I found myself eyeball-to-eyeball with a rattlesnake while backpacking in the rugged Kern River Valley. We were fifteen miles from the nearest road, deep between 12,000-foot peaks, where even rescue helicopters would struggle to reach us.
Our group, six in number, were hiking the High Sierra Trail— a lesser-known sibling to the famed Pacific Crest Trail and John Muir Trail. That day we had descended about 5,000 feet towards the Kern River and our bodies were bone-tired after 15 knee-jarring miles. As the trail leveled out, I spotted a sign for Fungston Meadows, our destination. The trail brought us into a boggy area with knee-high grasses, fallen pine trunks, and a maze of debris. I should have recognized that this was the perfect habitat for rattlesnakes.
I was leading our group and stepped over a mossy pine log, brought my other foot over, and there he was, directly under me, his diamond head and green camouflaged body risen, positioned to strike my fleshy calf which was a mere 12 inches from his fangs. I froze for an instant (at least in my mind), threw my weight onto my hiking poles, and simultaneously yanked both feet back out of striking distance. Still poised to attack, the snake held its ground a moment more before retreating into the tall grass, its warning rattle now silent.
My heart was in my throat as I remained sprawled on top of my poles, my mind replaying his head mere inches from my calf. What if he’d struck? That was so close!
I stumbled backward into the arms of the fellow hiker behind me, poles flailing, my legs instantly wobbly. “A rattler, a rattler,” I screamed, “I was almost bit by a rattler!” The guys scanned the area and it quickly dawned on them that this swampy meadow was rattler heaven. We quickly agreed to head up the river for a few miles to find another camping spot.
After they had all gone, I lingered on the trail, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, my legs too wobbly to walk. I looked over at the huge cliffs opposite me and the steep canyon we’d hiked down, and it dawned on me how inaccessible we were. Oh my God, I thought, this could have been such a disaster.
It was two more miles to our next camping spot and as I walked I was overwhelmed by the closeness of my call—I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. We could so easily be texting an ER doc through our Garmin SOS.
I’ve had many close calls in my life. We all probably have. But this one stayed with me longer than usual. That night in my tent, it kept me awake. The next day I saw snakes around every bend in the trail. The next night I brought it up to the guys again and they smiled amusedly.
A day later, the group split up. Four of the guys headed north, me and my friend Guy, veered south toward Mount Whitney. As we snacked before parting, Tommy, a folksy, handsome, 55-year-old from Georgia, noticed I still wasn’t myself. In his deep southern drawl he said, “Ken, like with any close call, you just gotta figure out why you lived.”
As I write this, five years later, the question strikes me as a bit dramatic. But at the time, because the incident wouldn’t resolve itself within me, it seemed reasonable. Why did I live?
The next night Guy and I camped next to Guitar Lake, in the shadow of Mount Whitney. The following night, camp was made on the opposite side of Whitney after summiting it. Each day, Tommy’s comment jostled around my head.
Once we got off the mountain, after eight days of eating dehydrated meals, we ordered lunch at the Whitney Portal restaurant. On my plate was a juicy burger topped with a thick slice of tomato and white onion, a side of pickles, a glob of ketchup, all nestled next to a mountain of salty fries. I wondered, Ha! Maybe this is my why.
After bite one I thought, Yup, this could be it. After bite ten, Not a chance.
Well, it's now been five years since that encounter with the rattler and I’ve thought a lot about Tommy’s comment, “…you just gotta figure out why you lived.” It sounds like a good question and perhaps the right question. I came up with reasons like, so I can see my grandkids grow up, or so I can see my sons do well, or so I can serve God in some unique way.
But I’ll be honest, those strike me as a bit Hallmarky and a bit narcissistic and a little too center-of-the-universe.
Because I’m not sure it is the right question for me. I think it’s God’s.
I think my question, after a close call, is So now what? How will this near miss affect me?
Okay, now there is a question I can answer.
I’m not going to let this near miss, nor any others, just pass from my mind as quickly as they came in. I’m going to think about my encounters, thank God for the miss, and remind myself how quickly things can change.
I’m going to be humble, reminding myself what the Bible says: “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”
Tommy, I’m sorry my brother, I poo-pooed your good question. But I came up with my own and it brought me clarity. Thanks Tommy and thanks rattler.