The temperature already seemed hot for 10 o’clock in the morning. I doubted any snakes would be sunning this late along the old abandoned fenceline. I had always had good luck while snake hunting in this area. The fence was overgrown with wild mustang grape vines, dewberry vines and, oddly, even a wild pepper plant. The seed was probably deposited here from the gullet of a passing mockingbird. The old fence served as a macro environment where prey items of a number of snakes could feed much of the year. The weeds were mostly dead from the pro-longed drought much of South Texas was experiencing, so I had a good view of the ground. Still, the combination of the dappled sunlight, and the various colors of water oak leaves on the ground, was playing tricks with my anxious mind. I was about to head back to the Jeep when suddenly, I saw the familiar cryptic pattern I had seen here so often.

The broad-banded copperhead is one of five subspecies of copperheads that all occur in the United States. It occurs from extreme southern Kansas through central Oklahoma to north central and south central Texas. It rivals the Texas rat snake, in some locales of south central Texas, as the most abundant snake per square mile. It is distinguished by its light brown ground color and its 11 to 17 dark brown or chestnut crossbands. This cryptic coloration makes them become almost invisible in their natural habitat where they will lay unnoticed waiting to strike a passing mouse, bird or frog. While living in Victoria, Texas in the late 1980’s, I caught a large female that looked gravid, only to have her pass the hard shells of cicadas on which she had feasted.

The copperhead lay motionless with its head slightly raised while I fumbled with my digital camera. The snake was so well camouflaged against the dead leaves, that I would momentarily lose sight of it, as I searched the viewfinder. I snapped a shot from around 15 feet then slowly moved up. Another shot at 10 feet and another at 5 feet. The snake never moved but was fully aware of my presence. I slowly maneuvered to within 2 feet of the snake and took a close-up of its upper body. The snake’s constant tongue flicks tasted the air to discern if I was friend or foe but still, he never moved. He was king of his domain and not the least bit afraid of me.

Copperheads utilize communal hibernation sites during winter, often with other species of snakes. They then disperse in spring to feeding areas where they lay in wait in brush piles, under fallen logs or piles of fallen leaves. Babies are born alive in late July and throughout August, often after the female has returned to the winter hibernation den. I witnessed this phenomenon the night of July 4th, 2000 at my mother-in-law’s home in rural Lavaca County, Texas. A hollow crawl space goes under the house from an opening on the east side. Over the years, I had caught at least two copperheads on the east side of the house every time Darlene and I visited. This particular evening, I caught eight, within a 2-hour period, simply by walking through the yard with a flashlight. In each instance of finding a copperhead, they were crawling toward the opening that led under the house. The next evening, I caught four more at Darlene’s Aunt’s house, less than 5 miles away.

The copperhead lay almost motionless. I could hear the distinct sound of the snake’s tail, vibrating against the dry leaves. It was his way of letting me know he was agitated by my presence. Otherwise, he was almost lethargic and never attempted to strike. I gently pinned his head with my tongs and carefully gripped his head in a secure position. He was about 20 inches long but noticeably thin, another sign of the on-going drought. Twelve distinct chestnut crossbands dressed his body from neck to tail. I gently carried him back to the waiting Jeep and placed him in a secure plastic sweater box that I had filled with dried leaves and ball moss. The next day he would make the 4-hour trip back to Brownsville with Darlene and me.

The broad-banded copperhead was the first venomous snake I encountered as a child. They were abundant in the early 1960’s in the dry woodlands of rural Bedford, Texas, long before Dallas and Fort Worth grew into today’s Metroplex. Much to my mother’s horror, I had begun catching snakes at the age of 5. There was nothing dangerous at first. I caught western ribbon snakes in the pond behind the Baptist Church, speckled kingsnakes that frequented our barn and our garden, and countless eastern hognose that hunted toads around our house. I even climbed down an old, abandoned sandstone well to catch a nasty Texas rat snake that I saw sunning itself on a rock ledge. But one day, while searching a dry creek bed, I turned over a flat log and there sat my first venomous snake. I was the ripe old age of 7. Venomous snakes have been my passion ever since.