Camp Serenity

By: Peter Jenkins

There had been considerable discussion between my good friend Blake and I concerning three days of snake hunting we were going to take in the month of April. Blake spoke confidently that mid April would be very a very rewarding time to hunt many of the species we wanted to see in the wild. The excitement was almost to much to bare in the weeks leading up to April 20, 2007 as I had just bought a canoe and was anxious to baptize her in the black waters of South Georgia. Much of my gear and non-perishable food items I purchased nearly four weeks in advance. I lived every day as if I were leaving for the tin fields of South Georgia the next.

But Mother Nature being in her nearly perpetual, brooding and irritable mood had other plans for us men. Now she is indeed a woman of undeniable beauty but a dangerous and malicious one as well. Her warmth is to be embraced and her fruits tasted ever so cautiously. An ever present doubt as to her faithfulness should be kept in your conscious mind and not in your loins. Two weeks before departing she would freeze Georgia's soil with record low temperatures; killing the lovely flowers I had planted for my wife around our mailbox. Then, one week before our ascension upon the southlands she would ignite into a raging fire that would shroud our hunting grounds in a haunting vale of haze, a conflagration that is still burning as I sit and write this account nearly two weeks later. And yet drunk with the lust of a sailor who has been deprived of female companionship for months we still chose to go on our trip.

At the last moment I decided to bring along my younger brother Justin and on Friday, April 20^th we left my house at four AM and headed for Blake's. Nothing of much significance happened between his house and mine. Indeed, nothing of any significance happened until we started snake hunting in Wrightsville. Less you want to include me falling out of the bed of Blake's pickup while strapping in the canoe. (In any other company that might have embarrassed me.) Blake had a couple of female canebrakes he collected last year in order to see the young and so he packed them up in order to release them back into their respective tin piles.

Figure 1 A shot I never thought would turn out good

Our first stop was a tin pile in Wrightsville, Georgia at seven AM. The air had a chill to it but a light fleece kept me warm. We took this opportunity to photograph the canebrakes in their state of lethargy and then released them into the sun soaked tin pile. It was truly a wonder to see these snakes basking under natural light once again. We lingered for a while and found a giant of an eastern kingsnake slowly emerging from beneath the tin. He was surprisingly clean of any scaring. He obliged to a few photos and then was left alone to soak up the sun. When we left our first tin site of the day we couldn't help but anticipate what surprises lay ahead.

As the day got progressively warmer we started to see innumerable lizards of various species and so naturally we assumed our snake hunting would be bountiful. The next few tin piles had some rats, race runners, coluber and various toads beneath them but nothing much else. I was hoping for a good textbook representation of a southern copperhead to add to my personal herp collection. I was also intent on photographing as many serpentine species as possible. It seemed the closer we got to our destination (the Suwanee River was to be our camp) the less snakes we would find under tin. We had nearly 40 tin piles in different locations all marked on our map and so we hoped to break this trend quickly.

Snake hunting as kids we were never really broken hearted if we came up short of our goals in the field. I am however, finding it much more difficult to accept defeat in my adult years primarily because I don't have as much free time as I did in my teens. Blake and I are now fathers and both have a mortgage as well as a job to go to making the time we can spend herping quite minimal. Another thing that bothers me tremendously is the constant land development of our old stomping grounds. This, I am sure that the older generation of field herpers can attest to. We humans are such parasites.

Figure 2 the first eastern king of the trip.

We were soon out of the truck again and each of us fanned out looking for tin. I peeled back a sheet of thorn covered roofing metal to find hidden beneath another very clean looking eastern kingsnake. I handed it to my brother whom it promptly bit on the hand. There was more tin to look through and so I followed Blake through the woods and along a collapsed chicken house to another pile of tin. We began digging like greedy children at an Easter egg hunt. I was still partially concentrating on pulling thorns from my hand after plunging it through a briar bush for that kingsnake. The word “canebrake” from Blake caught my attention. I glanced over at a large coil of rattlesnake pouring from beneath a sheet of tin. Upon closer inspection I noticed a second canebrake slide from view. “Don't you mean canebrakes?” I remarked pointing out the second snake. Once the sheet of tin was safely cleared we found a nice pair of canebrake rattlesnakes covered in dried mud, sitting silent, not even rattling. We photographed the pair then toasted our snaked hooks just like the Three Musketeers after a glorious victory.

Figure 3 One of the canebrakes we set free.

No more snakes would be found beneath tin on our first day. It wasn't until we got onto highway 94 that we could actually see for ourselves how bad the fire burning in Ware County actually was. One moment the sky was a brilliant azure and the next it took on the look of another planet, almost Martian, caustic to the lungs. So thick was this smoke on coming cars couldn't be seen until they were nearly right along side you. Even with the windows closed our eyes smarted and stung slightly. It was eerie and devoid of any sound other than the sudden woosh of a passing car. My spirits dipped as I began thinking about all of the problems Mother Nature was throwing our way; freeze, drought, and fire. I stared silently out of the window into the yellow smog.

Blake announced that he was heading west thus putting us out of the way of the fire. After nearly an hour of riding through the smoke we were finally basking in semi clear UV light again. It felt like taking off a pair of sunglasses after having worn them for hours. It was now about five PM and a mutual decision was reached to find a place to make camp.

The Suwanee River was dreadfully low and slow moving. We used the canoe to get to an isolated place to camp. However, due to the low level of water and the heavy load in the boat we could only get about a quarter of a mile down river. We past along many ancient looking cypress trees one of which I named Orgy Island because it looked like a tangled mass of naked people. Spanish moss dangled like silvery woman's hair. One must only use their imagination and so I will give no further descript. Once satisfied that our camp was safely hidden from the view of potential vandals we made for shore. With our ship beached we piled out onto the sugary sand and took to the chores of camp.

Figure 4 Camp Serenity

My brother occupied himself by cleaning his .22 pistol and left me with the task of pitching the tent. Once camp was erected we all went for a much needed swim. Justin, four years my younger, constantly chimed about his fear of alligators, a fear he would later learn to mold into respect and admiration. Now thoroughly relaxed I threw on some lighter cloths and started dinner. Noodles, crackers and tea were to be the camps fare this evening. Blake and Justin made a wonderful fire deep inside a sand hole. The sky burned crimson and steel blue as the sun set into the ranks of tall pines. We were now in complete and utter serenity and by consequence that is the name I gave our camp. Serenity.

The night sky was alive with bats darting in erratic flight and the forest echoed the haunting hoot of the wise old owl. A whippoorwill began calling and our ears were blessed with an orchestral like sound. My brothers eyes darted around as each new sound resonated from the woods. He looked concerned and lovingly stroked his pistol. The comfort I offered was my soundness and confidence. It was his job to do the rest. We turned in at midnight.

Day two April 21^st, 2007 I was up with the sun. A cold condensation formed on the inside walls of the tent and every surface outside glittered with dew. Blake and Justin slept as I made oatmeal. Once everyone was awake we breakfasted and then piled into the canoe. A phantasmal fog loomed over the Suwanee and she took on the look of something out of Rime of the Ancient Mariner. We pulled the canoe into a dried creek branch out of sight at least I hoped.

We didn't find much in the early morning hours. Blake grew hungry and said that the oatmeal wasn't enough to keep going so we stopped for breakfast at a Huddle House. We were a rough looking bunch that morning even then we did not stand out amongst the locals. The smell of coffee, smoke and fried ham hung thick in the air and everyone quietly conversed amongst one another. I couldn't help but overhear a gentleman talk about how he had fallen on hard times and even though his welding job currently paid well he was unsure he would have it long. I remembered how hard it was when I was a welder and shuddered as the thoughts came and went. Breakfast was had and we set out again.

Figure 5 Grey rat at the hog barn

Our next tin pile was one that Blake was familiar with and had previous success at. We pulled up to an abandoned pig farm. The building was in overall good condition but over the ages vines and other invasive greenery had consumed it. My brother went immediately to the piles of pig skulls, some with dried flesh still attached and tried to remove for himself a tusk while Blake and went for the tin. We flipped and found nothing. Meanwhile my brother is indulging in his morbid task of removing pig teeth.

Back at the truck Blake made mention that he had never explored the back part of the property and so we agreed that we should do so today. Six hundred yards deeper we found more tin. We attacked the pile with much excitement. I began to pry on a piece of tin that was stuck by vines and beneath it found a snake. “Oh it's a nice corn snake!” I exclaimed. But upon closer inspection found it to be just a beautiful young grey rat. We all admired it and my brother wanted to handle it and so I let him. Blake continued to search the tin as I photographed the snake. My brother had the honor of releasing it.

Mr. Blake in his ever increasing desire to find rattlesnakes decided to wade into neck high grass! This grass was dry and brittle and crackled like it was on fire as Blake trundled through. I could here him cussing and whacking with his machete. I was fiddling with my camera when I heard him cry “Canebrake!” I came to see if I could help but he had already made it out of the grass and secured the snake. The snake was placed in a cooler which was then placed in a shady area. I now turned my eyes upward and began searching the rafters of the pig barn. Justin, my younger brother followed my lead and Blake soon followed. I stopped abruptly and kicked a mummified pig carcass that lay at my feet. Familiar pattern caught my eyes and so I knelt and took a closer look. A small grey rat snake had been hiding in the carcass! This is perhaps the strangest place I have ever found a snake. I placed the snake back on the ground and we prepared to leave.

The sun burned our skins and sweat stung as it ran into my cuts and scrapes. We greedily guzzled water as we waited for the air conditioner in Blake's truck to blow cool. Much of the rest of the day was spent searching tin piles and creeks to little avail. We decided to road hunt our way back to camp.

The camp has always been one of my favorite parts about snake hunting. The amount of pleasure I get from bathing in the brackish river then throwing on some light cloths and sitting by a fire is incomparable to anything. It was dark when we arrived and I was eager to see if my canoe had eluded theft and or vandals. In the stygian darkness we made our way along a trail and then down into the creek where I caught the reflective green glow of my canoe. We climbed in and slid down the glassy river as graceful as an alligator. Speaking of alligators our headlamps caught numerous ruby red eye shines from gators of all size. They moved silently and stealthily from our path. About a quarter of a mile down the river and our tents came into view now it was time to inspect camp. The canoe hit the shore line hard and we piled out one by one. Upon inspection everything seemed in its proper place. Justin went immediately to collecting as much firewood as one can under the dark vale of night and I began to cook a healthy fare of noodles and brewed tea. Blake and Justin built a fire in a two foot hole they dug in the sand for added safety.

After dinner we all went for a much needed swim. Much of the river was so shallow that the canoe frequently ran aground in spots but we managed to find a deep enough hole to swim in comfortably. The water was warm much like a tepid bath. Alas, Blake decided that he wanted to take the canoe for a close look at the gators. I declined the offer but Justin accepted and thus they departed. I stood by the fire listening to the songs of the night occasionally broken by “shit it's stuck” and “damnt Justin turn left” coming from down river. I gazed upwards trying to identify familiar constellations. Of course there was the “Big Dipper and that one right there is Cassiopeia.” I muttered to myself the ones that I knew then drew my attention to the bright moon.

I was quite alone and except for the synonymous sounds of the river it was silent. I decided that I would take advantage of the isolation and freedom and stripped myself of clothing. You can't get any freer than that. Believe it or not it was pleasant and refreshing. There were no bugs and the air was like an air-conditioned home. I sat abreast the fire and pondered if this was how primitive man felt out here. If this is how they found relaxation, like we often find in a recliner. It was certainly worth experiencing. Not long after sitting by the fire I could here the subtle swoosh of paddles in the water. I could also here Justin shout “Daniel are you naked?” to which I didn't reply. I simply met them along the shore to help pull them in. I spoke in a sort of pidgin asking them “what good do white man have trade?” They looked on bemused and probably uncomfortable by my nudity. So I got out of character and put clothing back on. It was midnight when we turned in.

Day three April, 22 2007. Morning comes quickly in the wilderness and for some strange reason it is the only place where I become a morning person. I was the first one up and so I started breakfast of oatmeal, energy bars and prepared tea. Justin soon roused and since he is such an obnoxious person by nature, Blake was soon awakened. Once we finished breakfast we broke camp as quickly as we could and then played around with my brothers .22 pistol. A can was placed on a stump and we commenced fire. After a few rounds we climbed in the canoe. Heavily laden with gear and our persons it made it quite an ordeal to shove her off the sand bar but we managed. We would make two trips to collect all of our gear and trash.

Figure 6 Morning of departure a chilly morning it was.

Today would be our last day to snake hunt and so we decided that we would check our tin spots in Fargo then hunt our way home. Despite having numerous sheets of tin to flip we came up empty handed only finding the shed skin of a canebrake rattlesnake. The smoke from the fire burning in the Okeefenokee was considerably worse today making my eyes burn. Blake also came down with a fit of violent sneezing and his eyes watered profusely.

While hunting through familiar tin sites In Crisp County we discovered one that Blake and I had yet to explore. I found a uniformly cream-colored coachwhip beneath a single sheet of tin laying in the shade. Surprisingly, she remained motionless and I was able to snatch her up and examine her. Not a single scar or blemish on her entire length. Despite her calm capture she soon turned defensive, holding her mouth agape and expelling the foul contents of her cloaca. On that note I released her back into the pile of rubbish.

We searched multiple tin piles on our way home despite the sweltering heat. Most of the sun exposed sheets of metal where obviously vacated as soon as the sun became too harsh. Some of the roofing metal hidden deep in the musty woods held some signs of recent occupants. Flattened spots where once rested a coiled rattlesnake, sheds, and even remnants of serpentine vertebra were found. I felt that given the circumstances we hunted well, a good time was had and a memorable one too.