Log Riding Rattlesnake

Year: 1962
Location: Somewhere in Northern Utah

Half of the following story is fiction and half describes actual events. If you can't guess which, the answer is at the end. The names have been changed to protect my sanity (because I'm not sure I want you to know that I might possibly be related to one of these guys...).

Downstream
Mary grinned as she watched her toes in the mountain water. She wiggled them and the icy water sent a chill coursing up through her legs, up her spine, causing her heart to thump, and her head to tingle. Of course, maybe the heart pounding was really caused by Joseph sitting two feet away from her.

The wind made his long dark hair ripple in waves, while the sun shifted the color of his natural highlights. That hair framed his face so perfectly! He looked so peaceful as he trailed a long stick through the small river.

Joseph smirked, but kept watching the water. A log bumped to a stop in the small pool formed by some boulders. He frowned. It was bobbing oddly, and was that some rope? He extended the stick and rolled it over.

The stick fell from his suddenly stiff digits. "Mary, don't look over here!"

So, naturally, Mary hopped to her feet and trotted over. Also, this gave her an excuse to squeeze up next to him. Surely nothing could be--

She slapped her hands over her mouth. "Oh my god, what the hell is that?"

The charred corpse of a dead rattlesnake that had been tied to the log bobbed helplessly in the clear waters. A few fish swam over and took a few inquisitive nibbles.

Mary shivered. "Who could be so cruel? I know everybody hates rattlesnakes, but... who could do such a thing?" She bumped her shoulder against Joseph's chest and didn't even notice.

The lifeless eye sockets stared up at them. The log continued to swirl around in the pool and the fish got on with their meal.

Upstream, a few days prior

Rick bit his lip and trembled. He wouldn't cry. Not in front of David and Harvey. He could cry later, but seeing as how they were all roommates, he'd have to go up into the mountains by himself. He let his fingers brush against Trousers' scales. They felt as icy as the water. "Goodbye, buddy."

He stuck the match. The log, doused in gasoline and supported on either side by two attached branches, lit up against the cloudy afternoon sky. With his boot, he nudged the little Viking funeral raft into the stream. David and Harvey stepped up to the edge of the water, and they all watched the fire.

He'd been one of 18 baby rattlesnakes they'd brought back to their apartment in a pillowcase. The pick had been good that season. Of course, they could only find 17 of them when they went to put them back. For three days...

They'd finally discovered him in a pair of trousers when Harvey went to put them on. So, the snake was named. And also, 20 year old college boys couldn't resist that particular joke.

He'd never threatened a person, and lived a relaxed life of hunting down feeder rats in the apartment. What more could an animal ask for? And now, it was time to let him go.

Rick, David and Harvey drifted a little closer together as they watched their pet sail on into the afterlife.

Still in sight, they watched as one of the small supports to the funeral log burned through, and the entire contraption flipped upside down into the river. The smoke and steam were visible for just a heartbeat, and then, he was gone.



Which was real? Upstream.

Moral: Don't judge a burned, dead rattlesnake tied to a log in a river. He may have just had a Viking funeral.

Yes, that really happened.

Author's note: I really have no idea if there is a snake afterlife, but if there is a snake heaven, I bet it also doubles as furry critter hell.

Seasick Sailor

A couple of my friends and I somehow scraped together the funds to visit Ireland and catch up with some of my old friends there. We also bought train and bus tickets to go sightseeing. Obviously.

Our excursion just on the ferry to and from the Aran Islands is a definite highlight:

These islands are so remote that
1) The signs are all written in Irish (vs English or a mixture of languages as on most of the island).
2) I saw a man holding a car tire. An old car tire. Like from the late 19th century! He had to board the ferry, travel to the main island, have someone there repair the tire, and then ride the ferry back.
3) There are no railings or warning signs or anything when you explore a 3,000 year old fort built/eroded into the cliff's edge. If you fall off of the massive cliffs into the crashing ocean below, it's your own fault.
4) And no one will ever find you.

But, that's not the story. That's the background.

We three Kansas girls were determined to be out on the back part of the ferry which is open to the air and sea. We were still hanging on to the railings despite that the ocean is freezing and spitting on us. We were going to experience the ocean, damn it!

When we finally came sight of the shore, a storm popped up from nowhere. Or is it called a squall? Can I call it a squall? Or is a squall a specific type of oceanic weather disturbance? I don't get to use that word in my common lexicon! And maybe this squall wasn't from nowhere. I didn't know how to read the ocean weather. But, being from Tornado Alley, I can definitively tell you that it was not rotating.

It was, however, causing the ocean to create a valley of rolling swells. I'm not even going to try to guess how high the wind was pushing the waves, but the ferry suddenly started to remind me of a roller coaster. Slow rise up the slope, and then a quick drop. Repeat. Many times.

The few other people daring the ocean's chill out back with us quickly ducked inside. We curled our fingers around the railings and gather a good grip for this ride. Up and down. Rise and fall. The ocean's spray hissed as it drenched us all the harder.

Up and down. Rise and fall. And it felt like side to side too.

Then, the rain also attacked. We still stayed outside. After all, we're already soaked and chilled, and we were going to enjoy the ocean. Even if the ocean didn't want to play nicely. That's fine. We're not going anywhere. We could wait.

Although, as we crashed down another way, we got glimpses of a closer view than I ever would have wanted...

The next time we stared down a swell, as it continued to rise up underneath the ferry below us, my cursed and blessed imagination tried to show me what it would be like underneath the waves. The calm as compared to the chaos above...

Still, that was just landlubber prairie talk. I trusted the crew running this boat. I mean, it was their job after all. I'm sure for them, this storm was nothing. I had no idea what ferries can and cannot handle. Wouldn't they have avoided this squall if it was too much? Or did it really just appear like a bad magician's hat trick?

Shortly after thinking that, my faith was rewarded as we passed free of the storm. The rain vanished, the swells smoothed out, and the ferry glided along gently toward the shore. We finally got to experience the crisp, salty air and enjoy the ocean's majesty.

My hand had been gripping the rail so tightly that it took me a couple of seconds to unclench my white fingers. That's when one of the sailors popped his head out back, and obviously, surprised we were still there, asked, "Were ye out here the whole time?"

(Cultural note: Many people still use 'ye' for second person plural and think nothing of it, 'cause it's still proper grammar. I haven't met anyone using 'thee' and 'thou' yet though.)

We nodded.

He paused. "Are ye sure?"

Nod again.

"And ye didn't get seasick?"

Shook our heads.

Then, he grinned. It was more glassy than cheerful. "Well, I did."
I finally started to wonder...

Been awhile

I haven't blogged in awhile. I can't use the excuse that "nothing interesting happened to me". The sign of a good storyteller is able to take an everyday story that could happen to anybody and make it something people will read with excitement.

Like my ride to work. I do my best to ride my bicycle every day, with an exception for rain in the forecast. Even with a helmet, two inch an hour rain stings.  And hail, I've been caught in hail on my bike before. Yet, I still pedal the darned thing to work. Interestingly enough, it takes me 15 minutes in my car with rush hour traffic, but only 20 minutes on my bike.

It's cool in the mornings around here in early spring/late summer. Nothing a light jacket snuggling against my skin doesn't solve. It's so amazingly comfortable and needed! I can feel the kiss of the dawn's chill in passing. Of course, halfway through my ride, that same cotton film against my arm becomes twenty miles of stuffed wool while I'm trying to steer through the Gobi Desert. Obviously, it gets too warm.

So, while I'm riding along on the sidewalk... I should probably stop and explain: that is legal in the city, there are no bike paths and riding on the street is suicide by inattentive driver.

So, while I'm riding along on the sidewalk - the very lumpy, tree root infested sidewalk - I'm sweating like the Mississippi and fighting my jacket. I'm balancing with no hands, backpack wildly swing off of one shoulder while trying to get this thrice cursed, sweak soaked thing off of my other arm! I swear, this thing holds tighter than a clingy ex-boyfriend!

I free one arm. Halfway to bliss! Now, still pedaling with no hands, I transfer the backpack to my other shoulder and attempt to free my other arm from this slippery trap. Meanwhile, the sleeve that's been freed is trailing behind my seat and curls itself around the rear wheel and the chain.

Lurch! RIIIIIIIIP!

And, I walk my bicycle the rest of the way to work. Before I leave for home, I peel out pieces of that beloved jacket that always did such a good job of keeping me warm on my ride to work...

Tomorrow: repeat.