Last weekend we ventured over the Cascade divide to the dry, east side of our fair state. We spent three nights in a sort of modified shed at Rimrock Lake, about 10 miles east of White Pass. Saturday morning, we woke to snow covering the trees perhaps a few hundred feet above us. Before we could walk out the door, snow began to fall at our shed. I do love spring in the Cascades. None of the snow stuck at our elevation but when we drove up the pass, we soon encountered a couple inches on the road. Being the brave people we are not, we turned around and returned to the lower, drier desert.

Two days later, after the temperatures had returned toward more acceptable, we hiked in Waterworks Canyon, a few miles west of Naches. A small creek runs intermittently through lovely basalt cliffs dotted with color sparks of lupine and balsamroot and phlox. Perched high on a rim, a chukar, a non-native partridge, looked very hawkish, until I zoomed in with my binoculars and noted that the bird was rather stout compared to the svelte outline of a bird of prey. We had hoped to see bighorn sheep, which people regularly report, but alas, no luck for us.

We did, however, meet with one of our favorite desert denizens, the western rattlesnake (Crotalus oreganus). Marjorie was the first to see the serpent. Although I like to think of myself as the observant one, I can think of several times in the past few years that she heard or saw a rattlesnake before I did. This has occurred on trails, once in a parking lot, and once in a driveway. I also remember one time when she trailed me and a pal on a hike and yelled “Stop. Did you realize that you just stepped over a rattlesnake?” The snake was dead but still…she was the one to see it, hence she is my rattlesnake dowser.

On our most recent encounter, I had stopped at a creek crossing. The previous mile had been hot and exposed so a break (with squished PBJs on homemade bread….mmmm!) under the dense vegetation was in order. As I was standing by the water, Marjorie pointed out the snake I had not seen on the other side, about 8 feet from me. “Oh, it’s a rattlesnake,” she said, not because of the snake warning us but because Marjorie had noticed the rattles. We didn’t seem to bother the serpent, who simply began to move slowly across the trail. Slithering along, the handsome beast periodically stopped and tongue flicked.

Eventually the snake crossed the trail and curled up. We ate our yummy sandwiches and watched the well-camouflaged reptile, which seemed to watch us. Isn’t that what we humans always think—that everyone notices us? My theory is that the snake didn’t really give two hoots about us. If you look at the video above, you can see that about two-thirds down body, a slight bulge appears. We speculated that this was the reason the snake neither rattled nor moved away; why bother worrying too much when you have a full stomach. Of course, the cool of the trees and shrubs and water may also have played a role in keeping the snake calm.

On the photo above, you can count nine rattles. This does not mean that the snake has lived nine years, or even has had nine lives, like a cat. All it means is that the snake has shed his or her skin nine times; rattlers add a rattle each time they shed their skin, which occurs two to four times a year. Plus, rattles periodically break off; so the number of rattles tells you nothing about age. This myth has persisted since its first appearance in print—in 1615—in Francisco Hernandez’s Four Books on the Nature and Virtues of Plants and Animals for Medicinal Purposes in New Spain.

When we left the creek, about 45 minutes after arriving, the snake was still curled up, periodically tongue flicking, but mostly motionless. Watching the forked tongue was pretty darned cool, to say the least. What an amazing way to detect the world, to stick out your tongue and taste aromas that create a map and provide guidance to one’s surroundings. Although Aristotle thought that a forked tongue allowed a snake to double the pleasure of taste, more modern research has proposed that the twain creates a stereoscopic field of observation; depending on the strength of the signal in each fork, a snake can detect which direction, for example, a prey is traveling.

Marjorie first noticed the other snake we saw, too. This one was dead and on a dirt road, which seemed to get limited vehicle traffic. Stretched out, the gray reptile appeared to be napping. Upon closer inspection, we noticed a bit of red and some viscera, as well as what looked like a puncture wound. We concluded that the snake (what I think was a western racer) had arrived via the sky; some sort of bird had grabbed a slithering meal, only to have the snake attack or wriggle out of the bird’s talons. Unfortunately for the snake, gravity called and upon hitting the ground, the combination of death grip and meeting the substrate at terminal speed resulted in death. At least that’s the story we concocted.

Over the years, I have long appreciated Marjorie’s snake noting skills. Mostly, they give us the opportunity to interact with a serpent that we might have passed by. But occasionally, and I would include our recent creekside encounter as one of them, her abilities prevented us (aka me) from stepping into harms way. Always great to have one more reason to appreciate her!

June 16, 2026 - 7pm - Third Place Books, Lake Forest Park - I will be chatting with Kevin Fedarko about his book A Walk in the Park. Here’s a link to register for this here event.

A sad note. Paul Dorpat, Seattle’s great public historian and founder of our local Now and Then series, died Wednesday. Generous with his time, savvy with his wit, and always willing to share and discuss Seattle history, Paul inspired and contributed to my work, and to countless others, in innumerable ways. He was one of a kind and he will be missed.

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