MY 50-STATE STRATEGY

FULL OF SURPRISES: Big Bend has some very different wildlife encounters in store for visitors.

STUPID HUMAN TRICKSGREETINGS FROM BIG BEND NATIONAL Park in southwestern Texas, with apologies to Dave Letterman and his crew:
Wandering down the cliff-side trail after checking out the old Hot Springs and its turn-of-the-last-century encampment, I stumbled upon a rattlesnake that, now about 10 feet in front of me, was blocking the path back to the truck, maybe a half-mile away.
Yelping, I jumped back about three paces, then “boldly” held my ground (although I just – not very boldly – had conceded about 10 more feet). From 20 feet away, the rattler held a black and white pattern to its skin, looked to be about four feet long and about an inch/inch-and-a-half in diameter with rattles maybe five inches long.
But the measurements most important at that moment were that the crusty clay path was about only 4-5 feet wide and there was at least a 60-foot sheer clay cliff to the right the length of the lane and the river was to the left, separated by a short stretch of waist-high weeds. It was only a few yards back down the path to the rain-swollen springs, but that route stopped at a dead-end cliff. The only other option was through the weeds, but it was from there that the snake came.
Yikes!
Trying not to panic, I quickly made up my mind that backtracking away from the truck was a bad idea and that, at what now seemed a safe distance, if I stayed relatively still long enough the snake just might get bored and leave. By this time, the snake had taken notice of me and, while not coiled, had turned his head my way. Over at his other end, his rattles were raised and humming, telegraphing its menace. So, unable to go anyplace, I decided to get a picture for the post-mortem.
(I had been snapping away on this trail with plenty to shoot: the sharp clay cliff edges with various cacti imbedded up high for the sunlight, the desert granite formations across the swelled and muddy river, a single huge tree rising up out of the desert next to the river, a couple of low-flying hawks, the old stone and clay buildings, some drawings or “glyphs” which a trail marker claimed were pre-historic, as well as a tiny makeshift grass hovel across the river, under some tall weeds which, with laundry dying outside, showed signs of currently being occupied.)
Inside the digital, I had a well-worn memory card, its space shrinking with every use. This card was now capable of holding only 65 pictures. As I soon learned, the snake would have been the 66th! A real disappointment as it was probably (I hope) a once in a lifetime situation and shot.
Strangely, I now had more dread over maybe not getting the photo than of the snake itself. As I struggled with the buttons to slide the camera over to its internal memory, the rattler was, thankfully, rapidly losing interest in this fumbling human and beginning to sidle back into the riverside weeds.
Finally, now on camera memory, the only serviceable photo I got shows about a foot-long length of the snake as it slithers through the weeds. True story, but you’ll have to take my word on it. Scared the ever-living bejeepers out of me.

Later that same afternoon, I decided to check out the tent-camping sites near where I staying. As I was driving through the shady area on the banks of the Rio Grande, I was surprised to see what, from 50 feet-or-so away, looked like some sort of wild boar ambling through the mostly deserted sites. I snapped a photo, but decided on a closer look. Rounding the corner and parking the truck, I snuck through an empty site into the clearing, where I lucked into a group of seven such animals, rooting around in the green grass.
Amazed at my good fortune, I began snapping from about 30 feet away (see above). These, as I later found out, are Javelinas. It’s better if I let the Columbia Encyclopedia explain them to you:

PECCARY (pĕk'rē) , small wild pig, genus Tayassu, the only pig native to the Americas. Although similar in appearance to Old World pigs, peccaries are classified in a family of their own because of anatomical differences. Peccaries have downward-curved tusks with which they fight ferociously when threatened. They have large heads and long snouts; both sexes have scent glands on the rump. There are two peccary species. The collared peccary, or javelina, Tayassu tajacu, is the more common, ranging from the SW United States to Argentina and inhabiting many types of country, from tropical swamps to dry scrub regions. It is about 20 in. high at the shoulder and weighs about 50 lb; it has grizzled gray-black hair marked with a white neck band and an erectile mane on the neck. Collared peccaries move about in small family groups, eating roots, fruits, insects, worms, and reptiles. After I was sure I had enough serviceable photos, and now feeling just a tiny bit like Steve Irwin (without the accent), I began to sneak away. As I was backing up to turn for the truck, I heard a call, “Damnedest things, ain’t thay?”
I turned in the other direction and saw a couple sitting next to their tent about 20 yards further away, enjoying a cocktail, watching the “Javys” and their “nature photographer” in action. Surprised, but happy to see them, I went over and got the lowdown. After giving me the animals’ name, rank and serial number, so to speak, the couple told me “Don’tcha get too close. They’ll bite ya! And, for gosh sakes, keep yer dang dawg away from ‘em!
With or without a dog, after that day, those sure sound like words to live by…

I’ve had many meetings with the Western Jackrabbit here. The size of a small dog, they’re fleet afoot, brown and/or gray in color and have telltale enormous ears that act like radar. The first meeting was of some interest because as I skulked behind one at dusk a few evenings ago, shooting photos, it seemed to disappear right in front of me. Startled, I pulled down the camera and searched the gloom. The rabbit had fully stretched itself out prone on the soil, rolled over on its side, and blended in – one neat defensive trick.
A couple of days later at twilight, I was crossing the entire park west-to-east after a day spent exploring. While driving, I saw jackrabbit after jackrabbit, sightings too numerous to recount, except this one: One hare crossed the road right-to-left about 50 feet in front of me but, with the truck bearing down on it, was confronted with about a 40-foot rock cliff. It had nowhere to go – but up. So up it went, no hesitation, full speed over the granite face at about a 70-degree angle, leaping over the crest. Amazing!

Time for another revealing look at the limits of my knowledge: Until I arrived at Fort Stockton last weekend, I had thought that “The Roadrunner” was just that, a kids’ cartoon character. (Stop your chuckling! Like you knew otherwise. Why not? That cartoon also contained a talking coyote.) Now I know better, because this place is chock full of them, running to-and-fro at 20 mph, chasing lizards and small snakes. I also saw a multitude of these on the cross-park trip, during the day and also at dusk. They are sleek, black, white and gray, with long legs, a body a little larger than the size of your standard Cardinal and have a ridiculously long tail. And they’re fast, so quick I resigned myself to never being able to capture a photo of one (except at the statue welcoming you to Fort Stockton). However, at dawn, the morning before I pulled out, I was up to watch the sun rise and there was one by the trailer, just posing. Mission accomplished. (For you parents out there, if you don’t think cartoons warp the minds of the young, just look at the havoc they’ve wreaked on this middle-aged mind.)
Also of note, as I was on the short stretch of the Windows trail at the Chisos Basin, noted for it beautiful views, I came across a foot-long-or-so lizard. It was strange to see a reptile up in this alpine setting, so I later described it to a ranger, who said it was a rusty-rumped whiptail lizard, common to the Chisos, even at 550 feet above sea level. Things are definitely different around these parts…….

Lastly, the trees hereabouts are alive with music at daybreak, birds singing, chirping and rustling about, celebrating the sunrise. It’s always a soothing time of day, except, each morning, one particular bird pecks at the roof of the trailer. Not as manic as a woodpecker, it sounds like someone knocking on a door when it’s just tapping on the roof, but like Buddy Rich crashing his cymbals when he finally gets over to the metal hatch cover. Every time I opened the door to go out and get a look at it, off it flew. There’s supposed to at least 450 species of birds seen around and about this park. This one must be a Whippy-Winged Trailer-Tapping Tormenter (I’ll have to consult with my bird expert, the Poet).