Dear Reader,

I've always loved rattlesnakes. As a child growing up in Oregon, I was scared of them, but also in awe of their distinctive power and beauty. We were all well schooled in how to walk the scraggly brush and boulder hillsides along the Deschutes River, where my grandfather had a cabin. You took a big stick, and pounded the ground ahead of you, to give the rattlesnakes a chance to scoot off or warn you they were there. And if they were, we learned, you don't run. You back away slowly and silently.

 

When a rattlesnake ventured onto the porch, the men were commandeered to pin its head with a Y-shaped stick, and cut it off. Then we skinned the snake and cooked it (yes, tastes like flavorless chicken), and made jewelry from the vertebrae.

 

A few months ago, I was hanging out in the crook of a tree, meditating. After about 20 minutes, I stepped down and reached for my keys, on the ground before me. Rattle! I froze, my hand stretched out, my body bent over. Slowly, I moved only my eyes, searching. The rattlesnake was about 10 inches from my hand, blended with the grasses and coiled loosely right next to my keys and hat. Its head was lifted, its eyes staring straight at me, its tail lifted and rattling. I didn't move for a few seconds. Then, slowly, I drew my hand back, and sunk my body back into the crook of the tree. I calculated. I was close enough to strike, if the rattlesnake was upset.

 

But the snake stopped rattling, and watched me. I meditated, figuring I couldn't really go anywhere until she left -- behind me was a steep drop into thickets of stickery brush, and any movement in the other three directions left me open and in striking distance. I averted my gaze, silently told the snake how beautiful she was, and waited. I never heard her glide soundlessly away.

 

All these years, I've had no idea how the rattlesnake rattles. Until Deep Look photographer Josh Cassidy showed me the inside of a rattle, which you'll see in this week's video.