LaughLines

AAs a surveyor, how manytimes have you beenasked, “Hey, y’all eversee any snakes whenyou’re out there?” I’vecertainly seen my share,

and I have yet to meet a surveyor whodidn’t have a snake story or two. Yearsago if I saw a poisonous snake, I wouldhack it to pieces with my bush hook.Growing older, however, I have come torealize that the chances of getting bit by asnake while surveying are slim, and Ileave all snakes alone. For the most part,snakes don’t want anything to do withus humans and they serve an importantrole in our ecosystem. They are quitecontent living in the shadows, catchingan occasional varmint to eat.

Still, growing up in the South, most ofthe people I knew equated snakes toSatan. Many of the old-timers living inour farming community passed downthe notion that “any dang snake of anycolor or size” was a “ground rattler,” andto hear them tell it, it was straight fromthe pits of Hell. Fathers and grandfathersfor generations back had passed downstories about the dreaded ground rattler,and there was no changing the newergeneration’s mind on the subject.According to my Uncle Henry, a groundrattler is so mean that if you run fromone, it will follow you home, sneak intoyour house at night, and bite you whileyou sleep.

Quick ReflexesIronically, the closest I ever came tobeing bit by a snake was not while sur-veying, but rather, while golfing. I wason a par four with a nice dogleg right. Ihad a driver in my hand and a gleam inmy eye. I teed the ball up, took a couplepractice swings, and commenced to slicethe dang ball to the right. It flew all offifty yards and landed near a pond in

some grass that was about eight incheshigh. Being that it was unusual for me toshank a ball that way, (yeah, right) I gota little flustered and started stompingaround in the grass, looking for the ball.Suddenly I felt something move undermy foot, and looked down just in time tosee a copperhead about to strike myankle. According to my partner, Ijumped straight up in the air, movedover about four feet, and came downlightly on both feet—kinda like Peter Pan.I’m not exactly sure how I kept from get-ting bit, but whatever I did, it worked. Itmust have been those lightning-quickreflexes that we surveyors develop overthe years, based on our encounters withbees and snakes.

Great Uncle DewellOne of the funniest snake stories I’veexperienced involved my dad and mygreat-uncle Dewell. On occasion UncleDewell would travel the 20 miles andcome to our farm to fish. Since UncleDewell’s left hand never fully developeddue to a birth defect, my dad would pad-dle the Jon boat for him. During theseexcursions Uncle Dewell would carry a

sawed-off double barrel shotgun for pro-tection against the dreaded “copper bellywater-rattlers,” which were considered bysome to be even worse than a groundrattler. On one occasion Dad was pad-dling the boat along the shore of theCoosa River searching for a good fishingspot in the shade under the limbs of thebig old oak trees that lined the shore.Because of the river terrain and thelength of the overhang, the water wasdeep where they were trolling.Unbeknownst to Dad at the time, awater moccasin had dropped from a treebranch and landed in the middle of theboat. At that point the peace and quiet ofthat laid-back afternoon took a sharpturn. Uncle Dewell grabbed his gun. Mydad’s eyes quickly focused on whatUncle Dewell was taking aim at. “Don’tshoot!” he yelled.

But it was too late. Uncle Dewell letboth barrels go in the general directionof the snake . . . and my dad. Just beforethe gun went off, my dad dropped thepaddle and ejected himself backward outof the boat. When Dad came up spew-ing river water, he grabbed onto the sideof the dinghy and gazed at the damage.

By Tommy Woodsmall, LS

Snake Tales

Displayed with permission • The American Surveyor • November • Copyright 2004 Cheves Media • www.TheAmericanSurveyor.com

There was a nice-sized hole in the middleof the boat, the snake was completelyunharmed, and Uncle Dewell wasreloading the gun. Caught up in all theexcitement, Uncle Dewell had forgottenthat he couldn’t swim. Determined tonot lose Uncle Dewell due to “snakeshock,” Dad swam around behind him,grabbed hold of his shirt, and pulled himout of the sinking boat. He dragged himto shore while the snake swam off in theopposite direction. Not only did UncleDewell lose his shotgun, fishing pole,tackle box, and a bottle of Old Crowwhiskey—the dang boat sank! As luckwould have it, the snake got away. Dadnever took Uncle Dewell fishing again.

Far-flung TalesThen there was the crisp fall morningmany years ago when I was front chain-man, Frank was rear chainman, and Mowas the party chief. The temperature wasnippy, somewhere in the 50s. We wereworking along a tree line when I spotteda large king snake, about five feet long,moving very slowly across our path.Mischievously, I waited for Frank tocatch up so I could scare him. Mo wasstanding about 20 feet away, absorbedwith writing in his field book. WhenFrank caught up with me he saw thesnake. Eager to show my fearlessness, Igrabbed it by the tail and flung it at him.Frank took off running. Unfortunately, Iflung it harder than I meant to, andwatched in terror as the flying snakesailed straight for Mo, landing like ahorseshoe on his neck. Mo launched hisfield book into the air and dropped intothe bushes, rolling and thrashing aroundwith his attacker! I really felt sorry for thesnake ‘cause I knew when Mo gotthrough with it, there wasn’t going to bemuch left. Mo finally came out of thebushes with a dead snake in his handsand fire in his eyes. I apologized profuse-ly and tried to tell him it was an accident,but it was several days before Mo wouldeven talk to me, and I don’t think he everbelieved me.

I have yet to meet a surveyor who did-n’t have a snake story or two. Next timesomeone asks you the snake question,just sit down on a stump and start tellingthe tales . . .

Thomas Wade Woodsmall is a registered land surveyor in Georgiaand vice president at DevelopmentConsultants Group.

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Displayed with permission • The American Surveyor • November • Copyright 2004 Cheves Media • www.TheAmericanSurveyor.com