- Joined
- May 18, 2009
- Location
- st augustine,florida
Have I ever told you about the time we terrorized the tourists with a dead snake? No? Well, pour you a glass of sweet tea, this is good…
Growing up in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas near the Buffalo National River didn’t offer a lot of high-brow social activities. I mean, of course we had basketball games, the annual Halloween carnival, a county fair and church. For many years, we even had Dogpatch, USA, a sweet little theme park based on the “Lil’ Abner” series that I got to visit a couple times a year. But none of that was as much fun or as rewarding as our favorite pastime – messin’ with tourists.
Our gorgeous corner of God’s Country is one big tourist attraction. Folks come from all over to float the river, see the towering cliffs, or “blufts,” and have an adventure in nature. Of course, most of them considered driving on our dirt roads to be pretty wild, and four or five hours in a canoe in the desolate wilderness of the Buffalo River without Wal-Mart, McDonalds or flushing toilets to be borderline crazy and akin to what Meriwether Lewis and that Clark boy did back in the day. Never mind that the tourists are surrounded by hundreds of folks just like them and that they are far from secluded or in any danger of encountering hostile natives; well, except us.
One summer day found me and a few like-minded buddies hanging out on the banks of the Buffalo River and looking for something to keep our active imaginations busy. I really shouldn’t say that “one summer day” found us there, because most summer days found us there.
We were fishing and swimming and trying not to get the two confused since my buddy Mac still had a sore spot from the last time. Just down the gravel bar we found a great big black snake. This dude was about 6 feet long and fresh-killed. Finding this lifeless elongated, legless serpentine squamate opened the gate to a whole new field of possibilities for the day; at least until he started stinking.
Our modus operandi was to crawl out on top of a fallen tree that had washed down the river and snagged at our chosen fishin’ hole. The main trunk rose from the water at a slight angle and made it to about four feet before the first branch angled off that. It made for a great perch above the river to fish from or jump into the water.
Using our afore-mentioned imaginations, we gathered up all six feet of the formerly slithering reptile and carried him (or her; Mac never could figure out the gender) over to the log to begin our day of entertainment.
Our first idea was simple -- sit on the log and “fish” until a group of unsuspecting tourists came by. Being the outgoing one, I would strike up a conversation with the floaters. When they engaged me to talk back, there I would be, sitting on the log in my cut-off overalls, no shirt and “Budweiser” boonie hat holding a fishing pole while eating sunflower seeds and drinking Mountain Dew. After the initial shock of seeing a local in his natural state, the vacationing city folks would then turn their attention to the snake we carefully placed on the limb just behind my elevated seat. From their vantage point the beast was obviously stalking me.
Now, where I grew up if we were to happen by some poor soul that was in an obviously life threatening situation, we’d say something like “hey, you better watch out, that thang’s about to get you...” Apparently not everyone was raised like us.
The first flotilla to pass us, simply looked at the snake in horror, continued to oblige me by answering my questions, but took a slightly wider berth than necessary. The look on their faces should have sufficed our need for something to do, but somehow we wanted more.
As we discussed the fact that not one of those folks had made the slightest effort to let me know of my impending doom, and how this somehow indicated the downward spiral of civilization as we knew it, we began to hear familiar sounds echoing down the river. Paddles, obviously in the hands of rookies, banging the sides of rented canoes, girls giggling and the music of beer cans popping open penetrated the tranquility.
I quickly rearranged the dead snake for more realism and went back to my “I’m just a good ole boy fishin’” routine. As the lead boat approached, I began the dialog. “How y’all a doin’?” broke the ice.
“Perfectly well, thank you” was the reply from someone who obviously wasn’t from around there – we didn’t really talk like that.
“Where y’all from?” I asked.
“Kansas City” replied the group spokesman. About that time, he caught sight of the snake. I could tell he had seen the snake by the sudden terror in his eyes and the fact that he aspirated a portion of his Pilsner. Or as we later described it “his swaller of beer went down the wrong pipe.”
He immediately sprung into action, his obvious Cub Scout training a decade and a half prior becoming quickly apparent. His rudimentary paddle stroke became frantic and he attempted to inform me of my problem. The stress of the situation paired with his elevated blood alcohol content seemed to make this more difficult. He pointed frantically and spoke in what I can only describe as how those of the Pentecostal faith speak when overtaken by the Holy Spirit, only this was also slurred. I was able to make out the words “huge,” “snake,” “eat you,” and “*#@!*^&#@*!”
As if on cue, I turned and “discovered” the snake that was about to snuff the very life out of my young, lanky, pale body. I threw my Wal-Mart fishing rod and Zebco 33 into the shallow water and did the only thing a desperate soul can do. I grabbed the snake by the throat and fought for my life.
Once I had the snake by the throat, I fell from the tree into the water and disappeared for a few tense moments, only to emerge dramatically, gasping for air and holding the savage beast at arm’s length to avoid the huge fangs and gaping mouth. Again, I disappeared under the water and closed two-thirds of the distance before repeating the act. I last saw the flotilla as it rounded the bend below the scene of the tragedy. But we could hear the screams for some time.
We recovered the fishing pole, cracked open another Mountain Dew and re-set the trap. Back to the fishing and talking to the tourist routine. Me fighting for my life was pretty scary to the tourist and pretty funny to us, but we had to again up the ante’. What we figured would be even scarier to them (and funnier to us) was if the tourists had to fight for their lives.
So with the trap reset and the fish still not biting, we anxiously awaited our next group of gullible guys and gals. Our anticipation was palatable (or maybe that was the affects of all that Mountain Dew) as the quarry came into view. They looked like a gift from above in bulky orange life jackets and rental canoes. A shaft of light descended from the heavens and the angels sang. These were the tourists we were waiting for…Yankees!
“Howdy! How y’all doin’ this fine day?” I began with a goofy grin.
“Good, thanks. And you?” one replied.
“Purdy good. Y’all enjoyin’ your float?”
“Oh yeah, you betcha!” he said with an accent plucked right out of the movie “Fargo”. “Beautiful country ya got here, eh?” he continued in a voice that seemed a couple of octaves high for his size. I wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, so I simply said, “We’re purdy proud of it.”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “beautiful country! We’ve seen tons of wild creatures, too.” This was only getting better. Wild creatures? No self-respecting folks where I grew up said things like “wild creatures.”
“Well good” I replied cheerfully, “whatcha seen?”
“Well, we’ve seen several vultures, two squirrels, some deer and a moose.”
Now, if you’ve never been to north Arkansas, there are no moose. I figured what this poor Yankee city boy must have seen was one of our local resident elk, but I didn’t want to break his heart.
“Yeah, we got some good moose ‘round here. My uncle Leon, on my momma’s side, kilt the state record just up the hill from here a couple years ago.”
He was letting that sink in and debating with himself as to whether to share his moral thoughts on hunting – convinced that I surely had a gun or two and at least a pocket knife within arm’s reach while the only weapons he had was a paddle, an “Audubon Guide to the Butterflies of North America” and one of those round canteens with the maroon, grey and blue flannel on the outsides that makes the water taste like plastic.
Then he saw the snake. Now, he and I had kind of bonded by this point, so he felt obliged to make me aware of my dire situation. Not to mention, he had undoubtedly asserted himself as the leader and “woodsman” of the group so had to show his bravery and his nobility by not letting me fall to such a fate.
“Snnnn snnnn snnnaaaaaaaakkkkkkke!” he cried. By cried, I don’t mean the old proper English term used to describe the act of yelling. I mean he cried. He pointed frantically at the reptile and began to paddle like a maniac. The problem was that his great woodsman skills prompted him to paddle on the wrong side of the canoe, causing him to continue downriver, but at an angle bringing him ever-closer to my side of the river.
I pretended to turn in fear and face the demon. I screamed “DEVINE FECES” or something with the same meaning and again, “instinctively” grabbed the snake behind the head and began an apparent ballet of death. But this time, instead of falling into the water while fighting the snake, I chunked it as I fell. I watched in blissful amazement as the snake rotated through the air toward the northern Davy Crocket wannabe. He shrieked in horror. The snake struck the side of his boat and hung on the gunwale, half in and half out.
Had the Yankee just kept his seat and his cool, he would have been fine. He stood on the opposite gunwale in a feeble attempt to jump to the opposite bank; approximately 30 feet away. The canoe, of course, quickly flipped. This, in turn, immediately soaked their L.L. Bean cover model clothing and spilled their cooler of Perrier, cheese and Triscuits.
His wife came up screaming but that quickly faded into the background when he came up screaming a LOT louder, and let’s just say that it was good that I fell into the water, since I think I may have wet myself laughing. Mac was back on the bank trying to catch his breath and stop the burning in his nose from the Mountain Dew that sprayed out each nostril.
We watched as the adventurous couple dragged the water-logged canoe to the bank and picked up the bobbing water bottles to put back into the cooler. The she-Yankee was now yelling obscenities that Mac and I had scarcely heard in our young years, and definitely not from a woman, nor in the high-pitched notes with which she was delivering them. A pack of coyotes howled from the next holler over.
Now, at our tender ages, me and Mac weren’t the wisest scholars in Newton County but we had enough sense to know that we had played those cards enough and it was time for us to pick up our chips and walk away before she remembered the whole snake-tossing part of the equation.
Besides, that dead snake was starting to stink and we were out of Mountain Dew.
Growing up in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas near the Buffalo National River didn’t offer a lot of high-brow social activities. I mean, of course we had basketball games, the annual Halloween carnival, a county fair and church. For many years, we even had Dogpatch, USA, a sweet little theme park based on the “Lil’ Abner” series that I got to visit a couple times a year. But none of that was as much fun or as rewarding as our favorite pastime – messin’ with tourists.
Our gorgeous corner of God’s Country is one big tourist attraction. Folks come from all over to float the river, see the towering cliffs, or “blufts,” and have an adventure in nature. Of course, most of them considered driving on our dirt roads to be pretty wild, and four or five hours in a canoe in the desolate wilderness of the Buffalo River without Wal-Mart, McDonalds or flushing toilets to be borderline crazy and akin to what Meriwether Lewis and that Clark boy did back in the day. Never mind that the tourists are surrounded by hundreds of folks just like them and that they are far from secluded or in any danger of encountering hostile natives; well, except us.
One summer day found me and a few like-minded buddies hanging out on the banks of the Buffalo River and looking for something to keep our active imaginations busy. I really shouldn’t say that “one summer day” found us there, because most summer days found us there.
We were fishing and swimming and trying not to get the two confused since my buddy Mac still had a sore spot from the last time. Just down the gravel bar we found a great big black snake. This dude was about 6 feet long and fresh-killed. Finding this lifeless elongated, legless serpentine squamate opened the gate to a whole new field of possibilities for the day; at least until he started stinking.
Our modus operandi was to crawl out on top of a fallen tree that had washed down the river and snagged at our chosen fishin’ hole. The main trunk rose from the water at a slight angle and made it to about four feet before the first branch angled off that. It made for a great perch above the river to fish from or jump into the water.
Using our afore-mentioned imaginations, we gathered up all six feet of the formerly slithering reptile and carried him (or her; Mac never could figure out the gender) over to the log to begin our day of entertainment.
Our first idea was simple -- sit on the log and “fish” until a group of unsuspecting tourists came by. Being the outgoing one, I would strike up a conversation with the floaters. When they engaged me to talk back, there I would be, sitting on the log in my cut-off overalls, no shirt and “Budweiser” boonie hat holding a fishing pole while eating sunflower seeds and drinking Mountain Dew. After the initial shock of seeing a local in his natural state, the vacationing city folks would then turn their attention to the snake we carefully placed on the limb just behind my elevated seat. From their vantage point the beast was obviously stalking me.
Now, where I grew up if we were to happen by some poor soul that was in an obviously life threatening situation, we’d say something like “hey, you better watch out, that thang’s about to get you...” Apparently not everyone was raised like us.
The first flotilla to pass us, simply looked at the snake in horror, continued to oblige me by answering my questions, but took a slightly wider berth than necessary. The look on their faces should have sufficed our need for something to do, but somehow we wanted more.
As we discussed the fact that not one of those folks had made the slightest effort to let me know of my impending doom, and how this somehow indicated the downward spiral of civilization as we knew it, we began to hear familiar sounds echoing down the river. Paddles, obviously in the hands of rookies, banging the sides of rented canoes, girls giggling and the music of beer cans popping open penetrated the tranquility.
I quickly rearranged the dead snake for more realism and went back to my “I’m just a good ole boy fishin’” routine. As the lead boat approached, I began the dialog. “How y’all a doin’?” broke the ice.
“Perfectly well, thank you” was the reply from someone who obviously wasn’t from around there – we didn’t really talk like that.
“Where y’all from?” I asked.
“Kansas City” replied the group spokesman. About that time, he caught sight of the snake. I could tell he had seen the snake by the sudden terror in his eyes and the fact that he aspirated a portion of his Pilsner. Or as we later described it “his swaller of beer went down the wrong pipe.”
He immediately sprung into action, his obvious Cub Scout training a decade and a half prior becoming quickly apparent. His rudimentary paddle stroke became frantic and he attempted to inform me of my problem. The stress of the situation paired with his elevated blood alcohol content seemed to make this more difficult. He pointed frantically and spoke in what I can only describe as how those of the Pentecostal faith speak when overtaken by the Holy Spirit, only this was also slurred. I was able to make out the words “huge,” “snake,” “eat you,” and “*#@!*^&#@*!”
As if on cue, I turned and “discovered” the snake that was about to snuff the very life out of my young, lanky, pale body. I threw my Wal-Mart fishing rod and Zebco 33 into the shallow water and did the only thing a desperate soul can do. I grabbed the snake by the throat and fought for my life.
Once I had the snake by the throat, I fell from the tree into the water and disappeared for a few tense moments, only to emerge dramatically, gasping for air and holding the savage beast at arm’s length to avoid the huge fangs and gaping mouth. Again, I disappeared under the water and closed two-thirds of the distance before repeating the act. I last saw the flotilla as it rounded the bend below the scene of the tragedy. But we could hear the screams for some time.
We recovered the fishing pole, cracked open another Mountain Dew and re-set the trap. Back to the fishing and talking to the tourist routine. Me fighting for my life was pretty scary to the tourist and pretty funny to us, but we had to again up the ante’. What we figured would be even scarier to them (and funnier to us) was if the tourists had to fight for their lives.
So with the trap reset and the fish still not biting, we anxiously awaited our next group of gullible guys and gals. Our anticipation was palatable (or maybe that was the affects of all that Mountain Dew) as the quarry came into view. They looked like a gift from above in bulky orange life jackets and rental canoes. A shaft of light descended from the heavens and the angels sang. These were the tourists we were waiting for…Yankees!
“Howdy! How y’all doin’ this fine day?” I began with a goofy grin.
“Good, thanks. And you?” one replied.
“Purdy good. Y’all enjoyin’ your float?”
“Oh yeah, you betcha!” he said with an accent plucked right out of the movie “Fargo”. “Beautiful country ya got here, eh?” he continued in a voice that seemed a couple of octaves high for his size. I wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, so I simply said, “We’re purdy proud of it.”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “beautiful country! We’ve seen tons of wild creatures, too.” This was only getting better. Wild creatures? No self-respecting folks where I grew up said things like “wild creatures.”
“Well good” I replied cheerfully, “whatcha seen?”
“Well, we’ve seen several vultures, two squirrels, some deer and a moose.”
Now, if you’ve never been to north Arkansas, there are no moose. I figured what this poor Yankee city boy must have seen was one of our local resident elk, but I didn’t want to break his heart.
“Yeah, we got some good moose ‘round here. My uncle Leon, on my momma’s side, kilt the state record just up the hill from here a couple years ago.”
He was letting that sink in and debating with himself as to whether to share his moral thoughts on hunting – convinced that I surely had a gun or two and at least a pocket knife within arm’s reach while the only weapons he had was a paddle, an “Audubon Guide to the Butterflies of North America” and one of those round canteens with the maroon, grey and blue flannel on the outsides that makes the water taste like plastic.
Then he saw the snake. Now, he and I had kind of bonded by this point, so he felt obliged to make me aware of my dire situation. Not to mention, he had undoubtedly asserted himself as the leader and “woodsman” of the group so had to show his bravery and his nobility by not letting me fall to such a fate.
“Snnnn snnnn snnnaaaaaaaakkkkkkke!” he cried. By cried, I don’t mean the old proper English term used to describe the act of yelling. I mean he cried. He pointed frantically at the reptile and began to paddle like a maniac. The problem was that his great woodsman skills prompted him to paddle on the wrong side of the canoe, causing him to continue downriver, but at an angle bringing him ever-closer to my side of the river.
I pretended to turn in fear and face the demon. I screamed “DEVINE FECES” or something with the same meaning and again, “instinctively” grabbed the snake behind the head and began an apparent ballet of death. But this time, instead of falling into the water while fighting the snake, I chunked it as I fell. I watched in blissful amazement as the snake rotated through the air toward the northern Davy Crocket wannabe. He shrieked in horror. The snake struck the side of his boat and hung on the gunwale, half in and half out.
Had the Yankee just kept his seat and his cool, he would have been fine. He stood on the opposite gunwale in a feeble attempt to jump to the opposite bank; approximately 30 feet away. The canoe, of course, quickly flipped. This, in turn, immediately soaked their L.L. Bean cover model clothing and spilled their cooler of Perrier, cheese and Triscuits.
His wife came up screaming but that quickly faded into the background when he came up screaming a LOT louder, and let’s just say that it was good that I fell into the water, since I think I may have wet myself laughing. Mac was back on the bank trying to catch his breath and stop the burning in his nose from the Mountain Dew that sprayed out each nostril.
We watched as the adventurous couple dragged the water-logged canoe to the bank and picked up the bobbing water bottles to put back into the cooler. The she-Yankee was now yelling obscenities that Mac and I had scarcely heard in our young years, and definitely not from a woman, nor in the high-pitched notes with which she was delivering them. A pack of coyotes howled from the next holler over.
Now, at our tender ages, me and Mac weren’t the wisest scholars in Newton County but we had enough sense to know that we had played those cards enough and it was time for us to pick up our chips and walk away before she remembered the whole snake-tossing part of the equation.
Besides, that dead snake was starting to stink and we were out of Mountain Dew.