Abby and I drove about a half mile into one of the nearby State Parks, past a large swamp, and parked the car near the head of a one-mile pine forest trail. It was one of those beautiful not-a-cloud-in-the-sky kind of days, and although we were in Florida, it was a pleasant 75 degrees. Abby and I walked for a bit, admiring the palm fronds and stepping over many tree roots that wound throughout the crushed seashell path. We even found a log and propped the camera on it to take this picture:
It was one of those rare, sweet moments when Abby and I actually had time to talk, listen to the birds, and admire the dappled sunlight on the foliage. As we continued down the path, I noticed a rather large tree root up ahead in a patch of sun. As we got closer, we realized it was a beautiful black and grey spotted snake sunning itself.
We approached slowly and quietly, and I seized the "teachable moment" to talk to Abby about respecting nature. As we got closer, the lounging reptile raised its head and creened its neck around to examine us. It looked at me, then moved its well-defined triangular-shaped head to take in Abby. It held our gaze until we moved on.
"Isn't that amazing," I said to Abby, "that it knows to look at our faces. Not only are we different species, but we're hundreds of times taller than it is." Abby and I admired the stunning patterns on its head and stalky body, and continued down the path having peacefully and respectfully engaged with nature.
The trail dead-ended and we headed back from whence we'd come. In the distance a dog was barking wildly. As we turned a corner in the path, we could see an older woman trying desperately to control her golden retriever. We walked cautiously past our scaly, snoozing friend, and told the woman what was ahead. "Oh, that explains it," she said being pulled forward by the strength of her pet, "He eats 'em all the time. Just yesterday he caught a big one in the kitchen of our trailer," and she leaned forward to unleash the dog.
Abby, our nature-loving, fairy house-building, animal-adoring child looked up at me in horror with a face that said, "You're not going to let them kill the snake, are you, Mama?" The woman clearly didn't see anything wrong with letting her dog have at it, so I offered to move the snake for her.
Now to truly appreciate this gesture on my part, we must flash back to last November, when, during a field trip with my Girl Scout troop, I looked a life-long fear straight in the eye. After 40 years of really, really, really despising snakes, I held a 4-ft long Ball Python for several minutes to prove to myself, and my onlooking Scouts and anxiety-ridden daughter, that just because you're afraid of something doesn't mean it is dangerous.
I'm still not too keen on these creatures, but I must admit I haven't looked at snakes the same way since. But now, when Abby begs to go into the reptile house at the zoo, we both go in and pet whatever snake is being handled that day.
Back to Florida.
"Sure, if you want," the woman says, "but there's plenty of them things around." So, with Abby looking proudly up at me, I picked up the longest stick I could find, (about 18 inches) and walked back to the snake. Abby followed. About 20 feet behind us, the dog continuted to go bezerk.
I dragged the stick on the ground as I approached and waited to see if the snake would move. It didn't. I stood behind the snake and scraped the stick on the seashell path. Still no reaction. I gently nudged the end of its two-foot long body closest to me and it slowly raised and turned its head to see what dared disturb its nap. "Look," I said out loud for Abby's benefit, "I'm not trying to bother you, I'm just trying to help you out. That dog is going to tear you to bits if you don't get off this path." Still nothing.
So, I continued to gently nudge the snake, fixated on its stunning head and penetrating eyes. It moved only slightly each time I touched it, and eventually, after about five pokes, it reluctantly slithered into the woods.
Feeling like I'd done the righteous thing by both the snake and my daughter, we made our way back to the car and headed home.
At home, I decided to stretch the "teachable moment" as much as possible, and looked up the snake. We'd taken a picture of it when we first saw it. Meet "Sisturus miliarius barbouri"...
...better known as the Dusky Pigmy Rattlesnake. Only after I'd uploaded the photo and enlarged its tail did I see the rattle, clear as day. I'd been so taken aback by the snake's pointed stare, I hadn't even looked at the tail.
As I read on, I started crying, horrified that I'd been so stupid. We were 1/2 a mile from our car, a mile's drive from the road, and the road was in the middle of nowhere. I didn't even know the name of the park we were in if we'd needed to call for help. And I had my 7-year-old in tow!
Here's what I learned: The Dusky Pygmy Rattlesnake is prevalent throughout Florida and is the most commonly found venemous snake in the state. It likes lowland pine flatwoods, near prairies, lakes, ponds, and swamps.
This snake has a reputation for being very aggressive. Its bite, while usually not life threatening, is extremely painful and can result in the loss of a digit. Some cases can be fatal. It feeds primarily on frogs and mice.
The Dusky Pygmy Rattlesnake will first play dead when approached. If it continues to perceive a threat, it will shake its rattle, however the rattle is so small it is seldom heard. When it is heard, it sounds like an insect buzzing, and in the Florida swamplands its usually inaudible over the hum of all the other insects.
So, I give thanks for the patience and wisdom of my reptilian sister. She is a hell of a lot smarter than I. She recognized that rather than being a threat, I was an ignorant human being arrogantly assuming I was being helpful. In the end, the lesson Abby learned from my stupidity was one I never saw coming.
No comments:
Post a Comment