Seldom-Used Words

trysail said:

September, 2009

OPHIDIOPHOBIA​

I have an established route for my run. Living, as I do, within a couple of miles of where I was born and raised and within several hundred yards of where my father was born ( quite literally, in his mother's bed ), I know the area and its topography well. I've walked, run, driven and ridden these roads and paths my whole life. I know who used to live in which houses, I know where they went to school, I knew their parents and I know where most of my schoolchums are even to this day. The woods and streams of my youth lie within the watershed in which I now reside.

My running route follows an abandoned railroad right of way. It passes a lake that was originally dammed to create a reservoir, then the site of an old gunpowder mill deep in the woods ( where the gunpowder used in the 1814 defense of Ft. McHenry { you know— Francis Scott Key, "The Star Spangled Banner" & all that } was manufactured ). Most of the rail has been removed from the roadbed and all that remains to mark it are crossties ( sleepers, for you Brits ) and ballast. The route continues upstream alongside one of the reservoir's feeder streams eventually crossing the stream on a wood trestle and reaching my turnaround point. A series of planks have been professionally laid and affixed across the wood trestle to permit a safe and easy transit by hikers and runners.

Two days ago, as I approached the trestle, I noticed a young man and woman staring at the outer section of the bridge. Usually when I reach the crossing, anyone who's standing on it makes an effort to clear a path. This time, however, the pair pointed and the guy said, "There's a snake there and I don't want you to get bitten." Those words were, of course, more than enough to stop me dead in my tracks. There's little in this world I hate and fear more than snakes.

I slowly approached the fellow and followed the direction of his finger. Sure enough, there in the hollowed end of a rotting timber, was a goddamned snake... and it was a fairly big one, too. As it was balled up, all I could easily and safely see was a fairly thick part of mid-section; it was a mottled brown and black and I guess it had a 2-3" circumference. I asked if they'd been able to identify the frickin' thing. At first they said it was a "garter snake" with an air of certainty, then they said "maybe it's a water snake" and finally they admitted they didn't have any idea what it was. I couldn't see its head and I was damned if I was going to get anywhere near enough to the thing to place myself within the fartherest imagineable striking distance.

It was a lovely cloudless day and I was running well. I wanted to continue my run but I was having visions of flashing fangs, timber rattlers and four puncture wounds. I considered that continuation meant running this particular gauntlet not just once— but twice. I was wrestling with all the nightmares I get whenever I encounter snakes. Lest there be any doubt remaining, let it be known that I really, really loathe the damn things.

I backed off a few steps and began considering alternatives. Would it be possible to leave the planked section in order to hop from timber to timber on the far side of the trestle, thus remaining well out of striking range? That would maximize the distance but I was also hearing potential snickering... "Hey, d'ja hear about that damned idiot fool ____; he fell off the bridge across the _____ while he was out running. The dope was trying to avoid a snake and damn near managed to kill his'self."

After at least a minute or two of considering all sorts of things, I started to get angry with myself. The odds of the thing striking me if I ran past the spot quickly really weren't all that high. I did have to admit that there was a small possibility that the snake had already been alarmed by the two others and might feel threatened. I reasoned that if I took a running start and sprinted, the odds were that— even if it was in "fight" mode— a strike would likely miss. I made my mind up; that's what I'd do. I'd just deal with a return crossing on the way back.

Fortifying my resolve with a minute's worth of nervous pacing, I asked the young woman to make way telling her that I intended to sprint past. I closed my eyes, put my head down and ran like bloody hell. With my heart pounding and adrenalin flowing, I ran past the spot as fast as I could. To my immense relief, I passed safely over.

On my return trip, I never even hesitated, reasoning that the best strategy was to pass by as quickly as possible with the least possible warning to my potential assassin.

The unfortunate truth is that I'm never going to be able to run across that damn bridge again without thinking about the possible presence of snakes.

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