Rattlesnake!

The following is a true account of an unusual rattlesnake encounter my family and I had while camping and prospecting for gold in the Sierra Nevada foothills.

Since first becoming an independent gold prospecting miner in the late 1970s, I’ve spent lots of time camping, hiking, prospecting, and mining gold in backcountry (bush) environments.

It wasn’t unusual for me to encounter various snake species, including rattlesnakes. Sometimes I went weeks and longer without running into a single rattler. Conversely, I encountered numerous buzztails within yards of each other twice while hiking in remote areas. Thankfully, however, over the average year of prospecting, I faced off with but a few. Close calls did happen—but seldom.

Judging from my experience, rattlesnakes can be defensive and aggressive when surprised, but when given a chance to back off safely—they usually do. Whenever possible, I give them all the space they need and walk around them. When I have no other option, I do what needs to be done.

Once while out prospecting, I skinned, fried, and ate one—didn’t like it. It left a nasty aftertaste that lingered on and on. Maybe that was because of the way I fried it, no flower for breading and, other than salt and pepper, no seasoning.

While most of my rattlesnake encounters were unremarkable, there were exceptions. One that stands out occurred back in the 1980s when I was regularly away from home prospecting and sniping for gold.

Back then I was married and living about 10 miles from the site of John Sutter’s Mill where, in 1848, the California Gold Rush was ignited by the discovery of the first shimmering nuggets of gold found in the mill’s tailrace.

One morning as I was getting my gear together for a gold-sniping venture to a remote section of one of my favorite Sierra Nevada gold-bearing creeks, my wife, Rita, decided she’d like to pack in with me for a week. I was all for it. Joe, my 11-year-old stepson, would be coming too. Fantastic!

A couple of days later, with bulging packs strapped to our backs and Henry, our rambunctious German shepherd, bounding ahead, we descended into a deep canyon via a long, steep, seldom-used oldtimer’s trail that ended on a rocky bank of our chosen auriferous stream.

The mid-summer heat was intense. By the time we reached the water, a layer of trail dust had caked over the beads of sweat that coated our hands and faces.

We dropped our packs, rinsed off, and savored a long refreshing drink directly from the stream. Henry splashed around in the water to cool off.

*Science and common sense recommend the filtering of all untreated water before drinking. That’s good practice, but I seldom adhered to it (twice to my profound regret).

After a brief respite, we began the arduous upstream hike to the spot I’d picked for our campsite. Almost immediately, we arrived at the bottom of a vertical 90-foot waterfall. The streambed at the falls was contained between towering, sheer rock faces.

We were boxed in. Absent a helicopter, there was only one way to get above the falls. Carefully, we inched up the narrow footpath the old-timers had carved into the vertical canyon wall on the right side of the falls over a hundred years before.

On that trail, some 60 feet above the creek, a knob of bedrock jutted out, partially blocking our already narrow path. One slip and fall would be game over. A faint rainbow arched through the clouds of spray and mist swirling out from the plunging waters of the falls. A good omen?

Always in the lead, Henry, built low to the ground and having “4-wheel” drive, scooted smoothly under the knob. However, for Rita and Joe, being it was their first go at it, I knew it had to seem risky.

Since I had skirted the falls many times, I went before them to show my technique. To their credit, they followed without hesitation and shimmied past the knob like they had been doing it all their lives.

Once we were above the falls, the canyon bottom widened. We bushwhacked along the banks between the stream’s edges and the canyon’s walls. Several times we waded through the creek to the other side when it offered easier passage. From their shaded hideouts along the way, pesky mosquitos and noseeums swarmed out of the bushes to attack us.

At last, hungry, tuckered, itching and scratching, we arrived at the sandy flat that I had marked as a perfect campsite the last time I had prospected in the canyon. Being wide, flat, 4 feet above the streambed, and not too brushy or boulder-strewn, it was a rare piece of real estate.

We dropped our packs and stretched out on the warm, soft sand for a breather. Once rested, we gulped down peanut butter sandwiches and got busy.

Rita, no stranger to roughing it, certainly knew how to make the most of life in the boonies, and little Joe was a quick study and eager to help. Working together, we set up a cozy camp in mere minutes.

Watching Rita and Joe scurry merrily about laughing and carefree while helping to put camp in order made me realize just how lucky I was to have them with me. It was an awesome treat (a welcome departure from my usual soloist ventures).

That night, under a crystal clear, star-studded sky, we snuggled up to our campfire and skewered marshmallows on green twigs to roast them over the coals. Henry (Henrietta), determined to get her share, whined, nudged, and cajoled until she succeeded.

Our shadows danced around us in the firelight as we laughed and sang our favorite ballads. Before tucking in for the night, we welcomed a yellow moon as it edged into view over the ridgetop.

Throughout our stay, Rita read her paperbacks, sunbathed, hiked, and panned for gold when she wasn’t busy feeding us or tending camp. Joe panned a little too, but spent most of his time fishing.

For bait, our pint-sized angler overturned rocks and boulders in the streambed to collect the hellgrammites hiding beneath.

Each day, he reeled in fresh rainbow and brown trout. And each evening, he proudly handed over a fresh string of fish to Rita to season and roast on the fire. Tasty!

I dedicated my days to bringing in the gold. One afternoon, after gulping lunch, I jumped immediately back into the creek to continue sniping.

Shortly thereafter, with my head underwater and breathing through a snorkel, I was cleaning out a jagged, gravel-packed crevice in the bedrock on the bottom of the stream.

My attention was riveted on separating and collecting the shimmering little flakes and chunks of gold that were mixed in with the rusty square nails, lead bullets, and other metal artifacts that had wedged into the crevice along with the hard-packed gravel.

To this day, metal remnants of the past, often dating back to the gold rush era and usually of little value, are frequently extricated from gold-bearing streams in California by modern-day gold seekers. Not rare, but less commonly found, are coins of the same period. And of those coins, Chinese, copper-alloyed, square-holed coins predominate.

Joe had fished his way up the creek to where I was sniping; my head was underwater, and unbeknownst to me, he was standing on the bank watching me work.

“Jason!” he suddenly screamed. “Look behind you in the water—rattlesnake!” Startled, I jerked up to see him gesticulating wildly with his fishing pole.

“Bullshit!” I grumbled. I had encountered water snakes in the water many times, but never a rattler. Joe had to be mistaken—either that or the little cuss was pranking me.

However, there actually was a rattlesnake in the water (sorry, Joe!), and it was floating on the surface—a mere two feet from my face. I judged it to be 2 ½ feet long. Apparently, it had floated into my little eddy while I had been working, blissfully unaware.

The soaked, black feathered body of a bird was protruding from the snake’s mouth; its head was inside the snake. The animals were locked together and not moving. I poked them with my crevice tool. No reaction. It was plain to see they were both dead—but not long dead.

While still standing in three feet of water, I grabbed a hold of the reptile’s middle with one hand and tugged on the bird with the other. The amount of force required to extract the bird’s head from the jaws of the snake astonished me.

Upon examination, it become obvious why it had lodged like a dagger in the snake’s craw. The bird’s beak was long and sharply curved. What species was it? Heck, I don’t know; I’m not an ornithologist (it was a bird).

“Well, looks like he bit off more than he could chew!” Joe chortled.

“Yeah,” I laughed, “that oughta learn him!”

And Joe had it right. The rattler had bitten off more than he could handle. It must have attacked the bird on the creek bank near the water’s edge, where the bird had probably been feeding on insects.

I assume that after striking and immobilizing the bird, the reptile attempted to swallow it headfirst (normal practice); however, unfortunately for the buzztail, the bird’s beak snagged tight in its gullet. In a panic, it must have thrashed wildly about, slid into the water and drowned while striving to upchuck the prey that was so firmly lodged in its gullet.

I’ll never forget that week spent camping and working together in the bush with my family. It was special. Our bizarre rattlesnake incident contributed to that.

The first time I put this story on paper (a few years ago), Joe made the following comment: “Wow! That’s pretty much exactly how I have told that story for 20+ years. The last time, being not more than a couple of weeks ago.”