Curiously, when Marcy suddenly sounded like Curly in “We Want Our Mummy,” I thought back to a phone conversation we’d had last fall. I was on the Appalachian Trail, she was in our Cary backyard. I was in the wild, she was in suburbia. I was lounging at my campsite in the woods having tea, she was trying to figure out what to do with the four-foot copperhead sunning on our back deck. Subsequent Googling suggested that the sizable snake was likely a pregnant mama looking for a place to hunker down for the winter after giving birth — to as many as 14 slithering offspring. Marcy’s yelp this suggested that she had found said offspring.
Humina-humina-humina …
Sure enough, under the sixth of 10 wooden steps leading up to the pool was the distinctive desert camouflage of a curled copperhead. Marcy had made it up to the fifth step and was going for six when she noticed a portion of the snake where her foot was headed.
Humina-humina-humina …
Once we’d retreated to a safe distance and the adrenaline had settled, Marcy let it be known that she’d like the snake gone. I looked around; she was addressing to me.
She had a point. We have kids, after all, and while the copperhead’s bite usually isn’t fatal to people, it can cause a world of hurt, destroying tissue and causing infection. According to the N.C. State Cooperative Extension Service Web site on copperheads, “North Carolina has the dubious distinction of the most venomous snake bites of any state in the U.S.” However, in the very next passage, “Many of these bites could be prevented by avoiding the snake instead of trying to kill it or pick it up. Avoid Copperhead snakes! Allow it to go on its way undisturbed.”
Live and let live!
The news got evening better: “All the snake species tested have had the same initial response to human presence. If given the opportunity, they escape …”
But then, the site added, most venomous snakes will give a warning if they feel threatened: the rattlesnake raises its rattle and gives a shake, the cottonmouth opens its mouth wide. It’s not a warning that it is about to strike; rather, a warning that it would like to be left alone. The copperhead, unfortunately, is different. “Most copperheads tested have struck out immediately when they felt threatened.”
So … . Any thoughts on how to evict a copperhead? Or 14?
Wow! And I thought living in Oregon was an adventure. This clearly outranks the time I got a phone call from my wife (standing on a chair) shouting that I come home and remove the garter snake that the cat dragged in the house.
I should note here that Marcy’s reaction was far more measured than mine would have been had it been me nearly stepping on the copperhead. Years ago I went out with hiking guru Allen de Hart to scout a trail near Jordan Lake. Up ahead we spotted a hog-nosed snake, a snake that as we edged closer rose like a python and menacingly flicked it’s tongue in our general direction. Allen, fascinated, edged closer; I made like a Flintsone and ran in place for several seconds before disappearing in the opposite direction (a change of shorts may have been involved as well, I can’t remember). That’s about as Jim Fowler as I care to get.
OMG. Joe… your wife is one brave soul. Growing up in Florida, I got accustomed to rattlers and gators, but usually you know they’re lurking. There’s just something about a copperhead that is unsettling. And baby copperheads?! Yuck! Think that’s when you call in your friends at wildlife control! 🙂