Read part one HERE
As the week progressed, it became evident that little was to go as planned. The dogs didn’t find any turtles the second day and the weather forecast for the rest of the week dropped into the forties, too cold for reptiles to move. “55°F is the minimum temperature at which the turtles will remain active,” Marcel explained. It looked like we would lose half our search days to bad weather.
As the week progressed, it became evident that little was to go as planned. The dogs didn’t find any turtles the second day and the weather forecast for the rest of the week dropped into the forties, too cold for reptiles to move. “55°F is the minimum temperature at which the turtles will remain active,” Marcel explained. It looked like we would lose half our search days to bad weather.
Coordinating with John and our various volunteers was chaotic. John got his van stuck in the mud, and later, insisted we pull off the highway so he could move a dead deer. Downed trees blocked the road, volunteers didn't answer their phones, and the thermometer had us constantly checking for updates. “Ecology is all about adapting,” Marcel reminded me with a smile.
The biggest shock of the week happened while searching a field in our control site. The weather had surprised us with clear skies and cool but adequate temperatures. The dogs were running and had already found us four turtles, three juveniles and a large female. Marcel and I were ecstatic; we hadn't expected to find a thing. Suddenly, all four dogs converged on one patch of tall grass. Their behaviors changed. Instead of searching confidently, tails wagging, they grew nervous and jumpy, ears cocked back in agitation.
John knew immediately what they had found. “Do you have venomous snakes here?” he demanded. “Well yes, but they are incredibly rare,” Marcel replied. Wide eyed, I walked over, watching the dogs fervently. John took her snake stick and began ripping away the brush. “Well maybe they didn’t find—Copperhead!” he shouted. “Grab a dog! Don’t let them get close!” The dogs had taken off into a whirlwind of excitement, leaping past us, trying to get at the snake. I tried to grab Mink’s collar, but she was too quick. She leapt dangerously close to the viper before John was able to get hold of her. I looked up—everyone but myself held a dog; at my feet lay Marcel’s snake stick.
Slowly, I peered over the hole in the grass that John had made. There at the bottom, stretched out like a deadly rope, sat the snake. Its characteristic hourglass markings sent my heart racing and adrenaline pumping. “If you don't feel comfortable moving him, I can do it,” Marcel called to me. “No, no. I’ve got this,” I assured her. For years, I had played this scenario out in my head, but now it was actually happening. I had never seen, let alone caught, a wild venomous snake. I took a deep breath and switched into snake catching autopilot. Using both snake sticks, I looped a coil over my hook. The copperhead turned to glare at me, but was too cold to flee. I lifted the snake into the air, glancing back at the group with a nervous grin. “Ryan, you keep your eyes on that snake!” Marcel commanded. I snapped my focus back towards the copperhead. It calmly hung by its tail from the end of my hook.
“Take it 500 feet into the woods, away from the dogs,” called Marcel. Placing one foot in front of the other like I was trying to walk a balance beam, I hiked down into the trees. When I felt I had gone far enough, I placed the copperhead at the base of a large maple. He vibrated his tail and made a single weak attempt to strike, before sitting motionless. As I backed away, his head swiveled, following my every move.
The northern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) is one of just three venomous snakes native to Ohio. The other two species are the timber rattlesnake (Crotalus horridus) and the massasauga rattlesnake (Sistrurus catenatus). Both rattlesnakes are endangered in Ohio, making a wild encounter extremely unusual. Copperheads are considerably more plentiful, but are seldom seen due to their secretive nature. They are adverse to human settlement, preferring undisturbed habitats, particularly rocky, wooded hillsides. Historically, the copperhead’s range extended to just below Lake Erie; today they can only be found in the unglaciated, southern portion of the state.
Copperheads bite more people in the U.S. than any other venomous snake. The bite from a copperhead is not normally fatal for a healthy adult person. It is, however, excruciatingly painful. Like many snakes that lack a rattle, copperheads will still vibrate their tails when feeling threatened. Despite their reputation for aggression, copperheads are generally docile snakes, reluctant to bite unless harassed.
It had been an incredible encounter. Marcel gripped my shoulder, “I'm proud of you,” she beamed. “There aren’t too many people I would trust to catch a copperhead their first time. Are you okay? You kept your cool and did great.” I smiled, a little dazed. “It was amazing,” I replied. “I’ve never caught a venomous snake before.” John walked up to me and grinned, “You realize you will remember that for the rest of your life.” I did realize. It was a connection with a wild creature like I had never experienced before. It was almost spiritual, a right of passage to becoming a herpetologist.
Now our attention turned to Mink. She was walking with a peculiar gait, and was shaking slightly. Marcel and I glanced at each other with concern before posing the question, “Is Mink all right? She got pretty close to that snake. You don't think she was bitten?” John chuckled, “No, she’s just cold. She’ll be alright. If a dog had been bitten it would have been on the nose, which isn't deadly. It’s a bite to the belly that is a real problem.” As we hiked back to the vehicles, Mink returned to her old self. She happily leapt up into John’s van, eager for a rest.
Read part four HERE
Read part four HERE
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