Close Encounters

Saturday morning, I thought about taking my camera with me for my run. After all, I had seen a cool-looking fox on my previous outing in Waterton canyon, and thought it would be great to have some wildlife pix to post on the blog. But due to the lack of adequate pocketry in my hydration backpack, I decided to leave the camera at home.

Shoulda brought it.

The morning itself was pleasant enough, and my run/walk efforts contained the usual mix of enjoyment and misery. But I did notice several photo opportunities. The water pouring over the dam up by the 5K mark, for example -- it was boisterous and loud, with plenty of sparkly mist droplets twinkling their way into the sunlight. With the proper Ansel Adams attitude, I could've gotten some snapshots that would evoke thoughts of Niagra, Victoria Falls, and the bucket scene from Flashdance. Alas, I jogged onward.

And sure enough, I soon saw my buddy, the fox. He (She? How do you tell without getting, ahem, close?) was trotting along the road, looking as carefree as a well-fed hobo, apparently enjoying the gorgeous morning. He was obviously unconcerned about me, barely giving me a sideways glance, even though we were only about ten feet apart. It made me wonder; was he ignoring me because he's used to runners, and could tell from the hydration pack and the Adidas that I was not a threat...or was he ignoring me because one look at my stride convinced him that he could outrun me without breaking a sweat? Or was it because he is in the habit of eating other critters, and figured that despite my height advantage, he'd have the upper hand in tooth-to-tooth combat? Or had he just bought into the idea that PETA would protect him against all humans, so he could run around in his fluffy, gorgeous pelt with no concern at all that somebody would want to make a coat out of him?

No idea. I just waved and said "hi", and we each continued on our merry way. When I was done exercising in the canyon, I headed over to the Chatfield gravel pond for a swim. The nearby parking lot was full, so I drove across the river to the lot on the next hill and walked back down to the beach.

There were the usual number of swimmers there, most wearing wetsuits and talking about triathlons. I didn't see anyone I knew that I could swim with, so I splashed out on my own, doing one lap over and back without stopping. After that, I sprinted out to the sandbar and back again, and decided that I'd had enough. I put on my flip-flops and started walking back up the hill toward the parking lot.

Without sitting down to thoroughly towel off your feet, there's always going to be some sand stuck to your toes and sandals, forcing you to walk somewhat tentatively. It's OK, though, because it's only a couple hundred yards to the lot, and once I get to the car, my feet should be dry. I can brush the remaining sand off then. While I was crossing the bridge, though, I was still moving gingerly.

Just past the bridge, I heard a noise coming from my right. It sounded like air being released from a bike tire, which wouldn't be unusual with so many bikers around. But I hadn't seen any bikes in the grass beside the road. I looked back to check it out, and felt my heart leap -- there was a big ol' rattlesnake, coiled and staring at me. His tail was buzzing, making the noise I had heard. Yikes!

I had probably walked within two feet of this fellow, but by the time I looked at him, I was already past by another couple of strides. It struck me that his tail shaking sounded more like a hiss than a rattle, and that he was still looking at me with obvious animosity. I glanced around, ready to warn other walkers of the danger, but no one else was headed this way. Just then, a ranger's truck drove by with his window rolled down. I called to the driver, who stopped the pickup, threw it in reverse, and rolled back to where I stood.

"There's a rattlesnake in the grass, right there," I said, pointing. "Do you guys worry about stuff like that?"

He looked over at the reptile. "Well, we just usually let them go about their business. There's nothing I can really do." At this point, the snake uncoiled and began to glide through the grass, back down toward the trees lining the riverbank.

"Well, thanks for stopping," I said. The ranger put his truck in gear again and drove off. The snake moved with a seductive grace as he slid away from the road. I estimated that he was at least 4 feet long, and fairly thick. Pretty, I thought, especially the way the patterns mingled with the grass as he quickly wound his way into the deeper vegetation. I wish I'd have had my camera!

Of course, such an encounter does make you think a bit about your own preparedness. Other than the first shock of recognizing the noise for what it was, I hadn't been scared at all. Even if he'd have bitten me before I knew he was there, I probably would've been taken care of quickly; there were a lot of people and vehicles around. It's not at all the same worry you get when one of those testosterone-filled bighorn sheep gives you the hairy eyeball at some remote spot up in the canyon -- you always think about what a mess you'd be in if the hostile, horned goomer decided to whomp you a good one while no one else was around.

And I doubt that the snake was really wanting to have a go at me, anyway. He was just being the equivalent of the neighborhood grouch, shaking his fist and yelling "Get off my yard, ya hooligans!" No harm done.

Next week, though, I am going to carry my camera. There may not be any photo opportunities, or it may end up the way it did when I saw the deer in Valley Forge -- they were 10 feet away and gorgeous...but by the time I wrangled the camera out of my pack, all I could see were little flashes of white tails as they vanished into the woods. Still, I'm taking the thing -- after all, the waterfall can't run away, can it?

Anyway, I hope that all of your encounters today are with foxes, and that you avoid the snakes. Sounds like a metaphor for life, doesn't it? Have a great day!