Post by Roe on May 14, 2016 10:11:08 GMT -4
The only rattle snake indigenous to Michigan is the Eastern Massasauga Rattler. They seldom grow much over two feet and generally are quite timid. I kept two 10" juveniles as pets one summer when I was nine, feeding them small toads and frogs, and they were as docile as common garter snakes.
When I was 11 I spent a few summer weeks with my cousin, who was two years younger, at his grandpa's cottage. When we weren't swimming or fishing, we were wandering the surrounding woods and fields hunting just about any small critters we could find, me with my trusty Crosman BB gun, he with his bow and arrow set. On this particular afternoon, we had wandered into a farmer's old junkyard, it's glass bottles, rusty tin cans, and other long forgotten scrap offering plenty of targets for us budding marksmen. It was even complete with an abandoned 1940's-something auto.
I walked over to the rusting hulk, propped my rifle against the drivers door and turned my back to it to relieve myself. Before I was done, the sound I was making in the dry leaves was joined by a dry rattling sound behind me. When I looked over my shoulder I was shocked to see a large Massasauga had crawled out from under the car and it's wrist thick body was coiled in the short space between me and my Crosman, the rattles on it's tail nothing but a blur and it's eyes riveted on my very soul. I did my best impersonation of Chuck Berry, grabbed my dingaling, and rocketed out of there like...well...a rocket.
The large Massasauga remained within inches of the stock of my rifle, rattling the whole time. My cousin crept forward until he felt he was within range and released an arrow from his little bow. It flew just over the snake, stuck in the ground just beyond, the nock end of the arrow smacking the rattler on top of it's head. It came at us at what seemed like astonishing speed and we scattered like a covey of quail. It seemed like the snake knew who the culprit was as it was focused on my cousin, something I found both comical and comforting at the time. I ran over to the car, grabbed my rifle and shot the snake in the back of the head. Two or three more BB's put an end to the terror. My cousin retrieved his arrow and cautiously approached the still writhing form, finally pinning it's head to the ground with a close shot. As we watched the last bit of life drain from the snake, my cousin began to laugh and point. It was then I realized I had never tucked in and zipped up.
My cousin wanted to take it back to show his grandpa, but neither of us wanted to touch it. We ended up taking turns carrying it at arms length still impaled on the end of his arrow. His Grandpa took a picture of us with the snake, skinned it out and cut off the rattles. It measured just shy of three feet and in the 46 years since I've never seen one bigger. That black and white picture, the skin, and the rattles sat on their fireplace mantle for many years until all was lost in a fire.
Roe
When I was 11 I spent a few summer weeks with my cousin, who was two years younger, at his grandpa's cottage. When we weren't swimming or fishing, we were wandering the surrounding woods and fields hunting just about any small critters we could find, me with my trusty Crosman BB gun, he with his bow and arrow set. On this particular afternoon, we had wandered into a farmer's old junkyard, it's glass bottles, rusty tin cans, and other long forgotten scrap offering plenty of targets for us budding marksmen. It was even complete with an abandoned 1940's-something auto.
I walked over to the rusting hulk, propped my rifle against the drivers door and turned my back to it to relieve myself. Before I was done, the sound I was making in the dry leaves was joined by a dry rattling sound behind me. When I looked over my shoulder I was shocked to see a large Massasauga had crawled out from under the car and it's wrist thick body was coiled in the short space between me and my Crosman, the rattles on it's tail nothing but a blur and it's eyes riveted on my very soul. I did my best impersonation of Chuck Berry, grabbed my dingaling, and rocketed out of there like...well...a rocket.
The large Massasauga remained within inches of the stock of my rifle, rattling the whole time. My cousin crept forward until he felt he was within range and released an arrow from his little bow. It flew just over the snake, stuck in the ground just beyond, the nock end of the arrow smacking the rattler on top of it's head. It came at us at what seemed like astonishing speed and we scattered like a covey of quail. It seemed like the snake knew who the culprit was as it was focused on my cousin, something I found both comical and comforting at the time. I ran over to the car, grabbed my rifle and shot the snake in the back of the head. Two or three more BB's put an end to the terror. My cousin retrieved his arrow and cautiously approached the still writhing form, finally pinning it's head to the ground with a close shot. As we watched the last bit of life drain from the snake, my cousin began to laugh and point. It was then I realized I had never tucked in and zipped up.
My cousin wanted to take it back to show his grandpa, but neither of us wanted to touch it. We ended up taking turns carrying it at arms length still impaled on the end of his arrow. His Grandpa took a picture of us with the snake, skinned it out and cut off the rattles. It measured just shy of three feet and in the 46 years since I've never seen one bigger. That black and white picture, the skin, and the rattles sat on their fireplace mantle for many years until all was lost in a fire.
Roe
