Den of Snakes

We do not have a shortage of snakes.
In fact, Black Rat Snakes are often seen cruising our property--the fields, woods and outbuildings in this rural area providing plenty of small rodents to keep them well fed.
We appreciate them for the work they do.
And know full well how quickly we’d be overcome, were they not around.

In the summer months, the long black adults are the most obvious—hanging around the yard and hunting in the tall grasses. But with the arrival of fall, so does the next generation--the little Black Rat Snake hatchlings.

In years past, I’ve encountered them on the front lawn on a warm October afternoon, spreading out from what I guessed to have been their nest in the hollow sycamore. Through the crunchy dry leaves the small gray-striped bodies scurried, finding shelter in the woods beyond or beneath the flat rocks of my garden.

I’ve uncovered clutches of empty eggs in my compost pile several times, too, in November, as we cycle the rich brown dirt onto the garden, and prepare to fill it with newly fallen leaves. Dozens of leathery shells, dry and curled.
The small snakes, long gone.

So, today, when I stumbled upon 3 in the course of sweeping porches and gathering sticks from the lawn, back to that compost pile I went—and gingerly examined the contents.

Lifting the dry top crust gently, I found a loose, damp layer below. And lots and lots of eggs.
Seven nests in all, each with 17-20. All already hatched, but one with hatchlings still present. Snuggled together in the soft dark earth directly beneath it, wrapped in each others' gray-striped tails.

Black Rat Snake eggs in nest

hatchling emerging from dirt

hatchlings in nest below eggs

I do not see a shortage of snakes in our future.

newly hatched Black Rat Snakes with their eggs

Black Rat Snake hatchling and eggs


all photos click to enlarge

For more Camera Critters, look here!

What's for dinner?

There's a commotion outside the back door. Through the screen I hear the fussing of chickadees and blue-gray gnat catchers, at a tempo I cannot ignore. Stepping just into the woods, I can see the problem clearly.
Fred has left his neighborhood hangout again.


Six feet of Black Rat snake coursing along the vines and trees of our back woods never goes unnoticed. This time, though, he seems content to return home to our attic space, unfed.
Perhaps he's eating in tonight?

The hawthorn

From the kitchen window, I could barely see it.
A cardinal’s nest tucked high in the tangled branches of a small hawthorn.
It was the activity there, that caught my eye—Mama and Papa repeatedly arriving with fat, juicy green caterpillars for a family in a nest of sticks and stems.
But I never saw their faces, until Sunday.
When they caught someone else’s eye, too.



Even from an upstairs window, it was hidden well. Dense leafy branches and an occasional long thorn discouraged me from searching further.
A single broad reaching mouth, the only visible sign of life.


Papa was easy to recognize in the yard. A bad case of feather mites had eliminated every last remnant of his glorious red crest--his entire head, where he could not preen, bald and black. With a cheerful, “chip,” he tirelessly arrived with food.

By Sunday afternoon, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d probably never see the growing chick attached to the gaping mouth.
One day, she’d just be gone.
The messy sticks and stems would fall loose with autumn leaves.
And Papa would again be brilliantly feathered at the feeder.



But just then, from across the yard, an alarm sounded.
From the back, I came running to the base of their tree, while Mama and Papa looked on, frantically crying out.
Wrapped around the trunk, in a mass of vines—a large black rat snake slowly climbed through the branches.
The nest, just feet away.

In the time that it took me to release him back by the pond, all had grown quiet in the hawthorn.
An unsettling quiet that hinted of loss, and made me wonder if I had arrived on the scene moments too late.
I ran upstairs to peek down.
Yes, the nest was empty.


But at the very edge of the highest thorny branch, a fuzzy brown lump.
And a mouth that looked very familiar.

Fred's friends

I was distracted, sitting cross-legged in the grass just beyond the pasture—sunlight cast upon dewdrops, the finest glassy beads adorning burs…
A perfect picture for the taking, my back turned to the tall grass rimming the barn.



I can’t say exactly what turned my attention to him. For he sat motionless watching me through the tall strands.
A Black Rat snake.
And of good size.
Like Fred, but not Fred.



The day before, I’d found 2 young crossing the lawn, their gray and brown camouflage different from the black back, white belly of the adults. But having the same docile nature—and equally inquisitive climbers.

Warmed by the sun into activity.
Last fall’s hatchlings.
Pretty little things.

Black rat snakes can grow to 8 feet, but we seldom see them reach that. Often hit on the roads in this rural area by drivers that erroneously see their crossings as opportunities to kill a nuisance, they’re great mousers. And on our property with its many outbuildings, well fed.

Within an hour he was accustomed to my touch. Quite an armload at almost 5 feet, he held on tightly as I walked around the yard—strong constrictor muscles from his head to the tip of his tail.

Smelling and exploring this human who seemed to be nothing more than a substitute for a tree. His tail gripping my camera strap. Around and around he went.


Until I stopped at the farm fence—his invitation to dismount—and continued his hunting in the grass.

I hadn't found a snake as magnificent as Fred in 10 years.
We don't hang out together as much as I'd like. Fred takes his work of patrolling the attic space very seriously.
He prefers to hang out with the drainpipe.

"Fred"
spring 2008

A Sidewalk Going Nowhere, conclusion

(This story will make more sense, if you start here.)

It has been quiet for several days now.
A preliminary investigation of the premises has revealed the following:

Last weekend a small attic space was emptied of doll beds, spirograph wheels, beanbag chairs and all those must-have items that reside there for whatever small children at some time may come into our lives--and a panel removed connecting house to porch ceiling. From here, perhaps to get a glimpse of the stealthy creature or a tell-tale remnant of his passing.
Armed with flashlights and stooping low in the dark, unfinished space, we poked out our heads--prepared to meet anything from rats to raccoons, (or woodchucks, flying squirrels, gray squirrels, skunks, deer mice, bats,...) and found... nothing.

Carefully crawling from one joist to the next, every crack of daylight was evident, but none large enough to admit more than a wasp. The space behind the tall, 2-story wall, firmly sealed--no signs of forced entry. The intruder must have been let in through another point.

He'd covered his tracks well, and, although creating quite a commotion behind the tall wall, seemed to have left the immediate area undisturbed--taking nothing.

An outdoor inspection revealed a small gap in the soffit vent behind a gutter to be his point of entry. A canvass of the area turned up no eye-witnesses.

We secured the area, and continued surveillance for several days.
There has been no further indication of his presence.

Fred will continue to monitor the situation for evidence of undercover activity.

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.


Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox.


We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to nestle into for cool fall days.


In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.


When we first moved here fifteen years ago, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one evening, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, that evening the girls weren’t home—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice until dusk. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time they’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I relaxed in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and Fred was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. He's family.
In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the upstairs bathroom wall, and on warm, sunny afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.

Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests linger there, looking out our west-facing window.

Fred

We share our property with a good number of rat snakes.
Exactly what is a good number? Enough that we no longer make finding one a reason for finding someone else to share it with.
We’ve grown accustomed to finding eggs in the compost pile, hatchlings covering the lawn around the belly of our old hollow sycamore, and an occasional adult crossing the yard.
They’re welcome neighbors in this rural area. Outbuildings and bags of grain mean a steady supply of mice. We’d be up to our ears in the little whiskered critters, were it not for the snakes’ help.
Last week, this hatchling suddenly appeared by the back door in the time it took me to walk down and back from the mailbox. We introduced ourselves, neighbors—apparently he’s just moved in (from the compost pile--to the garage). We exchanged greetings--I relocated him to the rock garden. The stone wall will be a nice place to snuggle into for cool fall days.
In a few years he’ll look just like Fred—long, dark, and handsome.

When we first moved here, from a cooler, northern climate, finding a huge black rat snake on the front lawn was a big deal. And, I, nature-loving, hands-on, perpetual parent that I was, loved making every encounter with wildlife an opportunity for a science lesson.
That was my intention, one afternoon, years ago, when I met Fred. He was magnificent—a sleek, black beauty about 6 feet long.
Rat snakes make great pets because they tame easily (in a few minutes) and handle well—those strong, wave-like constrictions climb your arms as if they were branches—lace your fingers like a shoe.
But, the girls weren’t home just then—maybe at a scout meeting or softball practice for the evening. And I needed a way to contain Fred until they could see him later—such a specimen he was. I grabbed a cast off terrarium from the garage shelf, complete with a wire mesh lid—from a time we’d had hamsters, years before—and tucked Fred inside.
He’d be safe on the kitchen table while I watched TV in the family room. The girls would be home soon.

Fred became more a member of the family, than a neighbor that evening. When I returned to the kitchen to greet the girls as they returned home, the top was off the terrarium, and he was nowhere in sight.
Did he slip inside a cabinet and into the wall behind, or through the gap separating the old and new portions of our house? However he managed it, he’s moved in. In cool weather, we hear him cruising behind the bathroom wall, and on warm afternoons he hangs out from the eaves, right beside the west-facing gutter.
Yep. We’ve got our mouse problem under control. But I say a prayer every time dinner guests spend time, looking out our west-facing window.