Cell Phone Blues

Dancing to the Wrong Tune

It was spring in Maine and a sea of green was emerging across the dead landscape.  The change was refreshing and my wife and I delighted in seeing life being renewed as we traveled northward.  We apparently came at a bad time because the state was in the middle of updating road signs. The numbers of the state highways on the signs and the numbers of the highways on our road map did not always match and we were often confused by the conflicting numbers.
We stopped for directions often to make sure we were on the right road.  Each time we stopped, my wife would whip out her cell phone and call several people, letting them know where we were, what the weather was like, what scenery we were seeing, etc., etc, etc.  She always looked forward to the next stop so she could call someone and did not mind me stopping for directions, for gas, or for other reasons.  Since she was happy talking to her parents, her friends, or our children, the stops were enjoyable and I was happy just having some quiet time to myself.
Although this plan worked for all previous stops, there was one stop with the cell phone that brought trouble. It all started out innocently enough.  I pulled in to a gas station for gas.  After filling the tank I decided to use the restroom but before I went inside my wife said, “I want to go inside.  I don’t have a pocket in these jeans so would you keep my phone for me?”      Reluctantly, I took her phone and stuck it in my pocket.  I hurried into the restroom scarcely ahead of two other men. I took my place at an urinal.  Another man, a trucker, took his place at the urinal on my left.  A motorcycle rider stood at the urinal on my right.  We all looked ahead in silence, at least until my wife’s cell phone went off.
“My boyfriend’s back and there’s gonna be trouble,” the ring tone of her cell phone blared, and continued playing the same tune over and over.  The trucker turned and eyed me intently.  The biker also turned and stared.
What could I do?  I was totally embarrassed.  I smiled at one and then the other.  I hurried over to the sink, washed and dried my hands, and zipped out the door. By then the phone had stopped playing but I was thoroughly irritated.
When I found my wife, I slapped her phone down into her outstretched hand.  “Here,” I said.  “I don’t ever want to hold your phone again.”  When I explained what had happened, she laughed.  Then she apologized, and laughed again.  I found no humor in the situation and we sat in silence for a long time as we traveled.  Later, I found time to laugh at my own temporary plight.  My wife did her part to ease further situations.  She changed her tune.  We still travel together, but when we stop somewhere I always check my surroundings, and I never, ever, hold her phone.

By Dan Roberson

Yosemite Bear

Yosemite bear

In the early summer of 2005, Karen and I, along with some of our kids, stayed a week in a housekeeping unit in Yosemite Valley. We enjoyed the waterfalls, the giant trees, the spectacular scenery. We hiked Vernal Falls along narrow granite ledges, walked the mist trails, and rafted the Merced River. Half Dome and El Capitan loomed above us. Each morning we ate a quick breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup before starting off on our daily excursions. On our return we always stopped at the store and bought needed supplies. That was also the place we found out the latest news and heard the latest warnings. “Do not feed or approach deer or any other animal. Keep all food supplies in the metal bear-proof lockers attached to the housekeeping units. Only start fires in designated areas and in fire pits.” Of course there were stories about animals or fires that seemed designed to back up the rules. We listened but did not take them seriously. However, Rangers occasionally patrolled the area making sure everyone was in compliance.
Life was grand. In the evenings we ate leisurely, enjoying corn chowder and barbequed ribs, and for dessert has smores and other campfire treats. We then headed off to the shower houses, returned clean, played games, sang songs, told stories, and collapsed into our cots, ready to repeat the day’s fun or try new experiences. The first five evenings were routine and sleep was deep and restful.
On our last night in camp events changed drastically. The night was dark as pitch, the tall trees blocking out light from most of the stars. Most nights there were the occasional whoops and hollers as faraway campers played cards or drank with friends. This night was different. Everybody was quiet. There were no arriving cars to break up the silence. By 3:00 a.m. everyone was deep in sleep. Suddenly, there was a loud crash and sharp bangs. Then a soft slurping. In our unit we were all instantly awake. “It’s a bear,” someone whispered. “I think it’s got our syrup.”
“Leave it alone and it’ll go away. It won’t bother us,” I offered, lying on one elbow but reluctant to move.
At that time Karen leaped out of bed. “There’s a bear in our food locker. I want to go see,” she said, and then dashed to the curtain that separated us from the outside world.
“Oh my goodness,” I muttered to myself. I pulled on my clothes and went to keep her out of trouble. By then she was outside watching the bear. It sat there unconcerned, gulping our syrup. I was afraid her curiosity would be too much for the bear so I went to her rescue.
I don’t remember what I thought when I saw this huge bear sitting calmly in the moonlight, the syrup container held between his huge paws. The bear looked around at us and I stepped in front of Karen. I ignored her question. “What are you doing?” she asked peevishly.
In my mind the situation obviously called for action. “God is with me,“ I said and then
I advanced in a rush, flailing my arms and shouting. The bear studied me quietly. I just knew it was sizing me up and asking, “Why’s a puny little human walking towards me and yelling? Doesn’t he know I’m huge and could dispatch him with one tiny flick of my paw? He’s obviously crazy.” The bear looked at me one more time, shrugged, and rose to all fours. By then lights were going on all over camp. People were waving flashlights and coming in our direction. The bear lumbered off, passed through other camps and ambled off into the night. People chattered to each other for awhile and then gradually the uproar returned to silence as they returned to their camps, leaving their lights on for awhile.
As I turned back to our camp an angry Karen demanded, “Why did you scare the bear away? I wanted to get close and see it.” I shrugged and gave no answer. How could I explain that the bear was a threat to her and to everyone else? She obviously didn’t believe it was bravery that made me react.
The following morning as we prepared to leave, I found out I was some sort of celebrity to those around us. “Are you the one who chased the bear out of our camp? Look at the prints. The bear must have been huge.” “Weren’t you scared?” “Thank you for your brave deed.” I only smiled, eager to leave, afraid the rangers would be upset with me for interacting with an animal.
So I left the beautiful valley without fanfare but with wonderful memories.
I did not have a slingshot like David did when he chased a bear away from his flock. I only had the knowledge that God is always with us and will deliver us. I did not smite the bear, or baptize it. I only chased it away. And according to Karen, perhaps even that was unnecessary.
In hindsight I’ve learned that I don’t have to take every obstacle head on. Sometimes I only need to wait and see what will happen. “Be patient,” I tell myself. “I’m sure my wife could have taken care of that bear by herself. She sure scares me.”

By Dan Roberson

Boyce

A few years ago I attended a family reunion in Texarkana, Arkansas. I designated myself to be the reunion photographer so I tried to notice everybody. One person, Boyce, had Downs Syndrome but always was pleasant and smiling. One day I noticed that Boyce stopped several times in front of a mirror, looked carefully, straightened his shirt, straightened his tie, raised both his hands to the sky, mumbled something, and then proceeded about his routines. I was puzzled about his activities so I asked his brother,Eddie, what Boyce was doing.

Eddie replied, “A few years ago our parents bought a family grave site for themselves and Boyce. Because of Boyce’s illness they anticipated his death. However, first one parent died and then the other. When Eddie brought Boyce to see where their parents were buried, Boyce became visibly upset. Upon further questioning he showed he was concerned about his death. If his parents were dead and the tombstone marked their burial spot, did that mean he was buried where his name was written. Eddie carefully explained that Boyce had a middle name and the person buried there did not. That satisfied Boyce.

Eddie went on to explain the mirror. When Boyce goes by a mirror he checks himself, straightens his clothes and tie, raises his hands in praise, and says,”Thank God, I’m alive.”

Boyce taught me a lot that day. Each day is unique, precious, and a gift from God. What can I do but to rejoice and be glad in it?

By Dan Roberson

A Tribute to Dad

A Tribute to Dad

There aren’t any commercials stating “I want to be like Dad,” but I think I can speak for my brothers and sisters as well as myself by saying our hero was very close to our hearts. Dad was father, teacher, coach, Sunday school teacher, role model, and friend. He was a standard to compare others. My older brother said Dad was “the most honest man he ever met”. One of my sisters quoted him as saying, “You’re only as good as your word”. He didn’t use bad words. Once during a basketball game he said to another coach, “Don’t you know darn sure that was right.” We were shocked because those were the worst words he had ever said.
Dad tried to do what was right for his children. We admired and adored him and each of us felt like we were his favorite. He showed his pride in each one of us by being a constant force, willing to spend time with us even though it was unfashionable in the world around. Although Dad had high expectations for us he was never demanding and never interfered with our lives. From him we learned how to respect and love one another.
In games, though, he was always confident, expecting to win, and won more than his share. In his mind he was never behind. “Half up, catch up, beat out”, and “no hill for a climber”, and other sayings kept his opponents aware that he would never quit. It was a feather in a cap to beat Dad in anything. He was the supreme competition. He thrived on games, sometimes playing dominoes or chess throughout the night and driving Mom crazy. He was the only one I knew who could hoot with the owls all night and soar with the eagles the next day. My younger brother said, “Dad always drew everybody in to having fun and they were glad to have participated.” Once when he had been hospitalized for an illness he insisted on leaving early so he could beat Mom in word jumbles. He wanted to be home where he felt loved. As my older brother noted, “Dad’ll be playing dominoes with St. Peter and one by one we’ll sneak in and watch. If St. Peter looks up, Dad’ll domino.”
I don’t remember him just for the big things he did, but also for the deeds when he went out of his way. As a senior in high school I drove with three friends to Riverside to see sport car races. Returning late and sleepy, I took a wrong turn and headed toward Barstow. The fuel pump broke down and we were stranded. After reaching a phone I called Dad to let him know where we were. Although it was after midnight he responded quickly, found us, and towed us across the Tehachapi Mountains to Porterville, arriving home at 7 a.m. We were all exhausted. Dad went on to work but only after insisting I go to school. My three friends stayed home that day and slept in but I learned that Dad’s sense of commitment and honor were greater than his or my need to sleep.
Dad was like Will Rogers. Everybody who knew him liked him, and he liked everyone, regardless of wealth or color or any other artificial barrier. My sister said she couldn’t recall him ever criticizing anyone. Maybe that was why he was elected to a term in the Oklahoma House of Representatives.
While there he was still a family man. His older children became Pages, carrying notes to other Representatives, or running errands. When he was off duty he took them to the park, to ride the train, and to see the zoo. He wanted his children to learn constantly, have fun, and be active.
As a coach he wanted everybody to know the value of teamwork. His rags to riches basketball team almost won the state title. His team always prayed before a game and he’d give a pep talk. “We’ve got to be strong. You don’t want to be the weak link that breaks the whole team. You’ve got to work together.”
Dad loved the outdoors and working the soil. He plowed the larger plots with a tractor. When he grew older he could often be found in his back yard on his hands and knees, planting onions, tomatoes, okra, and anything else he had room for. We were volunteered into his labor force but soon learned to appreciate breathing fresh air, working God’s green earth, and eating the fruits of our labor.
Dad was always busy. Besides being a superintendent of schools, a coach, a restaurant owner, and a state Representative, he found time to serve God. He was a youth leader and Deacon, served on committees, preached in jails, and attended as many church services as he could, always carrying his well-thumbed through Bible. He would study and pray, searching for answers, ready to offer advice when asked. He went out of his way to help when anyone was in need and in return appreciated what anyone did for him. He was humble, never bragging about things he did or gave, keeping those things between himself and God.
He thought his life would be over when he turned 72 because that’s how old his father had been when he’d died. But after awhile Dad got tired of waiting to die and went on with life. He began working weekends at local swap meets, selling books and baby furniture, meeting strangers and handing out religious pamphlets and tracts. He was 5% successful. As an explanation for the percentage Dad liked to tell about the man who proudly said he made 3 to 5 per cent each weekend. Dad was not impressed until he learned that the man really meant 300 to 500 percent and did not understand percentages.
At night, either when we were camping or at home, Dad often heard us saying, “Dad, tell us a story,” and we’d hear “Queen, Calico”, or “Can’t do Nothing til Martin Comes”. Often he would tell us about being in a graveyard, crouching behind a headstone and hearing what he thought was a conversation between Satan and God as they bargained over souls. “You take one and I’ll take one.” He would pause, waiting for questions or waiting for someone to ask him to continue. We loved to hear some of the stories again and again because we were never quite sure how they would end. He embellished the stories frequently for our enjoyment.
Dad was full of vim and vinegar, or what you might call being ornery. He loved to tease, to get a rise out of someone. Then he would laugh and laugh. He loved to tease because he firmly believed that God has a sense of humor.
Dad was also a man of action because he did heroic deeds. At a church picnic near a river, a boy waded out too far and began floundering. Of all the people there, Dad noticed him, slipped off his shoes, dove in, and was pulling him to shore before the rest of the crowd realized what was happening. It wasn’t the only time. When my older brother was ten years old and swimming in deep water, he began sinking. Unable to call out, he could have drowned, but Dad came running barefoot across gravel and stones to rescue him.
That’s how I’ll remember Dad. He was a role model and bigger than life. He was heroic at times, but usually was simply there, a man willing to spend time with his children. He was a busy man but always had time for God. I’ll remember Dad on Father’s Day for all his attributes because I want to be just like him.

By Dan Roberson

Exercise is Fun

The Benefits of Exercise

Don’t ask me if I do anything exciting. Just walking my Labradors can be exciting. On a peaceful Sunday afternoon I took them for a walk. Well, not just a walk. I noticed they were really anxious to go out so I thought I would just wear them down and get some exercise at the same time. So what better exercise than to rollerblade while they got their exercise by pulling me around the block, down the streets, along the sidewalks, until they got really tired.
They were a little more hyperactive than I had imagined. The first six blocks were really exciting as they ran at a gallop, while I just blithely pretended to be a skier behind a boat as they strained against their leashes. They frothed at the mouth, feeling the freedom of running.
The first three miles wasn’t bad, but I noted that everyone was not as cheerful as me, as they saw the two large dogs bearing down on them with me in tow. The lady with the baby stroller and the small child didn’t quit screaming until we were out of sight, but I suppose she was an exception. Most people didn’t react quite that severely. I also admit to a little fear crossing the intersections at full speed, dodging and swerving past the oncoming cars. But my senses soon became numbed by overload. All was quite fine as I hung on, and I began to relax and enjoy the scenery–at least until “the CAT”.
A cat lay on the sidewalk, dreaming of a faraway mouse, absorbing heat from the cement, seemingly unaware of impending disaster. Now at full speed, behind two already worn out dogs, I thought I should be able to order them to stop, to slow down, to heed my passionate pleas, because after all, I once trained dogs and I was thoroughly confident of my skills. Now as I look back at the situation I realize my confidence was poorly misguided.
The sudden surge of power and speed was exhilarating as I shouted to the dogs to stop, slow down, and whatever else I was calmly yelling at the time.
At that moment the cat woke from his dream, realized the peril from the approaching runaway team of dogs, and dashed across the street. The dogs followed suit, turning ninety degrees after the cat. Now here’s where I kind of lost track of what happened because the dogs and I parted company.
I tried to avoid the tree, the sidewalk, the street pavement, and other obstacles that suddenly flashed before me. Fortunately I found some fairly soft earth but released my hold on the dogs. They immediately shifted into a higher gear.
I’m not going to recount the rest of the story because I don’t know what happened to the cat. It took me fifteen minutes of calling, pleading, and threatening to find the dogs and get them back. So today I am sore, but wiser. But you know, I do think it’s almost time to take a walk again.

By Dan Roberson

The Sturgeon

The Sturgeon

Fishermen are known to tell tales. I used to be one who stretched the truth on occasion just to make a dull day of fishing seem more interesting. Sometimes, however, the truth was even more exciting than anything I could make up.
One Saturday I went striped bass fishing with my friend, Don. While I was a good fisherman, Don was a great one. Not only did he talk about catching big fish, he actually caught fish even when others were complaining about the fish not biting. I enjoyed fishing with Don most of the time but sometimes he drove me crazy.
Don was not always patient. Sometimes, when things were slow, he would yank his fishing pole, whooping and hollering about the big one he had on his line. Often, it was just make-believe because Don hated sitting there doing nothing. It was kind of like the boy calling wolf. Usually I just ignored Don when he was going through his antics.
This particular Saturday morning had been particularly dull. After two hours, we were still anchored in Don’s twelve foot Jon boat by a sand bank on the Sacramento River waiting for striped bass. The sun was high and hot and we were baking in the heat. The sardine baits evidently were not enticing to any self respecting striper and we didn’t like the way things were going. Although we thought stripers would be running at the edge of the sandbank, the shade on the opposite bank was enticing.
“Let’s just go over in the shade and eat lunch,” Don said. “We’re not catching anything anyway.”
We reeled in our bait, started the motor and pulled over into the shade. We dropped anchor where the water was deeper and swifter. The air was definitely cooler. We put fresh sardines on the hooks and cast out again. Then we got out our sandwiches and cokes, put our feet up, and relaxed.
We were not there long before Don began trying to reel in his line. It did not budge. He tugged this way and that, trying to shake his line free. “I’m snagged,“ he announced. I watched for a few minutes, glad that my line was still free. Don by now had changed his tone. “I’ve caught a big one!” he shouted.
I could tell he was just trying to drum up some excitement and shake boredom. I feigned interest. “What did you catch?” I asked.
Rather than continue with the pretense of catching something big, Don shrugged and said, “I think I’ve snagged bottom. I can’t get my line loose either.” He started the engine and moved upstream and began tugging again. He put the end of his rod down and cranked the reel as hard as he could. “I’m either going to pull my hook loose or break my line,” he insisted. “Whoops, there it is. It’s loose, but it’s not free yet. It must be a log.” He lifted the nose of the rod higher. “Now it’s coming loose.” Then his smile turned to a frown. “I don’t understand. The log is moving upstream against the current.” Then he smiled again. “I think I’ve got a big striper hooked.”
I doubted that he was telling the truth, but suddenly the line became taut. His pole bent and the line began pouring off his reel. And yes, indeed, something was heading up river.
Don frantically tried to start the engine, all the while yelling at me, “Pull up the anchor! We’ve got to go where this fish is going.” With the anchor up we should have been drifting downstream with the current. Instead we were being pulled up river, boat and all.
For over a mile, we were towed by this underwater denizen. Other fishermen in boats stayed out of our way. They shouted encouragement and gave their opinions about what we should do. “Cut your line on that monster.” “Work your way over to a sandbank and try to pull it on shore.” “If you get it close to the boat, club it with your oar.” “Tie a rope to its tail.”
“Borrow someone’s pistol and shoot it.” Wisdom from these fishermen wasn’t what we wanted to hear. After all, we hadn’t even seen this monster fish yet.
Then I noticed droplets of water on Don’s line. He was gradually working the fish, tiring it out, bringing it in towards the boat. I got the net ready, thinking this large net was more than enough for the largest striper we would find in this river.
“Get ready,” Don panted. We could see the line coming in, and then going back out. “The fish should be showing up anytime.” He kept reeling, slowly gaining as he fought the fish. Then there were bubbles, a sure sign something was close. I leaned over, anticipating slipping the large net over the fish, just like I had done many times before.
Out of the depths, a horrible sight emerged. “Oh my gosh! He’s coming right for me!” I yelled. I gathered myself, thinking that if that fish got into the boat, then I’d have to get out.
With wide open mouth bigger than a dinner plate, the fish lunged towards me. Its eyes were yellow and catlike, its mouth fringed with ugly and menacing whiskers. Its back had prehistoric scales. It was ugly, real ugly. Worst of all, the fish seemed longer than the boat, big and wide. In reality, the fish was probably no longer than eight or nine feet, weighing 350 to 450 pounds. I couldn’t tell for sure. I only knew it dwarfed any fish I had ever seen and it scared me just a little. Okay, I was really scared! I gathered my courage. I looked at the fish, then the net, and back at the fish. “There is no way, Jose, that you’re going to fit in this net. But I’m going to try anyway.”
I lowered the net towards the fish but it looked at me in disdain. Then, with one last glance at me, it rolled over, gave a flip of its tail and dove down, deep into the river. “Holy smoke,” I muttered. “What kind of fish is that?” Don had not released his grip on the pole and was renewing the battle. “That’s a sturgeon,” he gasped. “I’ve seen small sturgeons in this river, but this one is by far the biggest.”
The fish now headed downstream and we passed other boats, other fishermen with new advice, and one man who handed us a large gaff. “Just in case the sturgeon gets close again,” he said. The gaff looked formidable but I was doubtful it could handle the sturgeon. “Let’s forget about the gaff,” I said. “Let’s bring the sturgeon to shallow water and tie a rope around its tail.” Don was silent for a few seconds, but since the sturgeon was still pulling us downstream and still had energy, he shook his head and replied, “I don’t think so. The fish is still green.”
For over an hour we were towed by the sturgeon. I heard Don announce again, “Here he comes! He should be tired this time.” “I hope so,” I replied as I lifted the gaff and got ready for the onslaught.
The fish appeared again, bursting from the water. Then it lay alongside the boat, gasping for air, but eyeing me warily. I struck with the gaff, hoping the sharp point would plunge deep into the sturgeon. The sturgeon slid sideways, avoiding a direct hit, and the gaff’s point glanced off. The giant appeared irritated and with new found strength swept his mighty tail, drenching us, and then dove again.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t gaff him,” Don said. “He would have pulled you right out of the boat.”
That really made me feel secure. I could have been spiraling underwater right now, being pulled by that monster. Was there any way to stop him?
Don played tug of war with the fish for thirty minutes more before I saw bubbles again rising. As my gaze followed the line upward I noticed there were grooves worn into the eyelets on his fishing pole. I looked again at the line. It was frayed and looking very fragile. “Don, how much longer do you think it’ll take before you can land this fish?” So far the sturgeon had been on the line for over three hours and I was hoping it would be completely tired the next time it broke water. I looked at Don more closely. He, too, looked worn out, but there was still a determined glint in his eyes.
The sturgeon surfaced again and quietly rolled next to the boat. It lay there, motionless. “Uh, Don, why don’t we get this fish to shallow water and tie a rope around its tail?” “Just gaff him and let’s get it over with,” he croaked hoarsely.
I lowered the gaff into the water and yanked upward. At that moment the waves from a large passing boat bounced us around. The sturgeon changed direction with an oncoming wave and our boat moved away. The gaff scratched the skin and turned the monster over, but did not pierce into the flesh. Moreover, in the same motion, the gaff arced away in a direction I had not intended. To my horror, the gaff sliced through the fishing line. The sturgeon floated six feet away, and then with one last look at us, swished a mighty spray of water in our direction, and dove, never to be seen again.
Both Don and I sat motionless for a few minutes. I was ashamed to have let Don’s prize get away. He was just too tired to move. Finally he just said, “Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.” I apologized profusely. “I’m really sorry.” “It’s okay,” he muttered. “It still had too much strength left. It would have pulled you in.” But looking at his exasperated expression made me think he would have preferred me being in the river, trying to bring in his fish, rather than saying “I’m sorry.”
We didn’t tell anyone about the sturgeon for several weeks because we weren’t sure anyone would believe us without any fish, any pictures, or any other evidence. It was just a big fish story. Later that year, however, a 450 pound sturgeon was caught in the Sacramento River. Perhaps that was Don’s fish, the one that towed us up and down the river, the one I lost, the one I could not tell other people about. I saw this fish up close, with its cat-like eyes, long whiskers, and prehistoric scales. I did not have to make it up or exaggerate in the telling. It was true enough to make me scared and to look in the water carefully any time I went fishing after that. In any case I want people to know that in some of these rivers there are fish that can make memories, or nightmares, depending on who’s telling the tale.

By Dan Roberson
Nov. 25, 2008

Snake Tales

Rattlesnake Tales

Rocky Hill had few trees and lots of rocks and cliffs. It was just the place for climbing and an adventure. By picking my way slowly and pulling myself up some rocks I thought I would be able to gradually work my way to the summit. From there I would be able to see the whole valley stretched out before me. I planned my route and calculated my time from start to finish. To add to the fun I invited three friends, Tom, Linda, and Kathleen, to go with me. Tom and I would carry the picnic supplies up to the top and while all of us surveyed the world we would dine in leisure. I was nineteen, bold, brave, and thought I could do anything and everything. I still had much to learn.
The next day we packed our lunches and started out at 9 a.m., late enough to miss the morning chill, but early enough to still be cool as we wove our way through the rocks, climbing those that stood in our way, backtracking and changing course when necessary. Tom and I carried the backpacks easily at first but the rocky terrain and gravity gradually worked at us, and we stopped occasionally for a brief respite.
We were half way up the hill when we took five minutes to catch our breath, look up to see where we needed to go, and down to see where we had been. Ten feet just below us, on a rock ledge we had crossed a minute earlier, lay a snake. I studied it from my safe position, decided it was asleep, and made a quick, ridiculous plan. “Hey,” I announced. “There’s a large rattlesnake down there.” I pointed down and they noticed it for the first time. “I’m glad we didn’t find it and it didn’t find us,” Tom stated. I smiled and shook my head. “Let me see what I can do,” I said as I shed my backpack and started back down.
They watched in horror as I eased my way back down the cliff. I was fascinated with the snake and wary, but the rattlesnake was oblivious to my presence. It was lying in the middle of a four foot wide rock ledge. On one side of the ledge was a drop-off of twenty feet. The other side was a steep rock wall. I slipped up beside the snake, standing next to the drop-off. I picked up a large five pound rock and lifted it high over my head. “Watch this,” I said to my friends. I slammed the rock down on the serpent’s head. I watched in disbelief as the rock split in half. I had not noticed that the snake was lying in a fissure and the natural cleft had taken most of the force away from the snake.
The rattlesnake rose in fury, rising chest high and spinning round and round, its tongue flickering left and right, towards me and away from me. I could not step back without going over the sheer drop-off and the snake blocked my way in all other directions. I stood frozen, my blood cold, my heart pounding and ringing in my ears. Above me I could hear excited whispers but they made no sense. I could only focus on the snake’s eyes and tongue. It had been stunned by the blow, its senses dulled, and it continued turning its head to the left, to the right, and finally looked directly at me. I was sure the snake was focused on me, looking deeply into my eyes and soul. I stared back, unable to move or breathe. Seconds slipped by. It seemed like an eternity. Finally the rattlesnake lowered itself and began gliding back into the crevice. I watched in amazement, weak and soaked with perspiration. I only moved after I saw the rattles disappear. I breathed deeply, feeling alive again. I glanced around making sure there were no other snakes before I clambered up the rocks to safety.
“I think that rattlesnake was way over seven feet in length,” Tom said later. “That was the biggest rattlesnake I’ve ever seen. I haven’t even heard about any rattlesnake that big. You could have been killed.”
“I had everything under control,” I murmured with false bravado, although I knew I had just had a close encounter with death.
We did not finish our climb, but opted to go home. The girls had lost their appetites. The picnic was over and Tom said he didn’t feel like continuing up the mountain. He also questioned my sanity so I finally agreed the outing was over but announced there would be a next time, a next place, and a new adventure.
I told this story over and over again, to believers and those who thought I made up the story. I thought no one listened but one day a new chapter developed. Some relatives and I were fishing along the rocky shore of a large lake. As we fished we exchanged yarns and stories to pass the time. My six year old nephew overheard me telling some friends about the rattlesnake and heard me warn them about snakes in the area. He continued playing in the sand by the edge of the lake, not paying attention to the fact we were getting farther away. He got up and began walking in our direction. The walk turned into a run. We heard a frightened cry, “Aaaaagh!” He ran terrified, trying to escape. Behind him trailed an unknown thing (Later he told us he thought it was a rattlesnake). What we saw was a clump of fishing line. It was caught on one of his shoes and no matter how fast he ran the fishing line jumped and ran with him. He screamed over and over as he raced to us, sure we could get rid of the snake. We were unable to keep from laughing as the scene unfolded before us. I grabbed him and pulled the line free from his shoe. The crisis was over. The snake was gone. Now he was mad because we had laughed at his predicament. It didn’t matter that we knew there was no snake after him. We had laughed at his expense. The snake had won once more.

By Dan Roberson 3/16/09

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