Chapter 10: The Snake Hunt

The winter passed quickly for Graydon. School classes, homework, homestead chores, Christmas, the February chinook winds that brought a sudden thaw to the deep snows and turned the fields into lakes and the roadside ditches into torrents, followed by a hard freeze and a snowfall that locked the valley into another six weeks of winter; everything mixed his days into a hurried winter passage.

Weekends allowed time for cross-country ski treks, either across Wolf Creek and up to the old lodge, or up the mountain to Virginian Ridge ranch and a pleasant afternoon with Jim and Vi.

Soon, spring was upon them; the snow turned rotten and despite the fickle March days of incessantly cold north winds and hard freezes after sundown, the snow melted and ran away in rushing torrents down flooded rivers and creeks, overflowing their banks, spreading across the willow breaks and cottonwood bottoms, and tearing away dead-fallen trees and undercutting stream banks until trees tottered and fell. They lay where they fell, clinging by their roots until those too were torn loose and the trees, rolling sideways and lifting their forlorn branches like a drowning victim in the rushing river, piled up in log jams thrust against bends and bars. When the floods receded these jams might be stranded high and dry on the gravel bars, but more often at sharp bends they would shelter cool pools and give cover for native trout, steelhead, salmon and whitefish.

Spring woke the hibernating groundhogs and they sunned themselves on the rock piles. Graydon discovered that his rifle, the gift from his father, was missing. His mother confronted Alex Sr. She learned he had taken the rifle during one of his trips back to work and had pawned it for $75. Graydon spent the rest of that day alone, hiking as far up Wolf Creek as the snows would let him go, where he sat on a fallen log, alone in the timber, and wondered to himself how a man could steal from his own family. It took a month and a small miracle, but somehow Dee Johns and Graydon were able to scrape together the money and they redeemed it. Alex Sr. never spoke of it, erupting in anger that he needed the money and was entitled to anything in the house whenever he wanted it. Graydon swallowed another bitter experience.

Another bitter experience came later that spring when the sun warmed the talus slopes of the valley's east side cliffs and the rattlesnakes of the Goat Wall dens came out of hibernation. They warmed themselves on the sun-drenched rocks before spreading out into their summer range a mile or two away along the slopes above the river. Graydon heard older students talking about their weekend spent "denning." He heard them explain that it involved scrambling up the rock slopes to the dens with pitchforks and shotguns. Those with the forks would scoop up the sunning snakes and pitch them into the air or onto the open ground, while others with shotguns would blast away, killing the rattlers as quickly as they could reload and fire.

"That's wrong, just plain wrong!" Graydon spoke, raising his voice to be heard, walking up to confront the students. "It's wrong, and you have no idea the damage you are doing, killing so many snakes for no good reason. They're part of the balance; they keep the voles and mice, the rodents, under control; the snakes protect your hayfields."

The students stood, mouths gaping, shocked as if some Communist agitator had just shouted "Bury America!" Graydon stood, his face red and angry, and the largest of the students walked right up to him and shoved his hand against Graydon's chest.

"No damn pansy-assed queer is gonna tell me I can't shoot some damned rattlesnakes anytime I want. Me and Pa and his friends do it every year when they come out. We hate the damned things. Ain't nobody around here wants to get snake-bit, you weird little faggot, so crawl out of here before I whip your stupid ass!"

This was a fight he could only lose and it wouldn't change anything. Graydon spun on his heel and walked down the hallway, finally stopping at the library room and taking his usual refuge seat at a corner table.

"I could hear you all the way down the hall with those ranch kids," Mrs. Granger, the librarian, commented from her desk. "You are right about the snakes, but you were wrong to confront them about it. There's nothing anybody can do to change their mind, and now they have something else to hate ... you!" she said.

Mrs. Granger was the wife of the man who passed for the valley's leading naturalist and conservationist. Ken Granger was a taxidermist who had single-handedly built one of the most beautiful river bottom homes in the valley, save for a few wealthy families who bought a different opulence for themselves. Ken's property had been a neglected corner of an alfalfa field tucked up against a barren hillside, enclosing it on two sides and making it almost invisible from the rural road above. As a young bachelor, Ken hand-dug a huge pond, planted dozens of varieties of trees and shrubs around it, built a rambling three-bedroom house and workshop with big glass windows that fronted the sweeping aquatic landscape, and then build an aviary and poultry house for an imported flock of exotic birds. It was a marvelous place and Graydon found himself in long discussions with Ken about the natural world and its environment.

It was another silent and lonely ride home on the school bus that day; he explained to his mother that there had been a confrontation at school, but no fight.

A few days later, Friday evening, Alex Sr. came storming onto the porch and slammed the main door open, nearly shattering it as it banged hard against the wall.

"Where the hell is that little shitass punk!? Graydon, where the hell are you?! Get your stupid ass down here, NOW!"

Graydon was upstairs studying at his small desk. Heart in his throat, he set his book down and descended the steep, narrow staircase to the doorway below, cautiously turning into the main room and wondering just what he'd done to be catching hell.

"I work my ass off all week and I put up with those dumb shits that call themselves job bosses. So I come home to have a few beers and shoot a little pool, and what the hell do I get thrown in my face? My goddamned little nature-lover boy has got half the valley convinced that we're a bunch of snake-kissers out here! Did you do that? Just what in hell is wrong with you, boy? Did you tell those ranch boys at school that them and their dads can't go shootin' rattlesnakes, fer crissakes?! Huh? Jeezus H. Christ, boy, don't just stand there playing with yer dick in your pocket! What in hell did you do?"

Graydon stared at his step-father, hands at his sides, careful neither to speak or let any expression cross his face. He knew very well that his step-father wanted no explanation or excuse or reasoning or any other words out of his mouth except "I'm sorry; I won't do it again." So he stood silent, while Alex Sr. raved and shouted and banged his huge fist on the wall, and in drill-sergeant fashion finally approached to put his face a few inches away from Graydon's face and he continued to read Graydon the riot act. Dee Johns stood silently in the kitchen doorway. Alex Jr. stayed upstairs in his bed, probably glad to be completely away from this scene.