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I quickly got started, prospecting the cut
from end to end, then crossed the road to work the other side. Methodically lifting each stone, removing
the Ringnecks, carefully returning the rocks to their resting place. Hundreds of rocks, four different cuts,
hours of hunting, and here’s the sum of what I found:
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Northern
Water Snake
Nerodia sipedon
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A Water Snake. A friggin’ Water Snake. That’s it. (Remember, Ringnecks don’t count.) How is it possible that I can be in the
right place at the right time of year, and against all odds, come up
empty? During the days before and
after I was there people were finding gobs of Milksnakes at the same sites
I checked, but when I show up, nada.
I blamed it on the weather, but deep down I know the curse of the
common snake continues (for an
explanation, see my trips of Arizona,
April 2003 and South
Carolina, March 2004).
Gave in to the
inevitable and departed, my mood as dreary as the overcast sky. I drove to the west and started thinking
of motels and where I’d stay that night, when just past Topeka, a transformation. Woods gave way to grasslands, and
overhead the sun, surrounded by blue, reclaimed the sky. Maybe it wasn’t too late, after all, to
salvage something from this day.
Checked the clock
and my map, then set a course for the Flint Hills. I was close enough to catch the last few
hours of light, and with temperatures climbing as the clouds withdrew, my
mood lifted as well. Turned off the
highway and drove the dirt roads looking for a likely spot to flip rocks. I
spied a tiny little road cut, just a few feet high by maybe 25 yards long,
almost too small to take seriously.
But it had rocks, so I stopped and got out.
Walked the length
of the cut, taking my time to survey the stones, and finally selected one
near the top that was large and flat, figuring it might be the
warmest. Dug my fingers under the
edge, pulled up and back, and --- Milksnake!! On the very first flip!
Now I’m
psyched. After photos I return the snake
to its hiding place and try the rock right next to it. Bam!! Another one!
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Red x Central
Plains Milksnake intergrade
L. t. syspila x L. t. gentilis
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This one was
darker, more like the Central Plains variety which intergrades with Reds in
this region. No matter, it’s a
Milksnake! Back he goes and I scan
the roadside for another likely looking rock. I roll the dice again, and once more come
up with snake eyes.
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Red-Sided Garter
Snake
Thamnophis sirtalis parietalis
Still covered in
mud before its first shed after a long winter underground.
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This has never
happened to me before. Three rocks,
three snakes. One after another, starting with my first flip. I’m beginning to believe the stories.
I decide to move
around and go to the far end of the cut, planning to work it more
systematically now. Rock #4 gets
turned . . . and, yes, there’s a
snake underneath it.
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Another
intergrade Milksnake. This one
looks more like syspila.
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This is getting
freaky; I’m not sure what to make of it.
I look around, feeling nervous.
Is someone watching, a prankster who’s planted these snakes . . . am
I about to be punked? Too giddy to care,
I go back to the rock pile, confident of what will happen with the next
turn of my hand.
Rock #5:
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Yellow-Bellied
Racer (juvenile)
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I’m in complete
control. I can stop anytime I want
to. I swear, only one more and I
quit.
Rock #6 (a two-fer) . . .
.
. . and
then it’s over.
I can’t believe
what I’ve just experienced. Six
rocks in a row, each with a snake underneath; they just kept on
coming. It’s surreal, unlike any
herping I’ve ever done before, almost overwhelming. Between the Ringnecks and these
back-to-back Milksnakes, I feel so . . . so . . . outnumbered.
It’s getting
dark. The prairie goes purple with
the setting sun. Somewhere unseen
coyotes call to each other. First
just a few, then others answer from a different direction; soon I’m
surrounded by their chorus. I’m feeling
a bit euphoric, still enjoying the rush of what just happened. So this
is Kansas
herping.
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