Rattlesnake Stew

When somebody nearby says "oh, rats!", I stop whatever I'm doing to look for them. Old training dies hard and some old rats die harder. I live in their homeland. Not the other way around. The they I'm referring to, specifically, are desert packrats and they have been around here alot longer than I have. So long, as a matter of fact, that there is a scientific nominclature for dismantling and studying the nests they create. Therein, biologists have found layers of history. They use their finds to discover and track a muriad of information. They apparently can determine things such as ecological changes by studing their finds. There's knowledge written in their scat and things to be learned by unearthing finds such as small primative tools and ornaments that have been gathered and horded, possibly for centuries. A friend once spent a week entertaining himself with a rat nest demolition job after accidentally finding a U.S. Calvery button in a washed out nest. While this process may be ultimately rewarding or entertaining, it is generally reserved for only the best preparred and most determined seekers.

Packrat nests are most often built at the base of cholla cactus and are formed primarily of cactus pads and peices. However architecturally interesting it may be to see their ingenious formation of tunnels through these, huge, layered and sometimes ancient mounds of habitat, there is no forgetting that the primary building material in use is cactus. And while careful desert trecker may be appropriatley preparred with boots, gloves, a long stick and an awareness of snakes, the average desert visitor (and resident alike) is generally less preparred to find a boot-box sized rat nest under the hood of their car.

Fortunatly, I did find such a nest only moments before it broke into flames. During a two day summer rain the cover provided by my hood enticed them to pile enough sticks and cholla on my exhaust manifold to require an hours drive before almost becoming a car-b-que. Months later I found nothing but nubs sprouting from all four of what, two days before, had been my spark plug wires. My declaration of war stemmed from the morning I opened the hood of my car, upset at it's refusal to start and had a nose to nose encounter with the tresspassing rodent. Unbeliveably, he (gender assumed) stood upright on top of my aircleaner and stared at me. I jumped back. He didn't! When I yelled at him in a startled rage, he ducked under the firewall but remained on the car. We were at a stand-off. I could see that he had chewed through the green wire by the battery but I wasn't comfortable with making the needed repairs knowing he was that close. I thought it strange that he hadn't skedaddled. A quick look let me know he didn't fancy himself as an overnight camper. He'd put in some real effort, mostly by suspending a really large, freshly gnawed-off prickly-pear pad between the inner fender well and the engine block. In this big green hammock, he had a small cactus pear,a large cholla segment and an empty McDonalds coffee cup. He was definately a tennant - unwilling to leave minus proper eviction. He had time to wait. I needed to go to work. Reluctantly, I pulled enough of the wire together to splice it. I started the car and drove twenty feet before he ran out from underneath and back towards the desert.

Later, back at the ranch, so to speak, the decision was made. I didn't want to kill them, admittedly as much for the distaste of removing their bodies as for their right to inhabit the place. I recognised myself as the invader, but I wasn't going to be bullied for it. I made a plan. Gathering three live traps, I baited them with peanut butter and cheese, placed them strategically and left for the weekend. Returning on Sunday night, hands full with luggage, both the dog and I stepped over the trap I'd set right in front of the entry door. My dog's response alerted me to the trap, so once my hands were free, I turned, saw the flaps had dropped and picked it up to see what I had caught. As it reached eye level, a triangular head calmly and peacefully closed the gap from the trap to my face and stuck out it's tongue at me. My immediate response was to scream bloody murder and throw the trap through the open door into the house. I found myself suspended on the porch rail over a 6 foot drop to sharp rocks. Coming to the first level of sense, I screamed at the dog to stay back as I dug in my pocket for my cell phone. Before my son could finish his "hello", I was stammering that I had caught a rattlesnake in the live trap and thrown him in the house. As I said it I realized, " and now he's really pissed!"

"Good lord, Mother," my son said. "It's nine o'clock at night and I'm not driving 40 miles, round trip, to kill a snake for you. Go in the garage, get the shovel and cut his head off."

His words connected and I said, "Right! Thanks, talk to you later.", and hung-up. I sent the dog to bed with a command to stay and went the back way to the garage. I grabbed a flat shovel and aimed the trap toward the door. It rolled twice, hit the door jamb once and finally landed outside. Even with only a foot of snake free from the confines of the trap, he wasn't going to make it easy to get to him. He outmaneuvered my chopping moves. I switched to swinging and only struck out once. My second time up, I got him! It still wasn't over and all the while I screamed like I had neighbors to hear me. Finally, it was over and I took his head away from the house to bury and roll a fair sized rock over it. Then I filled the prescription I wrote myself for a shot of tequilla before facing the remains in the trap.

Once there I was amazed at my findings. The rattler, once a handsome male Diamondback, had probably faced quite a chore even squeezing himself into the trap. Certainly the distress of the captured rat had determined him. Once inside, the devoured rat would have to be digested before the snake could fit back through the mesh. Less than a foot of the snake was free of the cage. Inside the trap the buldge of his dinner started the remaining 33 inch measure to his rattles. Before I sent him flying, he was one fat, happy snake. As much as I wanted to remove the full length of him, my efforts failed and I finally gave up and used the tinsnips free his remains.

Once all of the skin and meat were removed from the tail at the rattles, they stood in salt for a week before my grandson was given them.  To prepare for cooking, four inches of the tail were removed to clear the vent and scent area before cleaning.  This is especially important with a male snake.   Cut the c-shaped meat into peices of apx. two and a half inches length.  (They need to be fairly short to make them quit moving).   Refrigerate overnight in a light salt brine and use in your favorite stew recipe that calls for fish.  I serve mine with garlic bread and prickly pear margaritas.