes. Organizers also don't have to worry about kicking out inebriated contestants anymore.
"There isn't anybody in the world who misses it more than I, but everything has to come to an end," Wheeler said. "People get sued because they spill coffee on you. I can't imagine if somebody got it in their head to sue because they got bit by a rattlesnake."
A few people complained at what they were missing but, for the most part, they still came and stared and spent their money. The sportsman's club usually clears $5,000 to $10,000 or more from the weekend, which helps fund college scholarships, youth fishing derbies and winter wildlife feeding programs.
The snake groupies still camped out and listened to a garage band blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd and George Thorogood tunes in a picnic pavilion as daylight faded behind the oaks and maples.
They saw someone bring in a 51-inch rattlesnake, the biggest of the weekend. They watched Becky Smith, the financial analyst from Delta, bring in two 64-inch non-poisonous black snakes (snakes longer than she is tall).
The hunters, like Bosserman, fared well considering that the June Sunday morning started out in the 40s, even colder than the day before. Labant led him and Hagerman and Cederberg to a high embankment covered with loose shale.
Hagerman almost stepped on a rattler without realizing it. It began buzzing.
Then another one started.
And then another.
Three rattles going at once.
"Just put goosebumps on your arms," Bosserman said. "Everything was within 100 feet. It sounded like you were in the middle of a little symphony.
"We were having a great time."
But these were female snakes, and none was big enough to return to hunt headquarters anyway.
It didn't really matter, though.
Bosserman found plenty of fern fossils.
Kids loved the rubber snake hunt and the snake race (the first non-venomous snake to the middle of the circle wins!).
No one got arrested.
No one even got bitten.
And the Cross Fork hunt was only two weeks away.
Pa.'s poisonous snakes
Timber rattlesnake
A large, thick snake, with females growing to about 40 inches and males often topping 50 inches.
Ranges in color from black to yellow to a grayish-brown. The tail is always black.
One of the most potentially dangerous snakes in the United States because of the potency of the hemotoxin in its venom.
Usually sluggish and non-confrontational unless provoked.
Found throughout the state north and west of York County. Pennsylvania holds the largest timber rattlesnake range in the Northeast.
Rattle segments are gained through each shedding, not each year. The oldest segments at the tip of the tail sometimes break off.
Can live to 30 years or older.
Copperhead
A medium-sized snake that doesn't usually grow beyond 30 to 35 inches.
Most distinctive feature is its copper- or bronze-colored head. It also uses tan, brown or rust-colored bands on its body as camouflage.
Often mistaken for the non-poisonous milk snake, northern water snake or eastern hognose snake.
Smaller, more slender and quicker than the timber rattler - though both are often found in the same areas.
The only poisonous snake found in York County.
Massasagua rattlesnake
A smaller snake that usually grows from 20 to 30 inches.
The name is derived from the Chippewa language, translating to "great river-mouth." The snake prefers wet habitats and often is called the "swamp" rattler.
Features a row of black or dark brown hourglass-shaped markings on a brownish-gray body.
Found in the west and northwest sections of the state.
Where it happens
The Landisburg Snake Hunt will be held July 14-15 at the volunteer fire department in the Perry County town, about 15 miles north of Carlisle along Route 850. Hunters will be looking for timber rattlesnakes and copperheads.
There are seven snake hunts in Pennsylvania each year:
The Sinnemahoning (Cameron County) and Morris (Tioga County) hunts are held in the beginning of June.
The Noxen hunt (Wyoming County), just north of Wilkes-Barre, is held the week after.
The Cross Fork (Potter County) and Monroeton (Bradford County) hunts are in mid-June.
The Landisburg (Perry County) hunt is in mid-July, followed by a Westmoreland County hunt near Pittsburgh at the end of the month.
The serpent seekers