BATTLE CREEK INQUIRER (Michigan) 23 September 06 Snake tales (Sandy Carlson)
I want to hear some Michigan snake tales. I know there are snakes around here. I just haven't had the privilege to run into one in the wild. Oh, I've seen and touched them when herbatologists came to the Binder Park Zoo last summer. Beautiful critters; glistening without being wet. But I have yet to see one in the Michigan wilds.
I remember a snake at my grandparents' farm in southern Ohio. Its body stretched across the entire 15-foot width of the front porch. When we swam in the cow pond, one of us kids would stand guard to watch for water moccasins sharing our swimming hole. There was more than one occasion we were glad we'd posted a guard.
One time I took a solitary dawn walk out a grassy narrow peninsula into the Wisconsin River. I was looking upward toward the bluffs when a rustling sound made me look foot-ward. About five bullsnakes slithered across the path. I spun to make the quick return trip to the campground, only to discover the entire path was snake-filled. You really don't know until you need to that, in a panic, one can dash three feet above the ground.
Same trip, a park ranger told us of a friend who went into her basement to do laundry after a wet week. The single light bulb was at the far corner near the machines. When she pulled it on, the floor lit up with writhing bullsnakes seeking dry ground.
It was usually yours truly who had the honor of spotting the snakes first on wilderness hikes. Before I learned their true nature, I used to shout, "Snake!" and high-step away as my husband and boys breezed past, saying, "Where?"
An airplane pilot told me of a time in Georgia wetlands where several pilots went night fishing in small boats, taking guns as well as rods, supposedly for the crocks. My friend heard a gun pop, then a soft: "Help." Apparently, one of their friends fishing near the shore had a snake drop from the overhanging tree into his boat. He sure enough killed that snake, and also his boat.
Once while my husband sawed fallen trees off a fenceline in South Dakota, I wandered through the woods. As I climbed into a ravine, my hiking stick went into a brush pile for support. I heard a rattle, then quickly pulled my stick out. The rattling stopped. No snake in sight.
The first thing one is taught to do when dealing with rattle snakes is to freeze until you are certain of its direction, and only then, back away. There was dead brush all around me, and as snakes are family critters, sisters or brothers might just be listening nearby. I put my hiking stick back into the brush to be sure of the direction. Rattle. I lifted my stick. The rattling stopped. A smile slowly crept across my face. Down went my stick. Rattle. Up went my stick. Silence. I played with the unseen snake a few more minutes before the thought struck me that being practically alone in the woods, Mama Rattler might not think our game of tag too awfully amusing.
My one and only Michigan snake tale is second-hand from when friend Lori was quite small. Her brother presented her with a wonderful, living necklace, so that she'd learn not be afraid of snakes. And she isn't.
So where are other Michigan snaky tales?

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