Chapter 10: The Snake Hunt

The winter passed quickly for Graydon with school, homework, homestead chores, and Christmas. Chinook winds in February brought a sudden thaw to the deep snows. The runoff turned fields into lakes and roadside ditches into torrents. The thaw was followed by a hard freeze and snowfall that locked the valley into another six weeks of winter.

He savored his weekend cross-country ski treks across Wolf Creek and up to the old lodge, or up the mountain to the Virginian Ridge ranch where he enjoyed pleasant afternoons with Jim and Vi.

Spring finally arrived. The snow turned rotten and ran off in torrents. Rivers and creeks overflowed their banks and spread across the cottonwood bottoms. The surging muddy waters undercut the stream banks. Trees tottered and fell, clinging by their roots until those too were jerked loose and the trees rolled away downstream, flinging up their branches like drowning victims in the rushing flood. They piled in log jams against the river bends. When the floods receded these jams would create dark pools sheltering native trout.

Spring woke the hibernating groundhogs. They sunned themselves on the rock piles. Graydon’s rifle, the gift from his father, was missing. Dee confronted Alex Sr. She learned he pawned the rifle for $50. Graydon left the house. He hiked as far up Wolf Creek as the snows would let him go. He sat alone in the timber, wondering to himself how a man could steal from his own family. It took a month and a small miracle, but somehow Dee and Graydon were able to find the money to redeem it. Alex Sr. never apologized. He grumbled in anger that he needed the money and was entitled to take anything in the house whenever he wanted it.

A bitter experience of a different sort happened later that spring. 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 scattering out into their summer range along the slopes above the river. Graydon heard older students talking about their weekend spent “denning.” He heard them say they went up the rock slopes to the dens with pitchforks and shotguns. Those with the forks would scoop up the snakes and pitch them out onto the open ground. Others with shotguns would blast 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’re 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. The largest of the students walked up to him and shoved his hand against Graydon’s chest.

“No damned pansy-assed queer is gonna tell me I can’t shoot them 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 to sit alone 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 that enclosed it on two sides and made it almost invisible from the road above. As a young bachelor, Ken hand-dug a pond, planted dozens of varieties of trees and shrubs around it, built a rambling three-bedroom house and workshop with big glass windows that faced the pond, then built 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, on Friday evening, Alex Sr. came storming onto the porch and slammed the house 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 table. Heart in his throat, he set his book down and descended the steep, narrow staircase to the landing 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 assholes 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 not 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 table, and in drill-sergeant fashion finally approached to put his face a few inches away from Graydon’s face where he continued to read Graydon the riot act. Dee Johns stood sad-faced in the kitchen doorway. Alex Jr. stayed upstairs in his room, probably glad to be completely away from this scene.