The Brushoff: You gotta be kidding me!

So, I found a rattlesnake.

In the brushpile.

In Sardis.

Oh, sh… um, urh, shoot.

A couple of Saturdays ago I was at Missy’s folks, Pattie and Earl Bryant, clearing brush and trimming hedges. I arrived about 8 a.m., unloaded the four-wheeler and then hooked the 10-foot utility trailer up to the scooter.

I loaded up the tools on the trailer. Polesaw? Check. Chainsaw? Check. Cooler? Tarp strapped to the rear rack of the four-wheeler. On the first trip to the brush pile, the trailer was loaded with limbs and clippings.

Usually I just hop off the scooter and start unloading. This time something told me to get off on the opposite side of the pile and unload from the trailer. As I grabbed the first handful of limbs I hear that unmistakable sound coming from the high grass surrounding the pile.

Aw, geez! Despite the early morning mugginess it was like someone poured ice water over my head. I tossed the limbs as far into the pile as I could.

Buzzz. Buzzz. BUZZZ!

Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t spot the ticked off pit viper. Hearing it was no problem. I quickly deduced that I could unload the brush from the safety of the trailer. Then I re-deduced, if that is a word, that the trailer really isn’t that tall and a really ticked off rattlesnake could crawl outta the pile, rear up and get on the trailer with me.

I grabbed the longest privet hedge limb I could get to the fastest and somehow levitated onto the top of the cooler on the back rack of the four-wheeler. I always carry a Ruger Security Six .357 Magnum in a hip holster when I’m in the country on the tractor or doing brush clearing, for just such an occasion.

The revolver is loaded with shotshells, so I don’t have to worry much about aiming if I run across ol’ no shoulders.

There I was, thrashing the grass and vines of the brush pile with the switch in my left hand, and that durn big thumb-cocked revolver in my right hand, held above my head. The strategery was to drive the snake out where I get a clear shot, or six, at him.

Whoosh, swish, whoosh. BUZZZ! BUZZZ! BUZZZ!

Nada. Still with the buzz, buzz, buzzing. I decided discretion was the best thing, and backed off the cooler onto the seat, never taking my eyes off the pile. I cranked up and drove off, facing backward on the seat, with the revolver still ready to go.

I drove over to the short grass and checked the trailer to make sure there was no unwanted riders. I went to the barn and retrieved the pitchfork which I then skewered into the edges of the pile.

Wanna guess what was still in my right hand?

No buzzing. I convinced myself the snake had crawled off farther into the pile. If it hadn’t been so dry, I would have burned the pile.

Here’s my problem. I have one load on the trailer and another two or three on the ground already. After a while I convinced myself that if I parked a little farther away from the pile I could safely unload. It took more convincing to holster the Ruger.

I unloaded the trailer without incident. Same thing for the next two-and-a-half loads. The lack of buzzing was even more disturbing than the buzzing that made my blood run cold.

Next time though, I’ll be ready. Drought or no drought.

I know that recipe for napalm is laying around the house somewhere.