Guess I Rolled Snake-Eyes

If you’d asked me a year ago whether you should be worried about rattlesnake bites while hiking anywhere in Colorado’s Front Range, I would have told you, “not particularly”. While they call many places throughout this state “home” they’re shy and want to avoid an encounter with you as much as the reverse is true. You might catch a glimpse of one sunning itself on a rock from time to time on more remote trails, but the chances of getting bit are slim. At least, that’s what I thought before my chance encounter a few months ago. 

Currently, I’m a rock climbing and hiking guide with my family’s company, Sojourner Mountain Guides, but before that, I worked as a Park Ranger/EMT. I’ve spent more time in rattlesnake territory than your average Colorado recreator and it was my job to respond to medical emergencies that occurred in our parks. In my four years as a ranger I can only remember one snakebite call and I was off duty.

That is not to say we didn’t see snakes. It was a fairly regular occurrence to preemptively move them off trail and away from densely occupied areas. We would do this with a long snake stick (a beefier version of those extendable grabbers used to clean up litter or fetch objects from high shelves). The key is to grab the snake behind its head so it can't swing back toward you. 

Neither rangers nor snakes care for this. They’d rattle and hiss, making my 8-foot pole seem much too short, but in reality, they were even more interested in getting away than I was. That’s the best part about rattlers: they’re more rattle than bite. Rattlesnakes really aren’t interested in biting humans or other large animals unless they feel threatened. The primary purpose of their venom is for hunting and they would rather use it for that. 

It’s estimated that over a quarter million people hike Colorado’s 14ers every year, meaning even more are on the tens of thousands of easier trails crisscrossing the Rocky Mountains. 200 people (on and off trails) got bitten by rattlesnakes. But, if you throw the dice enough, your odds of rolling snake eyes go up. Last July 4th, my number came up. 

I’d just finished the work day guiding a group of rock climbers and decided I wanted to do a little climbing on my own. There was an obscure crag I’d never been to before just a little further up the canyon from where I was guiding. I was alone and planning to use solo climbing techniques. The crag I wanted to reach was in the narrowest and steepest part of the canyon, high up on the hillside, almost at the top. I parked in a small, non-descript pull-off on the side of the road. 

With no trailhead signage or marked path to guide me, I followed a faint climbers’ track up the steep side of the canyon marked by the occasional pile of cairns (stacked rocks)  to mark the way. The track wound its way steeply up over loose rock and scree, through stands of scrubby bushes and even up a few small cliff bands where other climbers had left tied off ropes to assist with hauling oneself up with a modicum of safety. On most of the track, a fall would have resulted in a dangerous tumble, though not guaranteed to be fatal.

I arrived to the top of the canyon after a brisk 30 minutes or so. From there I had about a quarter mile of gently rolling rock domes and montane scrubland to traverse to reach my intended destination. The terrain was open and sparse. At the half-way point of this short, final stretch I stepped off a rock slab onto a flat gravely open section when I felt a significant prick, akin to receiving a shot at the doctors, on the outside of my leg just above my right ankle. 

I was in full stride and hiking briskly so I had already traveled another three or four steps before my brain caught up with the sensation in my ankle. I looked down – I was wearing shorts and low-topped hiking shoes - and realized I was bleeding. A sizable drop of blood had welled up and started to run down to my sock.

My mind rolled through the possibilities of causation: 

“Did I just catch myself on a branch?”

“Did I get stabbed by a rogue rock kicked up by my own feet?” 

“Ditto but a stick?” 

“Was it a bug?” 

If you have recreated in the mountains long enough, you know there is no end to the number of ways you can nick, cut or scratch yourself. But none of these options quite made sense. “Snake bite” did enter my mind, but I quickly shuffled it to the bottom of the list. I hadn’t seen or heard a snake or rattle, and I appeared to have only one wound where a bite should result in two puncture marks from each fang.

I retraced my steps and found little there by way of explanation aside from a dry dead log which I had walked past. It did have a particularly sharp branch sticking out in roughly the right area to nick my ankle. This explanation didn’t feel entirely satisfactory, but it was the best one I had so it became my working theory.

The bleeding had already stopped, so I shrugged my shoulders and hiked the remaining five minutes or so to my destination. Once there, I used my first-aid kit to clean up the wound. My theory began to crumble as I wiped away the blood and grime from my ankle only to realize that there was no cut - just the faintest red dot, smaller than a freckle. I wondered to myself again, “Could this be a snake bite? How was it that I neither saw nor heard a snake?” I was not ready to accept this hypothesis, but acknowledged to myself it was at least equally likely to my tree branch theory. Even so, 25% of rattlesnake bites, our only native poisonous snake in Colorado, are non-venomous, so I did not feel too worried. I ate a snack.

As I began scrambling around, my ankle began to throb. I remained unconcerned until a few minutes later, when my toes started to tingle. My tree branch theory had gone up in smoke and the rattlesnake hypothesis moved in to take its place. I still wasn’t fully convinced but knew from experience it was best not to take my chances.

I packed up my things and called my wife with the few bars of service I gratefully had, “Love, I don’t think this is the case… but I may have been bit by a rattlesnake.” I explained the odd situation and that I was hiking down. “I’ll call you in an hour once I’m out and have better service”, I assured her before requesting she send help if that hour passed and I hadn’t reached back out (in my mind an unlikely scenario since I still wasn’t convinced this was a venomous snakebite). 

I figured that I would hike out and the tingling would go away, and I would kick myself for missing out on a climbing session. That perspective changed after a few minutes when my foot began to go numb. As a former member of emergency services who specialized in backcountry medicine, a bit of advice, don’t hesitate to call for help. It is better to call and ask for help early than to wait until you are most definitely in a pickle. If you realize you are okay you can always call back and say “nevermind”. When I realized my foot was going numb, I called 911.

If you are going to recreate alone in hard-to-reach areas, you have a responsibility to make yourself easy to rescue. This means knowing how to describe where you are and where you left your vehicle. In my case, there was no trail on a map to reference, no trailhead, no well-known feature and I was in some really difficult terrain. The 911 dispatcher did well but initially struggled to understand my situation. “Sir what trail are you hiking and what trailhead is your vehicle at?” 

“I am not on a trail and my vehicle is not at a trailhead.” I described my vehicle and gave her the plates. “It is on the south side of the road in a pull-off on the first major hairpin turn as you drive up the Big Thompson Canyon after the Dam Store.” Knock on the bee-hive, look for a tree with three branches pointing west… I could hear how silly my directions might sound but knowing your location relative to major landmarks and describing it succinctly could save your life one day

In most cases, if you call 911 about a rattlesnake bite, they’ll come find you. That’s because you want to keep your heart rate low to avoid circulating venom through your system. If you’re in an easy spot, rescuers can find you and get you help quickly. If you are very far out or in very difficult terrain, like me, it may not be the best choice.

If I waited, I’d be asking them to enter difficult, dangerous, and unmarked terrain. It might take them a while to find me. Plus, the steepness of the terrain would necessitate a technical rescue, which takes forever. All this in mind, I continued down. The numbness began to give way to a dull pain radiating through my foot. It was far from intolerable and I was making good time.

 I soon heard sirens echoing off the canyon walls. About three quarters of the way down my parked truck and the fire engines slid into view. I shouted but was still too far to be heard and I watched as they peered into my truck and then began looking around, unsuccessfully, for the “trail”. 

Glad I didn’t wait. Within another minute or two I traversed a ledge that brought me into their line of sight and earshot. I shouted that I’d be down in just a few minutes, no need to come get me. By the time I scrambled down the final gully I was moving with a slight limp.

In the time it took me to reach the pull-off, a paramedic unit had arrived. They ushered my into the ambulance so I could tell my tale - still not 100% convinced it was a snakebite. They took my vitals and ran an EKG – all good. They could see my ankle was swelling but couldn’t locate two puncture wounds. They wanted to take me to the ER, which was fine by me, but I elected to drive myself (once they gave me the greenlight). Ambulance rides ain’t cheap. 

I drive a manual and my swollen right foot (and my pain tolerance) was put to the test. When I stepped out of my car, I was finally able to accept my snakebite theory. My foot throbbed painfully as I hobbled into the ER, unaided. It was dead so I got right in, but I’d guess that “rattlesnake bite” is one of the best cheatcodes.

Despite being deemed as a “minor envenomation” my swelling reached past my knee and my foot looked like a plump purple sausage. If I stayed still with my foot elevated the pain was present but tolerable, a 5 out of 10. The one time I tried to stand up and go to the bathroom I saw stars. 10 out of 10 pain felt like an understatement.

I ended up receiving four vials of anti-venin and spending the night in the ICU. The antivenin worked wonders and I was able to hobble around again and go home the next day. Four days later guided a 600-foot-long rock climb though I was pretty sore by the end of the day. In all it took me about a month to recover fully. The longest lasting effects were flu-like symptoms caused by the antivenin called “serum sickness”.

I have a lot of data points now to settle on what I think actually happened: it’s likely that this was a small, young rattler (sans rattle) and I probably jumped down right on top of part of it, causing it to swing up at an odd angle, getting me with one fang instead of two before my stride carried me away. The snake was long gone before I realized something happened.

Should you be worried about rattle snakes while hiking in Colorado? My answer is the same, but with one caveat inspired by a text message I received while in the ICU: a picture of the Gadsden flag, bright yellow adorned with an open-mouthed rattlesnake. “Not particularly, just don’t tread on them.”