If I had ever in my life felt so weakened from dehydration as I did that day, I couldn't recall. But I doubt it. It was an awful, nearly unbearable feeling. By the time we were headed back toward the car, every strenuous step I took felt like it might be my last before I passed out.
I really, really regretted not eating breakfast that morning. I'm not much of a breakfast person, but even a snack or candy bar would have made a difference. Instead, I was satiated by an intense rush of adrenaline because I knew what was about to unfold - a trip to a remote stretch of LaSalle County in search of a possible vestige of timber rattlesnakes, spirits that haunted herpetologists for some time. I had spent the majority of that year leading up to that day on daddy duty. I was not planning trips or getting outdoors like I was used to and I was suffering from a bad case of cabin fever. So when I was asked if I'd like to join a small team of herpetologists and comb the woods in search of rattlesnakes, I was elated and of course I jumped at the opportunity.
Long ago, timber rattlesnakes (
Crotalus horridus) thrived along the river bluffs and rocky outcrops of west-central LaSalle County, in and around Starved Rock State Park. The habitat was ideal - there were vast mature forests that nurtured the snakes' prey, openings in the canopy where exposed limestone or talus slopes discouraged the proliferation of trees and where the snakes basked in the sun, and fissures and crevices in the rock that provided refuge for the snakes. There are early published reports of timber rattlesnakes, mostly by locals, but also by the droves of visitors who came to witness the sheer scope and beauty of the region. Many of these visitors came from Chicago, and while the city folk probably weren't as well-versed in snake identification as the locals, there is certainly no doubt that most of the reports were accurate; big timber rattlesnakes are quite a visual spectacle in and of themselves.
But over the years, various circumstances led to the disappearance of these big Midwest vipers. In particular, mining activities in the region played a substantial role in the destruction of the rocky habitat crucial to the persistence of the snakes. The ensuing ecological succession following the unrestrained removal of natural resources created environments unfit for these habitat specialists. Invasive vegetation took up residence, further interrupting the natural community. In areas protected from mining, pressure caused by millions upon millions of human visitors took its toll on the landscape. Without a doubt, timber rattlesnakes within Starved Rock State Park and other nearby parks were persecuted by both visitors and those responsible for maintaining those parks as recreation areas; conservation as a term had a whole different meaning back then.
By the 1990s, biologists were unsure if the rattlesnakes were even still living in the area at all. Searches were often marred by treacherous obstacles, biting insects, and reluctant and/or ornery landowners. Certainly, if the rattlesnakes still persisted anywhere along the Illinois or Vermillion Rivers, it really couldn't be THAT hard to find them. Right?
In 1994, during a search for signs of timber rattlesnake life in the area, herpetologists Tom Anton and Dave Mauger stumbled across a healthy adult female rattlesnake. They took measurements and collected photos and other data from the snake before releasing it where it was found. It would be the last confirmed live timber rattlesnake record from that area to date. Ten years later, in 2004, a local store owner found one, supposedly already dead. He skinned it and displayed the skin in the store before it was discovered and recorded. The last reliable record is from 2007, when a local fisherman claimed to have seen one while wetting his line. His account, according to Tom Anton, was deemed accurate, as he was able to describe many of the physical attributes of a timber rattlesnake. In the last decade, no additional records, but also not much searching.
I hoped that would change on the morning of June 11th, 2017. I joined the reunion of Tom and Dave to search the same places they had searched over the years, including the locale of the 1994 rattlesnake. Riding in the back of the car en route to LaSalle County, I could have consorted with the two as they discussed previous searches, their feelings about the status of the snakes, and expectations. Instead, I mostly stayed quiet, as I usually do when in the company of such knowledgeable people. At times I polluted their discussion with questions or remarks, if only to remind them that there was a third guy in the car. In situations such as this, I'm not contributing anything of substance, so I choose to sit back and absorb what I could.
We arrived at the first stop, an area that has been tragically obliterated by mining. We set out on a path surrounded on both sides by tall, tick-infested grasses, until we reached a former mining site. To our left was dense woodland that quickly led to a steep river bank, and to our right, a dry, clayey, desolate landscape punctuated by young cottonwoods and non-native evergreens. A large, obtuse hill spanned the horizon - this being a pile of mining spoil left to become dominated by invasive grasses and weeds. While Dave disappeared into the woods to search for rocky ledges and crevices, Tom and I worked our way toward a deep, steep-sided hole in the ground which contained a few feet of relatively clear water. Our approach spooked a group of young green or bullfrogs into the shallows, and Tom pointed out a snapping turtle actively patrolling the deeper part. I turned back and began flipping some flat pieces of limestone, hoping to find herps. Within a few minutes, I stumbled upon a blue racer that was warming in the morning sun. It had blended almost perfectly with the tall grasses it was in, but my trained eye caught the distinct serpentine form. I picked it up and handed it to Tom, who photographed and geotagged it, before I released it back to its original location.
We continued our way across the apocalyptic terrain toward the river. We could hear the gushing of a fast-flowing river grow louder as we approached. In short order, we reached the edge of a steep, rocky cliff. Below us was the river, and in between, a massive pile of jagged boulders in what appeared to be an old rockfall. The three of us briefly surveyed the area, climbing down the huge rocks and peeking in between and around them for potential dens. At one point I became overly confident and leaped off a rock to the ground below, only to discover that the ground was very thick, pasty mud. I sank down below my ankles and nearly lost a shoe trying to extract it from the muck. For the rest of the day, I was that guy with the filthy shoes.
Sometime later we convened near the parking lot and decided to head to the second location. It is an area that, like the previous location, has been heavily scarred by mining activities, but has been the source of most of the last records of timber rattlesnakes in the area. Getting to the trail head involved parking the car and walking down a tranquil gravel road quite a distance. It seemed to take forever, but we eventually got there (by this time, I had exhausted all of my water and was beginning to build up a thirst).
We made our way through the woods along a path that started out well-worn but eventually surrendered to nature. Tom and Dave had been here a number of times and knew the lay of the land well, so there was an air of confidence as we made our way through a densely forested landscape interspersed with open patches. Yet, I was trying to decide what was worse - hiking in the open or under the leafy cover of trees. When in the open, the scorching sun baked me and hastened my dehydration. Conditions in the shade were ideal, except for the mosquitoes which were thick and persistent. It seemed like no matter where I was, suffering was imminent.
Mustering what little gas I had in the tank, I followed Tom to an area he claimed appeared to be conducive to timber rattlesnakes years ago. It was a depression in the ground, perhaps created by man through the action of mining, and lined with tall stone walls, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet high. We accessed the bottom of this pit through a shortcut - an obstacle course of dense thorny or spiky branches and twigs. Once at the bottom, we were completely surrounded by a deep, dense sea of Phragmites. Tom and I sort of stood there for a few minutes, surveying our surroundings. Tom, never one to waste an opportunity regardless of the expected outcome, began pushing forward.
"This is NOT how I remember this area being", he asserted. "None of this was here before. This is totally unrecognizable" (his exact words - I was actually filming with my phone while we bushwhacked our way through). Finding nothing indicative of the presence of rattlesnakes, or anything other than Phragmites, we decided to scamper back the way we stumbled in, resulting in more snags and scrapes.
By the time we again caught up with Dave and decided we'd call it a long, hot day, I was on the verge of complete heat exhaustion exacerbated by dehydration. My excuse was that I was out of shape after a year of fatherhood, but the truth was that I was just plain hot and dehydrated. I followed Tom and Dave out of the woods, occasionally teetering on the edge of collapse. A few times, I had to stop and sit down, lightheaded, and indifferent to huge tiger mosquitoes sucking the blood out of my neck and arms. I would sit with this thousand yard stare, panting pathetically. As soon as I felt some semblance of orientation return, I had to remind myself that the other guys weren't waiting for me. They were also under attack by the mosquitoes, and they too were thirsty and oh so ready to get to the car and probably head straight for the first beer establishment they could find. So I had to get up and catch up to them. After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the gravel road that led to the little parking area - itself a hike.
When we reached the car and I sat down in that upholstered slice of civilization, I felt very relieved. I immediately felt closer to satisfaction. Tom quickly pulled out of that tiny gravel lot, and in a cloud of dust, we made a bee line toward a microbrewery in town they had been to, or wanted to go to. I didn't care where we went, as long as they had liquid. When we arrived, the blast of cold air that greeted us was like a shot in the arm. Better yet, the endless glasses of water I pounded resurrected my soul. I felt whole again. My mind was clear, allowing me to finally engage in some discussion summarizing our efforts that day. Though we didn't find any timber rattlesnakes, we knew more about the state of the habitat and began tentatively planning future outings to other corners of that area we didn't have time to search that day.
The consensus between Tom Anton and Dave Mauger is that timber rattlesnake are likely extirpated from LaSalle County. All evidence points to that conclusion. But conceding completely to the idea seems a tad defeatist. Our collective understanding of the distribution of Kirtland's snakes as recently as a few years ago was largely a result of a lack of attention paid to the species. Recent searches have resulted in the species being found for the first tine in decades at some sites, as well as some new records. Just within the last month, the re-discovery of the Kirtland's snake right here in DuPage County created a lot of buzz and excitement in the herpetological community, causing others to wonder where else these secretive snakes are hiding. Who's to say there aren't a few tiny, isolated populations of timber rattlesnakes tucked away somewhere in a quiet, relatively undisturbed nook of LaSalle County? The discovery of such a population would be historic. Then, in that case, work to protect or enhance protection of the snakes and habitat ideally would commence.
But for now, the timber rattlesnakes remain a back-of-mind obsession for a few people who understand the implications of the existence of such animals far from the nearest known populations. They haunt dreams - ghosts of the bluffs of LaSalle County.
Above: Dave Mauger (left) and Tom Anton survey the landscape from atop a bluff.
Above: A depression chock-full of invasive Phragmites viewed from above. This depression was likely created by miners blasting away at the rock many years ago.
