16 September 2013

Rattlesnake Falls

This episode comes by way of teaching my students to use tangible details to establish setting.  They also wanted to know if I had ever had an encounter with a dangerous animal.  And here you have both:

My legs needed some space; sixteen-year-olds do not belong with two brothers in the back seat of a minivan.  Even after I would push one of them under the seat so I could spread out a smidgen, the overflow of luggage that spilled from the back invaded my space.

The constant droning of the siblings didn't make the journey any easier.  The family had been on the road for a few days, driving from Illinois down to Arkansas and back up through Missouri.  We had already traveled five or six hours that day, heading for Lake of the Ozarks to relax and get away and enjoy the outdoors.  However, getting away from the sweaty, stickiness hanging in the air seemed impossible.  I was bored and sweaty.  My Discman batteries had died.  Reading was not an option.  Midwestern stuffiness killed the air conditioner’s attempt to circulate.  The aftertaste of Funyuns kicking around created a new-found carsick tendency deep inside my abdomen.  The corn chipness that was David’s feet only made it worse.  The overripe wad of watermelon Bubbalicious that Nicole smacked didn't help either; she reminded me of the countless farms of cud-chewers we had passed along the way.

The four Mountain Dew refills from lunch at Taco Bell (Toxic Hell) started to take their toll.  I wasn't sure how much more I could take.  My innards bounced up and down wooded hills, around hidden curves; the drive continued.  On and on.  And on.  And on.  My bladder and my stomach both called dibs on blowing first.

And then Dad stopped unexpectedly, pulling onto a little gravel shoulder overlooking a narrow, green valley in the middle of a somewhat rocky deciduous forest.  Without hesitating, I ripped off my seat belt and yanked open the side door, leaving vacation exploded in my wake.  I could breathe again.  Sure, I was drinking the humidity in gulps, and I was perspiring like a fat man in a sauna, but at least it was clean air.

I decided to give myself some space—and privacy—so I hobbled through the woods to the edge of an outcropping.  A shallow gorge lay in front of me.  Without the urgency and pressure I felt and more time to explore, I would have jumped the six or seven feet to the bottom, but as it was, nature was calling, and refused to leave a message.

The relief was instantaneous.  Taking my time, taking a leak, I took in the surroundings that I hadn't noticed before: insects hummed, birds sang, a large afternoon thunderhead rolled in.  As I finished up my business, zipped, and turned to leave, I thought I heard something coming from the gully.  A scratching sound like twigs dragged through leaves.

Standing from where I had just whizzed, I glanced down and saw my puddle.  Then I froze.  Three thick feet of the back end of a timber rattlesnake slowly slithered away from the wetness and under the jagged rocks I happened to be standing on.  My eyes followed the body, abundant as a Hickory Farms summer sausage, its dark gray and black and brown diamonds tapering down its tail as it disappeared from sight.  Not quite six feet directly below me.


The shiver did not come from the oncoming storm winds, nor did it arise from the raindrops that stared to fall.  The heebie jeebies full-on raced up my right leg, spasmed me silly, and sped down the left.  My body streaked to the van, more than content to be confined in its restrictive space.  I still shudder whenever I think of how close that reptile slithered without me knowing it.

However, it wasn't until I read an early draft of this to a seventh grade class, that what I had inadvertently done hit me: “Mr. Anson, you really peed on a rattlesnake?”

Apparently I had.

No comments:

Post a Comment

I think I'll post a little writing every so often...some polished...some rough. And I welcome any comments or criticisms or cupcakes you care to throw my way.