JANUARY-FEBRUARY 2016 • NEBRASKAland 37
is a small, peculiar window of time
either side of winter where snake-pit
entryways become writhing masses on
warm days as they prepare to transition
away from or into the dens.
One den I often visit sits high
on a hilltop. Its limestone mouth is
surrounded by grass and brush. In
the summer it lies abandoned but in
October, as temperatures drop, prairie
rattlesnakes migrate there from several
miles in all directions.
One fall day, I warily approached
through high grass and a subdued
chorus arose: "Titititititit." The volume
increased as I neared, but then they
quieted while I observed. They saw me
there, but as they wound among a large
pile of their own I didn't warrant much
alarm. They didn't flee or coil, and
only a few rattled halfheartedly off and
on when I moved. They came and went
from the pit's entrance, which left an
unanswered question: how many more
were below? It could have been 10
times the 40 up above.
Few natural settings elicit more
respect than does a heap of rattlesnakes
eyeballing you, but there was
majesty as well. I envisioned snake
congregations like this occurring
simultaneously over a wide expanse of
western states, and then I imagined this
scene unfolding backward through time
long before humans set f oot there. And
in that moment it was clearer yet that
they, the prairie rattlesnake, belong on
earth no less than do we. ■
Mark Harris is an author and the
associate director of the University of
Nebraska State Museum.
Rattlesnakes silently writhe at the edge of their wintering den on a warm October afternoon.
They have come from several miles in all directions, and here they will spend Nebraska's cold months beneath the earth's frost line.
