Four times now it’s happened. Personally experiencing man’s ability to fly. True, it would be nice if the skill was imparted on a more permanent basis but the sheer entrancement of the experience makes one reticent to complain about any aspect of it, whether it be duration, setting, altitude, degree of visibility, whatever.
The first time was in Alabama. Alabama or Florida, not sure exactly which because the state line was rather ill marked in what was classically known as dense swamp. Collecting samples with a co-worker and looking back at him talking while I walked, my gaze returned forward to see a large water moccasin, head raised and with mouth open, about to strike my leg. So I flew. Straight up and then, as seemed prudent at the time, hovered for a bit until a suitable landing spot was identified and gently, deftly, returned to Earth so I could bleed off the year’s accumulation of adrenaline. Nevertheless, you then knew you had the power, which was pretty choice.
The second time in the rugged back trails of the Guadalupes it was a coachwhip that sent moi to impressive heights. Tired and plodding down a trail, he inspired me to new vigor as I chose elevation as a means of avoiding his strike. I’d seen one chase an entire cabin of us campers before and knew mere blazing speed was no defense. While I looked down on him from above, laid out horizontal as if reclining on an airy magic carpet, it became apparent no landing site was available but that one could outsmart him by tumbling ass over teakettle down a steep incline, something he’d surely be too scardy to emulate. Wuss.
Toward dusk one evening, I leapt over some brush near the top of a large, stone dam and landed on one of many small boulders, crossed my legs and lowered my tail to butt a rock and observe the last of the sunset. As if on cue, the instant my cheeks touched the rock the angry rattle from the big diamondback, which sounded about a foot from my spine, resulted in possibly the greatest athletic maneuver of my then seemingly too short life. Without looking back and with a heretofore unknown ease I raised and flew backwards in perfect retraction of how I’d arrived in the first place, thus leaving two palpitating animals in a much better frame of mind.
Then yesterday, I learned yet another reason to keep your golf ball drive long and straight. From center to margin, there’s the fairway, then the short rough, then the long rough and then the water moccasins. Again with the moccasins. Dedgummit, I hate the moccasins. Even if your left arm remains unbent and your grip true, it’s hard to hit the ball when you’re streaking well up into the air. Maybe he’d chased my errant drive thinking it was some delectable albino toad or an escaped lab rat but midway through my backswing an amorphous mass suddenly identified itself as “coiled snake” and here we go again, soaring to new heights.
So while I freakin’ hate wild, poisonous snakes with killer camo as they periodically conflict with my carefree, pedestrian nature, they do let you fly, which is kinda cool in a heart pounding, terror invoking, leg or other extremity possibly debilitating manner. I suppose the view could be improved. It’s not near as 360 as you’d presume. It’s very focused. It’s long minutes, seemingly fortnights, of rapt, HD focus on the head and strike perimeter of a fanged, serpentine reptile. Other than that, nailing takeoffs and landings is pretty cool… and you absolutely, positively don’t have to wait to solo.
While hunting along a roadside, again in north Florida, I ran into a fairly large eastern coral snake. This was during the hottest part of the day, and this snake was the craziest snake I’ve ever tried to catch. It thrashed like nothing I’ve ever seen. I managed to bag it without pinning it, but it was a frightening experience.