Rattled

I had enjoyed a fantastic morning of birding. I was in Orange County to lead a Mental Health First Aid training the next day in Costa Mesa. Since I had never birded in California, I flew in a couple of days early so that I would have time to bird. I birded several local eBird hotspots the first full day, racking up 20 new lifers. Wanting more, I decided to spend my final day before the training in a different habitat. I asked a non-birder friend for any advice on finding higher elevation with forests and he recommended going up toward Lake Arrowhead. Early the next morning, I headed for the mountains.

The mountains did not disappoint. I stopped at several pullouts along the mountain roads and adding a couple more new birds to my list. I saw a sign for Lake Gregory and decided to check it out, leading me to add six more birds to my life list, including the Western Bluebird—a bird that was near the top of my target list.

After Lake Gregory, I visited two small picnic areas in the San Bernadino National Forest. At the Bayless Park Picnic Area I picked up two more lifers. However, it was what happened at the next park that was thwarting my sleep that evening.

At 3,300 feet elevation, the Switzer Park Picnic Area is another small park managed by the U.S. Forestry Service. Before I exited by rental car, I was pleased to hear a Red-breasted Nuthatch, not a lifer but a new California bird. I began birding in the small empty parking lot before strolling among the 26 picnic tables, snapping a few photos of wildflowers and a Clouded Sulphur butterfly. I found a narrow paved path that looped down to a lookout. Not much avian activity was taking place. I began working my way back toward the car when I heard a sound I did not recognize. Out came my Merlin app. Holding my phone out in front of me, I slowly made my way toward the sound. I ventured off the path, making a shortcut to another path that would take me in the direction of the unfamiliar call.

I continued a few feet on this new path, again with outstretched arm holding my phone while hoping Merlin would alert me to a new bird. As I walked, my eyes were in a constant rotation between the app and the bushes from where I thought the bird would be. Thankfully, I happened to look away from the app and the bushes to glance down. With a jolt of fear, I jumped back. A large black snake was stretched across the path. Two more steps and I would have landed on it. I quickly surveyed it and couldn’t help but notice the tail. A rattle!  We birders know to look for distinctive features and I found one.

I had never seen a rattlesnake in the wild, but here I was staring at a Southern Pacific Rattlesnake. I immediately thanked God that I had not stepped on it, grateful I had avoided a venomous snake bite. I hung nearby for a couple minutes and snapped a few photos, before heading back to my car, unable to shake what I had just seen. I was rattled.

That night as I lay in bed, I thought about how the day could have gone. Had I been bitten, I probably could have called 911 or managed the 40 yards to the nearby highway for help. I would probably have been one of the venomous snake bite survivors. However, while I might have avoided death, it could have landed me in a hospital for the day and prevented me from leading the training the next day. A wonderful day of birding could have ended so poorly.

Sleepless in Costa Mesa, I was also angry with myself. Just two weeks earlier, as I worked on my book, I interviewed a fellow birder whose son was bitten by a rattlesnake as they searched for a Yellow-breasted Chat. I wrote a couple of pages on how to play it safe with snakes, yet on this day I had failed to take the necessary precautions I preached. I thought back to where I had been earlier in the day, climbing on rocks and scaling barren mounds of dirt on roadside pullouts. I had ventured off pathways, never giving any thought to what may have been lurking in the tall grass and forest debris. I was wearing my thinnest hiking pants and having room in my suitcase for only one pair of hiking shoes, I was wearing my low-tops. Worst of all, I was birding alone and intoxicated with the thrill of finding new birds, numb to my surroundings—except for birds.

I learned, once again, that knowing what to do is not the same as doing it. Knowing how to bird safely is not the same as birding safely. Knowledge is only helpful if we apply it.

Bird Well. Bird Safe.