I was almost sick of eating rattlesnake that summer.

I had had rattlesnake chili, sauteed rattlesnake, rattlesnake stew--just missing creamed rattlesnake on toast and cold rattlesnake salad. True, the meat was surprisingly delicate, and to me it tasted a little of fish. It was easy to cook. But enough was enough, and I hoped that the rattlesnakes that were left in Sonoita, Arizona, would, at last, heed our warning: "Outside the fence and you're free. Inside the fence and you're meat."  

Now, we weren't some kind of yahoos who killed endangered species for the sport of it or anything of the sort. We didn't even hunt. As a matter of fact,  we were about 80% pure in those days when it came to environmentally sound, compassionate  living. The ranch was  wind- and solar-powered in the range lands of southern Arizona. We pumped our own water, except for the rain water collection system that we used for washing dishes, floors and watering plants . We solar-heated our house, grew most of our own veggies, milked our own goats, free-ranged our own chickens and set aside plenty of room with brush cover and flowers to give wildlife a happy home. All our cleaning products were  derived from nature, or at least were labeled "environmentally sound".  But there were limits.  

That summer, the rattlesnake world decided to hold its annual convention at our place. They were all over the place, and they were unnerving. Whenever I heard a buzz, I jumped, liked one of Pavlov's dogs--only not as gracefully.  

We found Honkey, our huge, blind white cat swatting at a coiled diamondback on the hill above the house one day. Heart in throat, I called him loudly away, and, when that didn't work, gave the rescue work over to Steven, my husband, who was a crack shot. The danger here, of course, was that he had to shoot and hit the snake and not the cat. He couldn't miss because if he did, the snake might strike and the cat would take it in the neck. And if the snake split, he had to make sure it was in a safe direction. He pitched a few stones at the cat and hit him on the side. Fortunately, Honkey jumped back instead of forward and marched off in a huff. Then Steven shot. He hit the snake dead on. We were both astonished. There was, unfortunately, the issue of what to do with the carcass. Steven beheaded it, skinned it and presented me with a packet of meat. Because it was the first, I was excited and hunted for recipes. In a slight variation on a French theme, we had sauteed rattlesnake with green beans almondine on the side.  

Not long after, I stepped over a snake on the way back from the milking shed. Fortunately, it had a Colorado River Toad (it was that time of year) in its mouth and was paralyzed at the time. We bagged it and took it to the area dump. No question of eating that one.  

Steven discovered the next one rattling on the hill behind his workshop. He shot it, skinned it and presented me with the meat again. It was big, so I made a stew and froze half for the winter when we were sure the snakes would be gone.  

And  Steven himself was curing the skins to give as Christmas gifts--a delicate proposition and one which required detailed knowledge of his recipients' cardiac health.   

The next snake  actually came from the road. Steven saw the driver in front of him hit it, not quite killing it, so he leaped off his motorcycle (after stopping it) and lopped the head. The body was intact and it hadn't bitten itself, as snakes are wont to do. More freezer fill.      

We hosted a chili cookoff  at our place that summer. The only rules were that the chili had to be out of the ordinary. There was an amazing range of entries from exotic cookbooks, including chile mole, pineapple chili and a pork and rice concoction from Thailand. Ours, of course, had pedestrian ingredients, except for the rattlesnake.  

That year I happened to work with a doctor who was developing an antivenin for rattlesnake poisoning. He educated me at length about the process and said that one big problem with the previously accepted antidote was that it was grown in horse serum to which many people are highly allergic. So, even though they were saved from death by rattler, they bit the dust from the  antivenin. He had perfected a way to purify it and used another medium to grow it in. He took me to the lab where the snakes were milked for their venom. It was behind a couple of locked doors in the bowels of the clinics building at the University Hospital. I spent a great deal of time talking to the wrangler/keeper who said that he only kept individual snakes for a predetermined time, and then he set them free in the wild.  

"Where is that?" I asked. I hoped to get pictures of a release.  

He grew defensive. He hedged. He finally announced that he wouldn't tell anyone that piece of information. Too much chance of it slipping out to the wrong ears. He wanted these suckers to live long lives.  

As the summer wore into autumn, there were fewer and fewer snakes around. My defenses waned. All of us were alive and well, except for a chicken which had gotten too close to a brush pile.  

I had a huge basket of clean clothes in my arms and had just opened the door to the sunroom one evening when I heard that sound. A buzz. Loud. Next to me. Like an angry cicada. For an instant. I jumped inside and dropped the basket.  Then cautiously opened the door. The rattler was coiled between the house and the car door- about a foot from the door. I slammed it and went to the phone. I was home alone, so I called a neighbor.  

She said she'd send her husband over to help me out. I peered out the door again. The snake had disappeared. I heard a buzz from somewhere inside the sunroom. I retrieved my gun from the dresser drawer, under the t-shirts, where it usually lived. It was loaded. If I shot at the snake and missed, which was likely, it would hide and it would be angry. I felt that was a dangerous combination--and waited.  

When Rocky walked up the driveway, he had a pitchfork in his hand. "I always kill them with this," he said.  

We searched the sunroom and found the victim behind a grocery bag. I felt a twinge of pity. Even though rattlers are dangerous, I still think they're beautiful with a precision that is hypnotizing. I didn't want this one dead--just gone. But by then, Rocky had speared it. It thrashed around a while and Rocky removed the rattles for his son.  

"What do you want done with it?"  

"Put it in this box," I answered. "Steven will want to skin it."  

He slid the body into the box, closed it tightly and left. Although I was nervous because I heard movement from in there, I waited to give Steven his surprise.  

He arrived home late. He had a beer in his hand. I said I had a gift for him and pointed at the box on a chest near the door.  He opened it. The snake coiled out.  

"Holy Christ! Are you trying to kill me woman?"  

I learned then that a snake isn't well and truly dead until its head is off and buried. I learned then that a dead snake makes a poor welcome home gift.  

I was relieved I didn't have to eat it.

Author's Biography

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