A Thousand Rattles Underfoot

Did you ever play that game as a kid where you had to pretend the floor was made of lava? The couches and other furniture were little islands, impervious to the magma flow, offering floating oases. Now imagine being an adult and facing a similar situation while out observing wildlife. Substitute lava for deadly pit vipers, and couches for loose, crumbling boulders. With that picture in mind, welcome to one of my misadventures with some spicy fauna.

After a late-night phone call with a good friend and snake mentor of mine, I was invited to observe some timber rattlesnake dens in an area I hadn’t visited before. I jumped at the chance. My friend Zach has been showing me the wonders of the serpent world for about twenty years. I first met him in high school when he gave a presentation on venomous snakes to our natural resources class. That talk stuck with me, since I was already passionate about snakes. A few years later, we reconnected at a reptile show, and he gave me his contact info. Since then, our friendship has been priceless.

I’ve learned so much from his hands-on experience and seen incredible things in nature that I never would have encountered otherwise. I held my first venomous snake (a large cottonmouth) with him behind the camera when I was eighteen and fresh out of basic training. I saw my first pygmy rattlesnake with him in the sandhills of North Carolina, and countless other “firsts.” So when Zach invited me to a new rattlesnake den, it was a no-brainer. Little did I know this trip would be one for the record books. My previous experiences with timber rattlesnake dens had been small rocky outcrops in the Uwharrie National Forest, usually with fewer than five snakes basking.

This particular journey began early, as I waited at a Starbucks for Zach to pick me up. Since I live roughly halfway to our destination, it was a convenient meeting point. This area was north and west of where we usually herp. The terrain was steeper, craggier, and far more montane than the Piedmont hills I was used to. After a dizzying ride through winding back roads, I stumbled out of the car queasy from motion sickness. We had arrived.

The climb was brutal. I lumbered up the steep incline, resting often—partly because I’m out of shape and partly because the mountain was so steep it required scrambling. At times, it felt like ropes might have been necessary. Zach, meanwhile, bounded up the slope like a mountain goat, while I gasped for breath behind him. Finally reaching the ridgeline, I saw what looked like massive piles of rubble. This ridge housed hundreds, maybe thousands, of Timber Rattlesnakes (Crotalus horridus) hidden among rocks of all sizes—from gravel to car-sized boulders. It looked like dump trucks had abandoned debris for miles. Over millennia, weathering and erosion had created this unique, seemingly hostile habitat. To rattlesnakes, though, it was perfect.

Walking across the boulders was treacherous. You never knew if a rock would support your weight or shift into a slide. Each step had to be calculated, but even then, some boulders moved. The terrifying part wasn’t just the risk of falling—it was that under most of those rocks, a rattlesnake could be waiting.

Several times, I stepped on shifting boulders and was jolted by the unmistakable buzz of alarmed rattlesnakes. The sound rose all around me, vibrating through the rocks, through the air—through me. In those moments, I frantically tried to locate the source. Was the snake under me? Beside me? Poised to strike where my hand was about to land? Nothing sharpens your focus on foot placement like the risk of a necrotic bite.

After we had seen and heard about twenty-five rattlesnakes—which, according to Zach, was a “bad” day—I started to get nervous. As I looked up the slope, I saw snakes coiled beneath rocks above me. That’s when the cooler-sized boulder I was standing on suddenly shifted. I lost my balance, twisting as I fell face-first down the hill. My chest, knees, and hands slammed into rocks. Graceful, I am not.

Before I even registered the pain, I was back on my feet, catlike, balancing on new boulders. My heart pounded, my knees shook, and I prayed, “Lord, please don’t let me have landed on a viper.” Miraculously, I had only a few scratches and bruises—and no snakes in striking distance.

Once the shock wore off, the soreness set in. But I was grateful: no venom in my veins, no broken bones. It was a miracle. At that point, my mission shifted from naturalist to clumsy survivor. I scooted on my butt down the steep slope, passing piles of black bear scat along the way. My mind raced. “How many things up here want to kill me?”

Rattlesnakes typically congregate in the fall at rocky outcroppings that serve as communal dens for the winter. They gather there twice a year: in late fall as they arrive from miles around, and again in spring as they emerge from hibernation. Outside of denning and breeding, they live mostly solitary lives.

Even though I risked a very real bite that day, I couldn’t have blamed the snakes. I was in their territory, invading their space. I’d probably react the same way if someone stomped through my house. And even with the danger, the chance to see these beautiful animals in their natural habitat was worth it—at least, that’s what I told myself once I was safely back in Zach’s truck. I promptly crashed and slept the entire ride back to Starbucks.

Rattlesnakes are a vital part of the ecosystem. Their removal would trigger a catastrophic ripple effect. They benefit humans by controlling rats and mice, which spread diseases like Lyme disease. Their venom, while dangerous in its natural state, shows promise in life-saving medicines. Proteins and enzymes derived from pit viper venom have been used to treat hypertension, heart disease, renal disease in diabetic patients, strokes, and even certain cancers. They’re part of nature’s checks and balances. If we can see their beauty and understand their role, perhaps future generations will enjoy them in the wild. We shouldn’t villainize what we don’t understand. Snakes are great—just keep a safe distance.

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker currently living in Bethania, North Carolina with his wife Jess and their house full of animals. He split his time growing up between chasing wildlife and screaming on stages in hardcore bands you’ve never heard of. He has been published by Dead Reckoning Collective, The Havok Journal, Reptiles Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, and many others. He filmed and directed a documentary called “Hammer Down” about his 2005 deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in with Alpha Battery 5-113^th of the NC Army National Guard. You can find his books, collected works, and social media accounts at www.stanlakecreates.com

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.