[at-l] Snake ID

[Bror8588 at aol.com (Bror8588@aol.com)]

In a message dated 1/23/04 22:57:30 Eastern Standard Time, 
mapster@charter.net writes:


> Does anyone know what kind of snake this is?
> <http://www.abettermap.com/prettysnake.jpg>
> 
> I know that he's a pit viper, but I'm no naturalist, and have no idea what
> kind. I ran into him out on the trail last Summer, snapped a pic, stepped
> over him and kept going
> 

To me -- it looks like a large snake -- (how large?) and it looks like a 
Copperhead, which is a poisonous snake.  The article below from National 
Geographic may shed some light.

Birder's Journal: Toxic Snakes Add Jolt to Nature Stroll 
Robert Winkler
for National Geographic News
August 8, 2002

<A HREF="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2002/08/'javascript:popup(/'/news/2002/08/photogalleries/0802_snakes1.html/')'">Snakes Photo Essay: Go >></A> Of his frontier explorations for The Birds of 
America, Audubon wrote, "I never was troubled in the woods by any animal larger 
than ticks and mosquitoes." Reports from Asia of tigers carrying off people 
prompted Thoreau to state, "The traveller can lie down in the woods at night almost 
anywhere in North America without fear of wild beasts." As I pulled into the 
parking lot of a Connecticut nature preserve for a stroll, wild beasts were 
the furthest thing from my mind. Minutes after I began my walk, deer flies 
buzzed around my ears and two mosquitoes lodged in my left eye. Waiting for the 
burning to subside, I hiked with my eyes cast downward to avoid another kamikaze 
attack. It was a warm and humid summer afternoon, and although it hadn't 
rained much for weeks, the trail was damp and any bare mud had a slippery green 
film. A few bird songs penetrated the thick air, but with only one good eye and 
alert to other insect piranhas waiting to strike, I did not look for the 
undaunted singers. It was a walk for exercise, not nature study, and I was disposed 
to get it over with. Half way along my 90-minute route, I saw on a rocky ledge 
the scales that a snake had shed. Once, at that same spot, I had encountered 
a black rat snake about six feet long and double the thickness of a garden 
hose. This time, I scanned the ledge for the shy constrictor. Instead, I found, 
nestled in a shallow fissure, a two-and-a-half-foot northern copperhead. 

        <IMG  SRC="http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2001/05/images/020808_copperhead.jpg"; WIDTH="180" HEIGHT="198" BORDER="0" DATASIZE="3496"> Copperhead

Photograph by Joe McDonald/CORBIS

It's Snake Week at National Geographic News. Join us each day for stories 
about serpents, from flying snakes to Vietnamese cobras and North American 
copperheads. Discover the secrets of these ancient animals and learn more about 
their world.

Tomorrow: Fossil Proves Snakes Once Lived in New Zealand 


            
    
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        In an instant I forgot the heat, the stickiness, the birds, and the 
bloodthirsty bugs. The copperhead, a venomous snake, is dangerous, but its bite 
is rarely life-threatening to healthy adult humans. Although Connecticut is 
near the northern limit of the snake's range, the nature preserves in which I 
walk have ample copperhead habitat: wooded streamside slopes with rock 
outcroppings. Most people who go to the woods never see a copperhead because the snake 
remains motionless in its red and brown camouflage or senses, through 
vibrations in the ground, the steps of an approaching hiker and slithers away. "Keep 
Your Distance" This was not my first encounter with a copperhead. Years ago, 
on another trail, I narrowly missed stepping on one. Before it escaped, I moved 
behind it and dangled a very long stick above its head, trying to get it to 
strike. Looking back, I realize this was foolish, but I had been curious. The 
snake outsmarted me: Although it was coiled up like a spring, following the 
motion of the stick with its head, it refused to strike. Why waste precious venom 
on an inanimate object? The haunts of this latest copperhead were similar to 
those of the first: an eastern slope on a rocky hill, surrounded by thickets 
of mountain laurel and mixed woods, with a stream nearby. Coiled loosely in the 
cleft of a tranquil hillside, resting quietly in the hazy light of a summer 
afternoon, the snake presented no overt threat. Still, something about the 
copperhead said, "Keep your distance." Perhaps it was the snake's bold patterning, 
or the thickness of its body, or its broad skull, or the way it just lay 
there, exuding quiet confidence in its ability to repel a much larger animal. 
Leaving space between us, I sat on the sloping ledge and studied the creature?the 
copper-colored upturned head, an eye with the pupil narrowed into a vertical 
slit, the brown hourglass-shaped cross bands along the pale brick-red body. The 
cross bands are narrow at the back, wide at the sides. Usually there are 
conspicuous brown dots between some of the bands. This snake's appearance was 
typical, but the color and pattern of copperheads varies. Through my binoculars, I 
saw the heat-sensing facial pit between the eye and nostril, which identifies 
the copperhead as a pit viper. The rarer and more dangerous timber 
rattlesnake, the only other venomous snake of the Northeast, belongs to the same family. 
I was focused so intently on this copperhead that ten minutes or so elapsed 
before I noticed a second shed snakeskin. And then a third, farther down the 
ledge. Nest of Vipers Satisfied that the motionless copperhead before me had no 
inclination to approach, I stretched out my legs, leaned back on my elbows, 
and let my eyes wander across the surroundings. My gaze fell on an alarming 
sight?another copperhead. But this one was huge, surely the largest copperhead on 
Earth. It appeared to be about eight feet long, and it rested in a crevice a 
yard from my heels. I folded my legs and slid away from the monster before 
getting up from the rock. I was more confused than frightened by the unexpected 
encounter. I knew that copperheads rarely exceed three-and-a-half feet, so how 
could this reptile exist? Now that I was out of striking range, I looked more 
carefully, and counted three heads. It wasn't the mythical Hydra, but three 
normal-size copperheads curled up together, taking a siesta. Piled into the 
crevice, they made me think of disemboweled, living intestines. One of the snakes 
was wedged between the rock and the base of a sapling, the kink in its body 
apparently having no ill effect on the circulation. The snoozing snakes never 
moved, never tasted the air with their forked tongues. Disturbed that I had been 
reclining unsuspectingly with vipers, I became snake-paranoid. The copperhead 
is gregarious; I had found four on this ledge, but perhaps there were others. 
No longer trusting my eyes, I checked and rechecked the rocky ledge, 
scrutinizing every nook for more copperheads. On the return trail I tread lightly and 
kept checking. Against the reds and browns of the forest floor, the well 
camouflaged copperhead could be anywhere. I stopped at every unusual rock, every 
pile of decaying wood, every bed of rust-colored leaves, the base of every bush. 
If I continued this way, I'd never make it out of the woods. And stepping so 
stealthily probably increased my risk of surprising a copperhead. My only 
choice was to walk normally and trust that the thud of my boots would warn any 
other snakes that may have been in the area to withdraw. Eventually I reached the 
safety of the trailhead, where I've anchored my walks in the nature preserve 
for more than 25 years. Why not eliminate venomous snakes and make the woods 
safer for all hikers? We have enough manicured parks and lightly traveled roads 
for safe walking, however. The destruction of native animals would be 
antithetical to the purpose of a nature preserve. A scrape with nature's hidden 
potential danger gives the dedicated hiker a raw thrill. Other thrill-seekers have 
river rapids and mountain precipices. Let me have my beautiful and fearsome 
copperheads. National Geographic Resources on Snakes