It was about three on a February afternoon and we were completing one of our last survey transects through the gently sloping plain of a chaparral and grass lined valley. It had been a successful and exciting day, with the discovery of numerous lithic scatters, a cache of beautifully shaped ground stone, and many well-defined bedrock milling features. However, where there are rocks there are reptiles and three rattlesnakes, which were apparently feeling optimistic about the year’s early heat wave, had already surprised us. I was relieved to see that our last lines for the day were in an open plain.
My boots crunched rhythmically as I tromped through the dense, knee-high roof of grass, which was being upheld by its newly sprouted offspring. I began to wonder about the life that was likely playing out under the grassy roof below my feet: I imagined Mr. Squirrel dropping off the kids at the school burrow while Mrs. Squirrel bartered with the Gopher family next door; Jack Rabbit rushing through town late for work; and the Borrowing Owls grumbling and turning over in bed, impatient for either sleep or the nighttime to come.
Suddenly, I was sharply awoken from my sentimental imaginings by a pain in my leg. I was given a glimpse into the world of the grassland folk, but it was not what I had supposed. The rest happened so quickly that the right sequence eludes me: feeling a squishy rounded object rather than the hard ground below my right boot, seeing the diamond markings and scaly skin, bounding forward, and (of course) screaming incoherently.
“I was bit!” I panted, “I think… I was bit…. by a rattlesnake!” I stopped about twenty feet away from the scene of attack and pulled up my pant leg. Sure enough, there were two tiny red spots on the back of my calf. My co-surveyors, Andy, Steve, and Matt, rushed to me and quickly got down to business. Matt, an archaeologist-turned-paramedic who providentially was in the field that day, examined my leg while Steve helped steady me and Andy inched towards the site I had evacuated. As he got closer, a rattle as loud as a weed eater started up and my reptilian friend showed himself, coiled and furious, ready for round two. Thinking quickly, Andy took a photo of the snake so the hospital could identify the species if anti-venom was needed. A creek separated us from the parking lot where our cars were and it was decided that Andy would go alone to bring his affectionately named “Toy” SUV as close as possible. Steve and Matt stayed with me to blaze a trail through the maze of elderberry and oak lining the steeply sloped creek.
The grade of the slope and the width of the creek made it difficult to find an easy passage and it took us a good half hour before we forged our way across. After a brief drive, Andy, Steve, Matt, and I stood in the parking lot and stared at the little red dots on my leg, waiting for something to happen. Forty-five minutes after being bit, symptoms of venom had yet to manifest. It was a dry bite–I had gotten off with a warning this time.
Needless to say, the rest of the survey was conducted in snake gaiters.
(This story first appeared in the San Diego County Archaeological Society Newsletter, January 2014; the electronic document is available at http://www.sandiegoarchaeologicalsociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/January-February.pdf. There are some edits in this version.)
Word to my Sisters 