By Martin Espinoza, The Press Democrat
I’ve become more forgetful over the years. When I got to Fountaingrove Lake at Nagasawa Park in Santa Rosa, California, a couple weekends ago, I unloaded my small, baby blue kayak and set it on the mud bank next to the boat ramp, got out my fly-fishing gear and quickly realized I’d left my fly rod in my garage.
So I left my kayak unattended for about half an hour while I drove home and retrieved the rod. It wasn’t the first time I’d done that, and I wasn’t too bothered. I knew that soon I’d be out on the water in my zen space, hucking foam grasshopper flies for largemouth bass; flicking small Parachute Adams flies for bluegill; and dragging tiny nymph flies below the surface for both. It’s summer, the sun is finally hot and the lake is teeming with bass and bluegill.
I got back to my kayak, strung my rod, tied on a grasshopper fly and settled into my kayak — the “sit-in” type — and set out on the water. I’ve done this scores of times since buying my little one-person boat a few years ago, a post-pandemic act my partner calls my best-ever impulse buy. I fished for nearly four hours, not catching much. It was one of those days, of tangled lines and flies caught in reeds and algae.
It was nearing 8 p.m. when I noticed I’d been out on the water for about four hours. I’d just decided to head back to shore when I noticed something brush up against my ankle. If someone asked what it feels like to have a snake slither, even briefly, across your skin, we’d all have some idea, possibly an instinctive memory tied back to our collective, primal past. That’s right, you know exactly what I mean. That’s what it felt like.
I moved the black tackle bag and saw my companion, since confirmed to be a young northern Pacific rattlesnake, coiled near my feet. I simultaneously brought my feet closer to me and gently pushed the tackle bag forward to get a couple more inches between me and the snake. It wasn’t “Snakes on a Plane” level panic but the 8-year-old kid inside me let out one continuous silent scream as I paddled back to shore.
Jumping out of the kayak was not an option. Doing so would have caused me to flip my boat, and I would’ve lost all my fly-fishing gear. Plus, I’d capsized on the same lake before, losing my glasses and taking an hour to swim back to shore with my partially water-filled kayak in tow. More importantly, who knows how my slithering companion would have reacted to such a commotion? So I paddled as quickly and calmly as I could, the whole time thinking “there’s a snake in my kayak, and it’s been there for hours.”
This trip back to shore on June 28 felt like the longest 15 minutes of my life. When I got to the boat ramp I got out of and away from the kayak. The snake was just sitting there, chilling at the bottom. It wasn’t even that bothered when I scooped it into my fishing net with my paddle and walked it over to the brush and reeds. The last thing I saw was its tiny rattle before it vanished in the tall grass.
Was it really a rattlesnake? I sent a photo and video of the snake to John Roney, park manager at Sugarloaf Ridge State Park, and the folks over at Sonoma County Regional Parks. I even posted an “observation” on iNaturalist.org. Several people identified it as a northern Pacific rattlesnake, also known as Pacific diamondback rattlesnake. One iNaturalist.org user commented, “rattlesnakes aren’t looking for trouble. They’ll leave us alone if we likewise leave them alone. But if you accidentally step on one, causing it pain, the snake’s automatic response is of course to immediately bite in self-defense. When in buzztail country, always be alert via scanning the immediate surroundings.”
Roney, in an email, said he “sent it to a couple experts to be sure, but it’s a Pacific diamondback rattlesnake. You got lucky! But the Pacific diamondbacks are generally not very aggressive rattlesnakes and will mostly bite if you step on them or pick them up. I guess you’re lucky you didn’t put your foot on it.”
Meda Freeman, a spokesperson for Sonoma County Regional Parks, said she shared my photo with a couple of the agency’s wildlife experts who agreed it was a rattlesnake. “One of them said this just proves that snakes aren’t out to get us,” Freeman said in an email. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
In California’s Sonoma County, the northern Pacific rattlesnake is most active from April to October, according to Sonoma County Regional Parks. Though rattlesnake bites are rare, it’s a good idea to keep an eye out for them while you’re out on the trail or getting into a kayak. That’s a lesson I’ll remember, even if I forget my fly rod again.
You can reach Staff Writer Martin Espinoza at 707-521-5213 or [email protected]. On Twitter @pressreno.
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