Pop and the Big Snake

Little knees pushed the thick undergrowth aside as they made their way along the bank through the brambles. However not far ahead he lay in waiting. Coiled. Poised. Ready to strike. His tongue repeating so often to get a sense of what was coming his way. Coiled, his head rested on the third wrap of his body. He was a canebrake or to a savvy farmer he was a Timber Rattle snake in the lowland phase.

Instead of being gray and brown he was more wickedly colored. He looked like a pine branch, which had been left scarred from a forest burn. From his tail up 6 or 7 inches he was black. Also along his sides, dirty black lined the lightning stripe pattern of its body. The largely uncommon sized snake's green eyes did not blink just above the deadly accessory of his pits. A very resolute brown line emerged from the base of his head and ran along the ridgeline of his back until it disappeared into the shadow of the black tail. To the hapless rabbit or field rat he was a silent legless predator; his venom powerful enough to kill a rodent within a minute. To a young child his bite could sink deep into soft flesh causing almost instant skin decay. But the poison would not stop there. With a raging heart the venom would send the small person into shock and eventual death if medical care were not prompt and immediate. A grandparent of the farm’s worst nightmare.

"Pete, you need to come back over here, now." Pop hollered. The child stopped quickly just feet from the devil. The big snake rattled softly only for his rattle's dry bean sound to be drowned out by the gurgling creek and the crunchy leaves being pressed by a collie sniffing to find what dogs sniff to find. Summer had allowed the birch leaves near the creek to settle and fresh jade green undergrowth to establish a micro covering to that of the tall standing hardwoods along its side. A gentle early summer breeze danced shadows under the canopy. To a small child the covered area along the narrow branch seemed mystical. The kaleidoscope of colors and sound meshed to make the corner of the creek dream like.


I was familiar with the trip to the creek. Most of our summer days were spent at the creek. We would sit where the creek made a sharp turn and several large hardwood trees leaned lazily overt the water. The shade provided was cool. At their base were exposed roots that made pockets for reclining at the bank’s overhang. We would sit for what seemed like hours catching bream, warmouth bass, and suckers. An occasional mud cat would find our hooks. Pop handled them.

But this day I grew tired of waiting on a worm’s fate and the red/white cork to jerk. He knew I was ready to go. I sat out first up the shaded rise along the bank. Little did I know of the danger.

Our trip at its end, Pop caught up with me and herded me to the old ’53 Chevy. It was blue. Chrome. As we walked over to car parked on the edge of the pipeline clearing the dog began to bark. Lady, a light brown and white collie mix had something at bay. From past experience Pop knew it could only be a snake.

Hearing her bark frequency increase he propped the two fishing poles against the bumper. He opened the door and told me firmly to stay seated in the car and for me not to move until he saw what lady was making a fuss over. His turn toward the creek greenery that we had emerged from was deliberate. His gait was faster, and troubled. Seconds later he reemerged from the dark green shadows only to have accelerated his intentions.

As he approached the car I stood in the seat leaning my head sideways to look upward at his face. In a quick breath he said calmly, “Lady, has a big ol snake pinned against the base of a tree near the creek. I threw an ol rotten stick at it but it didn’t hurt it. It’s gonna git away.”

He quickly retrieves a pitchfork from the back seat of the sedan. It had four tines and half a handle.

“You stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

Once again the shadows of greens and browns sucked him back over the rise. Knowing his adversary, I cheered over the sharp staccato bark of the collie.

“Gitt’m Pop! Git that mean ol snake. Gitt’m Pop!”

I cheered for the longest time it seemed and then slowly he appeared. To his side trotted Lady panting, with her nose held high to the long still moving serpent hanging from a tine. Pierced through the head, the canebrake was as long as he was tall.

My eyes were wide as he passed with heavy breath and slung the snake, fork and all straddle the trunk lid of the car.