A flawless autumn afternoon in the Chihuahuan Desert: warm rays of sunlight stream though crystal-clear skies, diffused by cool northerly winds. Although nights have gradually become chilly, daytime hours are balmy and gentle. The scorching months of summer are officially over. Preparations for winter have begun along the desert floor: ants lug grass seeds into their burrows, wood rats increase their midden piles, pollinators buzz from flower to flower. The airwaves are punctuated by scurrying, droning and chirping as the desert’s permanent residents get ready for raw weather.  

Obscured by tall grasses and brushy forbes, a snake observes the commotion with bright, unblinking eyes. Unnoticed, it languidly waits for a small scampering creature to come close. Coiled loosely and resting, the pit viper absorbs the life-giving heat of the pebbly ground and sun-warmed air. As the days draw shorter, and warm afternoons become rarer, its activity levels will decline along with the waning sunshine. It will find an abandoned burrow or a large rock to crawl under, and it will pass the cold days of winter in a state of hibernation.

But today the snake is warm. And hungry.

Vibrations in the ground alert the snake to a sudden change in its environment. The unblinking eye does not waver, but muscles along the length of its jaw tense as the frequency of the vibrations quickly increases. Motionless in its coil, the viper does not exhibit outward response to the deafening roar approaching it, nor does it move when a large object completely blocks the sunshine from its body. Explosive vibrations in the ground now come from all directions; the snake lies static and attentive, waiting for the unknown intruder to make the first move.

Abruptly, the vibrations stop. Profound quiet replaces the violent shaking. The snake lies alone in the dark landscape, cooling off and losing body heat and energy. Aggravated by this sudden change in temperature, the snake is caught between the need for warmth and the need to defend itself from possible danger.

A sharp bang, then the crunch of two large bipeds on gravel. The rhythm of the heavy steps travels through the ground to the snake; the clomping gets nearer. The snake tightens its coiled body into a threatening pose, ready to strike if provoked.
A sandaled human foot lands six inches away from the snake’s head, startling the viper and inducing it to strike. The snake lunges at the tender spot between big toe and heel, bites down hard, and injects venom from hollow needle-like fangs into the soft flesh.

As quickly as it strikes, it lets go, instantly slithering away, from shadows to light, fleeing the roadside, and searching for cover in a vast landscape of creosote.
In less than a second, the snake has ruined someone’s day.

That someone’s name is Tom Alex.

From the Human’s Perspective

“It felt like two inch-long razor-sharp mesquite thorns were suddenly jabbed into the softest part of my foot, followed by an electrical charges pulsing through the same spot. What went through my head was ‘Oh no, there’s only one thing that can hurt this bad out here, and it has to be a snake!’”

Tom Alex describes the scene, replete with violent arm motions. “I saw the rattlesnake disappear into the brush just as I took a big step back. Of course, the whole incident lasted about a split-second. And man, it hurt.”

Betty Alex, Tom’s wife and hiking companion, was about 100 yards away from Tom when he got bitten. “I heard him yell, and knew something bad had happened. I mean, I’ve seen this man put a drill through himself by accident once, and all he said was ‘Ow.’ This time he yelled. And loud.”

The Alexes are not new to the Chihuahuan Desert landscape. Both have worked in Big Bend National Park’s Science and Resource Management Division for over twenty years; Tom is the Park’s archeologist, Betty is the Geographic Information Systems (GIS) Specialist. Both are veteran hikers, lifelong desert rats and dedicated environmentalists.

Both have had encounters with rattlesnakes previously, though neither has been wounded before. With the amount of time these researchers spend in the field, it’s surprising that neither had personal contact with a pit viper.

Until now.

Tom and Betty are well-versed in the treatment of rattlesnake bites. They immediately sought medical help; within 20 minutes Tom was loaded in an ambulance and heading north to Alpine. In those 20 minutes, Tom’s bite turned from an uncomfortable throbbing to an all-out pounding as the venom – and swelling – began moving slowly up his leg.

What do you do after a rattlesnake bite when your foot feels like a bomb ready to go off? “Relax,” said Tom. “I just tried to concentrate on relaxing. Settling down my system, settling down my heart, to slow down the effects of the venom. It hurt really bad; they gave me morphine, but it made me desperately ill. I couldn’t figure out what was worse.”

Three hours after being bitten, Tom was administered his first dose of Crofab™ antivenom. The first small vial was immediately followed by three more. Tom was dosed with anti-venom every six hours; meanwhile, the swelling continued past his knees and thighs, reaching his abdominal region by the fourth day. His legs were bright purple from bursting capillaries as the anti-coagulant effects of the venom took hold. The steroids he was given for the swelling made him swell up even more; his body filled with fluid, making him uncomfortable and bloated. After being released on day five, Tom went home, only to find that he couldn’t sit up or lie down comfortably. He couldn’t eat, and he couldn’t take full breaths.

On day the morning of day six, after an agonizing and difficult night, he went back to the emergency room for X-rays. Doctors discovered Tom had pneumonia. “After lying on my right side all night, fluid moved into my right lung and settled. I was in the hospital three days, getting rid of fluid and getting treated for pneumonia.”

Despite the pain, swelling and pneumonia, Tom is a very lucky man. When I talk with Tom almost a month after he received the fright of his life, Tom sits in the quiet peace of the eclectic home he and Betty have built together. He moves around okay, without a limp. As a strong man with a healthy heart, Tom fared extremely well. He’s had no sicknesses and very few side-effects from the anti-venom. He didn’t lose his foot or his leg. In fact, the majority of changes Tom has undergone from this experience are within.

“I think anybody who lies in bed for a week,” professes Tom, “thinking about what’s going on in the body, playing ‘what-if’ games, is bound to have an epiphany. This could’ve been bad. Really bad. But here I am.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “One of the things I thought about was that I would be in a wheelchair, trying to figure out how to get around this rough terrain. If I had gotten really sick, we would have had to change our lifestyle.”

After a pause, he smiles. “I’m living a kind of paranoid nightmare…snakes are everywhere. I’ve even started carrying a flashlight to go to the bathroom at night, where I never did before. Soon, I’ll be at my full capacity, but I think I’ll keep a flashlight with me from now on.”

From the Financial Perspective

Dr. James Luecke of the Fort Davis’ Family Practice treated Tom Alex for the snake bite. In his soft-spoken, gentle voice, Leuke describes the type of person that generally gets bitten: “Anybody. We’ve seen people from all parts of life. From people who play with or remove snakes from their property, to little boys who stick their hands under rocks. It’s a real mish-mash of folks that come in through that door with a snake bite. So far, in my 16 years here, I haven’t seen a fatality. Most bites occur in spring and fall, and this is due to the activity cycles of the snake, more than anything else.”

Texas has the largest incidence of snake bites in the United States; the state also has 9 species of rattlesnakes (second only to Arizona), only a fraction of the 84 rattlesnake species and subspecies found in the Western Hemisphere. Not all species of rattlesnake that are found in Texas live in the same part of the state; West Texas is home to 5 species, including the Western Diamondback (above, photo by JOHN WATERS), and  the Mojave Rattler, the most venomous of all.

“Usually, we’ll see about a dozen rattlesnake-bite patients a year. Myself, I see about three,” says Dr. Luecke. “The outcome is usually fine, especially with the new Crofab™ antivenom; there’s a lot less sickness and allergic reactions.”

Antivenom is a serum that is commercially produced to neutralize the effects of envenomation by venomous snakes. Fresh snake venom is injected at regular intervals into healthy horses or sheep. The animal’s immune system neutralizes the venom by producing antibodies. In turn, the antibodies neutralize the same venom when injected into humans.

Lives are saved every day by anti-venom. However, the price is out of range for most snakebite victims. A patient may pay anywhere between $1,000 to $3,000 for a vial of Crofab™; an average patient needs about 15 vials of the anti-venom, turning an intense physical hardship into a financial nightmare. Compounded with possible secondary effects and a week’s hospital stay, in West Texas, the bill for a rattlesnake bite can easily amount to more than $45,000.

“If I hadn’t had health insurance, I probably wouldn’t have been treated, unless the bite had been considered completely life threatening,” says Tom.  “If I hadn’t had insurance, I’m sure the outcome would’ve been very different.”

Betty quips, “What they may consider life-threatening and what you may consider life-threatening are two very different things.”

In 1996, Sid McGee, a burly and healthy long-time Terlingua resident and former river guide was bitten on the right foot when he stepped on a 6-foot Western Diamondback rattlesnake early one summer morning. He was rushed to the hospital and received treatment for his bite less than two hours after the incident. Sid was given a battery of laboratory tests; he received counseling and was sent home. 

“The doctor said it was a dry bite, and I wasn’t going to need anti-venom. [In about 20% of rattlesnake bites, the snake does not release venom.] I never got sick, I never hallucinated, but my leg started swelling; the swelling went up my thigh, all the way to my waist.” The pain, says McGee, was excruciating. “It felt like mesquite thorns were jabbing me all over. It was awful. I wouldn’t wish this experience on anybody.”

Sid had no health insurance. “When the doctor released me, he said, ‘I’d like to keep you longer, but we can’t, under the circumstances.’ It was sad for me; at least they could have told me the truth, about having venom in my system. All I could do was wait, and let it go through my body.”

The weeks after the bite were the hard on Sid. “The after-effects were horrible. I was in constant pain. My leg hurt so bad, I was bed-ridden for three weeks. I couldn’t go back to work for two months. The financial strain was unbelievable.”

But Sid, willing to play devil’s advocate, states, “I don’t know if things would’ve been different if I had received antivenom. The bite perhaps wasn’t life-threatening because I’m a big guy and my right foot is very far away from my heart. But what if I had been bitten on the face, on the arm? Or if I had been a little guy? Then what? Would I have been denied treatment?”

“Repercussions?” Sid asks, eight years after the bite. “The top of my right foot is bigger. The swelling never completely went down. Would it have returned to normal if I could pay for the anti-venom? I don’t know.” He pauses a second, and then laughs hard. “The biggest change? I tell you…I don’t wear sandals that much anymore. Shoes for me, boots with laces. And the other thing…I never go anywhere at night without a flashlight. I just can’t do it. I’m not going through this again.”  

From the Social Perspective

From the Bible to Native American religions to modern snake-handling cults, venomous snakes have played a predominant role in religious beliefs for thousands of years. Cast as a character in innumerable myths and legends, subject of extensive taboos, the snake is generally thought to be embued with supernatural powers, usually evil. Especially in Western religion, the snake is regarded as a vile creature of sly deception and destructive forces.

These beliefs have fomented a repulsion and hatred for any serpent-like creature. Although venomous snakes were occasionally used in Roman times as fatal instruments in suicides, murder, and war, rattlesnakes barely attained modern popularity for these purposes. Rattlesnakes are simply not deadly enough. A bite does not mean instant death; it means a prolonged painful experience. A person attempting suicide using rattlesnake venom may realize, days after the bite, that other, more commonplace methods would have been less painful and more effective.

Out of the fewer than 1,000 people that are bitten every year by rattlesnakes and the fewer than a dozen that die from the rattlesnake venom, the majority of victims handled the snakes purposefully and voluntarily. Exotic animal enthusiasts, daring young boys, and animal removal specialists are prime victims for rattlesnake envenomation.

The pattern is simple: the more one handles snakes, the greater the chances of being bit. Thus, not handling or  approaching snakes is a good way of insuring safety in rattlesnake country.

Yet there are those whose spiritual beliefs cultivate snake-handling activities as part of ceremonial ritual.

Most people associate religious snake handling with Christian sects from American Appalachia. Taking up serpents as Jesus instructed in the Bible, American snake handlers do so as proof of their religious strength. Snake handling cults are controversial, banned in every state except West Virginia. These days, the practice is at a low ebb of popularity. Still, from time to time, a handler gets bitten. Snake-handling ceremonies, although notoriously frenzied,  allow for the release of the snake in an unharmed state.

Not all social gatherings involving rattlesnakes end on such a positive note for the snake; rattlesnake roundups are a prime example.

Rattlesnake roundups take place from January through July in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Alabama, and Georgia. Roundups started in the 1920’s as an attempt to rid areas of rattlesnakes, but have evolved into commercial events that promote mass elimination of snakes. Thousands of rattlesnakes are captured and slaughtered in competitive events witnessed by thousands of spectators. For many communities that host the roundups, the festivals serve as key fundraising events for civic service organizations. Supporters say the roundups also help mitigate what they see as overabundant snake populations that pose a threat to people and livestock.

Since 1958, the world’s largest rattlesnake roundup has been hosted by the town of Sweetwater, TX. So far, 246,719 pounds of rattlesnake have been collected and destroyed from the surrounding area during the history of this event.

In the last twenty years, environmentalists and rattlesnake hunters have clashed over environmental impacts that roundups are causing. However, steadfast conclusions for either side of the argument are hard to come by; experiments to determine whether the rattlesnake population is strongly affected by these activities have yielded inconclusive evidence.

From the Ecological Perspective

So, then, what use do we have for rattlesnakes?

“Everything is connected, everything is a link in the Great Chain,” explains Raymond Skiles, Big Bend National Park’s wildlife biologist, as he leans back in his chair. “Do I need to explain further?”

He smiles and pauses, then synopsizes their environmental role in one sentence: “They eat rodents.” He continues. “As a predator, they play an important part in rodent population dynamics. Any snake then becomes food for raptors and other bird species. Snakes are certainly one of the numerous components of predator-prey relationships in the desert.”

A three-foot, medium-sized, rodent-eating rattlesnake can eat an average of one large adult rat a week. With widespread human disgust towards most rodents, you’d think we would place utmost importance in the survival of all snakes.

By reducing rodent populations in rural areas, rattlesnakes also help reduce monetary loss resulting from rodent-eaten produce and stored grains.

Furthermore, by keeping rodent populations down, rattlesnakes can be a safety barrier between humans and life-threatening epidemics caused by disease-carrying rodents; snakes guarantee that epidemics such as Bubonic plague, Hantavirus and Lyme disease don’t make constant appearances in human populations.

Then there is no motive to fear and destroy these rodent-eaters – except for the possibility of getting bitten.

Rattlesnake venom is nasty stuff. Structurally resembling the enzymes found in human stomach acid, rattlesnake venom is meant to kill and then digest prey from the inside out. Once venom enters the prey’s body through sharp, hypodermic needle-like fangs, it lodges itself permanently in the body’s soft tissues, spreading very slowly through the system. The toxin dissolves living tissue, turning a body into a more swallowable form.

Because of its slow movement through a body, viper venom is not meant to kill large animals. Its primary function is to help the snake kill and digest small prey. Venom production is a metabolically difficult and time-consuming process; a snake’s best interest is to not waste venom on something it couldn’t possibly eat.

Venom is also a last-resort defense mechanism for the snake; if the limbless snake, having few means of protection from predators, finds itself in severe peril, it will use its venomous bite to keep aggressors at bay.  A fresh supply of venom takes days to produce; by using venom in self-defense, a snake may be left incapable of feeding for days. So the rattlesnake evolved and developed an effective warning system to alert predators and accidental tourists to stay away, or be bitten: the rattle.

The rattlesnake’s characteristic buzzing sound comes from the fast and rhythmic vibrations caused by loosely interlocked keratinous cone-shaped scales at the end of the snake’s tail. When the rattlesnake shakes its tail at about 50 vibrations a minute when startled or threatened, these scales bang against each other to produce the rattling associated with dry deserts and summertime heat.

Yet the very adaptation that is supposed to help the snake survive environmental threats has become the prime indicator of its whereabouts, leading legions of snake roundup participants to snake dens, burrows or sunning areas. Early in their history, roundups may have functioned as a logical way to rid an area of snakes to ensure that contact between vipers and humans was kept at a minimum. However, when thousands of snakes are removed from the environment year after year, without opportunity for replenishment. A major rattlesnake roundup can remove 10,000 rattlesnakes (a conservative figure) from the environment. Repercussions are bound to occur: rats.

One rattlesnake can consume as many as 52 rats a year. If the roundup estimates are even close, this leaves 520,000 rodents per year that aren’t getting eaten by snakes, leaving the  rodents to survive, breed, and carry disease.

Skiles, however, is dubious of this information: “Scientific data accumulated in places where there’s a major removal of rattlesnakes, such as towns that host roundups.…It may come as a surprise that the number of rattlesnakes concentrated in that area has not changed.” He shrugs. “They still round up huge numbers every year. If you’ve got good environment and good habitat, the snakes will replenish themselves.”

Skiles is more concerned about the problem with people deciding what is and isn’t useful to the environment. “It’s imperative to not judge an organism’s importance in relation to human beings. How can we possibly quantify this? It would be a loss to think we’ve ‘cleansed’ our human environment and kept organisms that were only acceptable to us. An organism may be important to the functions of an ecosystem in ways we may not be aware of yet….We need to start thinking about the bigger picture, ecologically; the rattlesnake is naturally here and that should be enough.”

From the Author’s Perspective

The voluminous amount of rainfall Brewster County has received this year increased the amounts of vegetation normally found on the desert floor. Grasses are thick, flowers are plentiful and rich green summer hues have displaced usual November browns. Human desert dwellers celebrate months of copious rain; water storage units are full, the scenery is relatively soft to the eye, and wildlife is abundant.

Yet a year of great rainfall leads to blankets of forbs and shrubs, which means a proliferation of seeds and berries, which means an increase of rodents, which inevitably leads to a bumper crop of rattlesnakes. This next spring season, we may see an overwhelming increase in the area’s rattlesnake populations, reflected, perhaps, in an increase of rattlesnake bites.

The way we deal with rattlesnakes today will determine the closeness of personal rattlesnake encounters tomorrow. In the next winter months, homeowners may want to make their abodes as rattlesnake un-friendly as possible by keeping mouse and rat populations in check near homes and structures; if there’s no food for rattlesnakes, there will be no rattlesnakes. Possible burrows and den sites should be located and kept under watch: logs, rocks, home foundations, outdoor toilets, garbage pits and any other nooks and crannies that could provide a happy home for springtime mating rattlesnakes. Taking time to educate children and visiting friends about the beauty and dangers of desert ecosystems makes a big difference in the long run.

Above all, understanding the consequences of living in this area is crucial.

“I always knew that getting bit by a rattlesnake could happen to me. I’m surprised that it hasn’t happened before, or that it hasn’t happened to more people,” Tom Alex contemplates. “Walking in this country, you learn how to avoid plants, you learn not to hike in sandals. You learn, because you have to learn. I’m sure I’ve walked by hundreds of rattlesnakes, mountain lions, and people without ever noticing their presence. It’s all part of living here. All creatures in the desert deserve their space.”

Sid McGee has a similar point of view. “It’s pretty funny…I grew up in Oklahoma, and I’ve been near snakes all my life without ever being bothered by them.

‘I went to a rattlesnake roundup once, because a friend dragged me. I chopped off the heads of a bunch of snakes, and after a few days of thinking about what I did, I just knew, some day, that I was going to get bit. Then, this happened. I believe in Karma; I believe in the balance of things.”

These two men are living healthy lives in a beautiful place; neither of them has changed their minds about being here.

For the rattlesnakes throughout the U.S., however, things are changing. Human population centers are growing at an expansive rate, particularly in open desert regions.

Wildlife and plant species are quickly being extirpated from their natural habitats, as people move in and take control of the environment. Grazing, farming, wetland decimation and urbanization are only some of human activities that obliterate rattlesnake habitat.

In Texas, the Timber Rattlesnake  is listed as ‘threatened’ on the State of Texas’ Threatened and Endangered Species List. Other rattlesnakes, such as the Eastern Massasauga and the Carolina Pygmy, are listed in other parts of the country, but no rattlesnake receives protection on a federal basis.

In the Big Bend, the extirpation of rattlesnakes is still probably decades away. Eventually, however, all that befalls modern society catches up with our isolated corner of the world.

Now this animal that withstood millions of years of evolutionary change to become a near-perfect predator faces the real possibility of extinction within the next hundred years or so.

Will we decide that we prefer a safe, “cleansed” environment, free of all personal responsibility towards the organisms that share the same space?

Or, will find a way to live with the ecosystem and all its trade-offs, including the painful, biting reminders of rattlesnakes, letting us human beings know that in this strikingly arid and stark landscape, we are not alone?

Sharon Collyer is a native of Puerto Rico, and has spent most of her life in bilingual communities. Currently a resident of BBNP, Sharon is also a long-time seasonal employee of the National Park Service who has an intense love of the Big Bend.