The River (Part 2 of 3)
Chupacabras, sasquatches, and prison escapees weren’t our only concerns when paddling the Atascosa River back in the day. There were snakes, too – lots of them.
They liked to hang out on the limbs and in the bushes along the riverbanks. We often saw them, but more often than not, we heard them.
You know, you can tell a lot about something by the sound it makes when it contacts water.
For example, every kid knows the sound of a skipping rock, for just as one feels compelled to pray in a church, so too is a kid compelled to skip rocks along a water’s edge.
When dropped straight in, a rock has a different sound – a very distinctive plop, or kerploosh, depending on its size.
Similarly, the sound of a fish slapping the water is well-known by fishermen and music to their ears.
A snake entering the water also makes its own unique sound – kind of a subtle “plip-plop”.
Most of the snakes we encountered around our little stretch of river were diamondback water snakes.
The diamondback water snake is a dark brown, somewhat aggressive, non-venomous snake that bears a striking resemblance to the dark brown, very aggressive and very venomous cottonmouth moccasin. Cottonmouths were allegedly native to our area, but I don’t know if we ever had a confirmed sighting.
We just made it a point to stay well away from all snakes.
Growing up, my brother Jay and I made a competition out of everything, and we were highly critical of the other’s performance what- e v e r endeavor we undertook together, even paddling a boat.
One day when we were teenagers, Jay and I set out in a little 12-foot Jon boat to set some lines in the Atascosa River behind our grandparents’ house. I was seated in front, and Jay was in the back.
Jay wasn’t having a good day steering the boat.
We slammed our way upriver from one bush to the next. I was rather put out with his inability to paddle straight, and didn’t mind telling him so. As I turned my head back over my right shoulder to berate him on his latest paddling blunder, I felt the bow thud into the bank as another bush slapped me in the face.
Only this bush was different; it hissed. I turned back to my left and found myself face to face with a dark brown snake.
It was kind of like that scene in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” with Indiana Jones and that cobra, or at least that’s how I remember it.
When a snake is that close, you don’t take the time to observe the tell-tale characteristics that might help in positively identifying the species and determining its venomous or nonvenomous status.
You either kill the dang thing or somehow get away from it as quickly as possible. We had left the pistol we used for killing back at the truck, so I chose the “somehow get away from it” option.
Placing the end of my oar firmly into the riverbank, I pushed off with all I had and kicked the bow out and away from the snake.
Thankfully, this worked like a charm and the snake subtly went plip-plop into the river, unidentified and never to be seen again.
“You should have seen your face!” my brother said as he bent over laughing. “Do we need to go home so you can change your drawers?”
I couldn’t help but join in on the laughter. After taking a moment to allow me to compose myself, we continued paddling and crashing on up the river.
I don’t remember if we caught any fish, but I’ll never forget that snake.
To be continued…
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