It was a pretty January Sunday and the first day without
rain. The Englishman and I decided to
revisit a trail that we hadn’t hiked in many years. The last time, we brought George and I dubbed
it “Rattlesnake Trail”. I mentioned this
to the Englishman and he wisely reminded me that it was rural Georgia and that
nickname could be applied everywhere. It
was also January and he was dubious that we would see any snakes.
The trail is considered a bird sanctuary and follows the
river that divides Eatonton and Sparta.
We parked and were the only car in the gravel lot. Abby was on her leash. Charlie sniffed about while we changed Chase’s
back feet from slipper socks to rugged hiking shoes. We brought their morning breakfast with us
and the dogs had a brief picnic. I
walked over to read the notice board and the Englishman called out to me that
Chase was headed toward the exit. I ran
with Abby, trying to remain fast yet stealthy so that I could catch him before
he reached the road. Ninja I am not and
my deaf, nearly seventeen year-old setter sensed my approach, glanced behind
him and took off in a run. I d
We divided the dogs between us and set down a barely visible
path. My favorite part of the trail is
just before a wooden bridge that crosses a creek. There is a low point and we can access the
creek shore. Chase and Charlie
immediately jumped into the clear, cool water.
Charlie was up to his neck and Chase lay down, his white tail feathering
out in the flow. Abby, who is fearful of
water, slowly sniffed the edged, lapped at it with her tongue and then tested
it with her front paw. When she realized
that it was quite shallow, she leaped into the creek, splashing and dancing and
happily flinging water at me. I had
wardrobe regrets as mud was flicked across my white hoodie.
Onward we proceeded until we reached some benches to
rest. Charlie was tired and we decided
to turn back since the Englishman would now be carrying him. He asked me if I saw the snake skin off the
path. I had not and he told me that he
would point it out on the way back. It
was not snake skin. It was snake pieces. Rattlesnake.
I told him this with an inward shudder.
We reached the Jeep and I looked around for a trash
can. There wasn’t one. I did not want to keep the dog waste bag in
the car with us and the closest trash can was at least four miles away at the
gas station. The Englishman took the bag
and attached it to the back windshield wiper.
He carefully navigated around the pot holes and eased onto the
road. I turned to check on the dogs and
noticed that we had several cars following us on the remote country
highway. I prayed that the bag would
stay intact and pictured it swaying on the back wiper. As the Englishman turned into the gas station
and parked, one of the vehicles that was directly behind us followed and parked
in the space next to us. I refused to
make eye contact and told my husband that he would have to dispose of the bag
because I was quite sure that everyone knew we had attached a big bag of poo to
the back of our car.
Back at our house, two dogs received a warm bath….Abby found
a hiding space and I was too tired to argue.
They happily lounged in front of the fireplace and I was sure they were
dreaming about Rattlesnake Trail.
