Fastest Snake in the West

San Joaquin Coachwhips, A Closer Look at Poop, Song of the Week: Paolo Nutini

I was walking up the hillside above the condor observation blind in Pinnacles, getting ready to take a set of signals when it happened: a rustling sound in the grasses between chamise bushes, followed by a flash of coral-pink along the ground. Though I had my phone in hand, I wasn’t nearly quick enough to snap a picture of a coachwhip, one of my favorite snakes. During the two-mile hike from the parking area to the blind I always try to have my phone ready, but coachwhips are edgy and rarely allow close approach. And once they go, they go: they’re the fastest snake in North America, slithering along at eight MPH. That may not sound impressive, but watch one burst into action and you’ll swear it was three times as fast.

Coachwhips are active, heat-loving snakes commonly found throughout the southern US. However, the local subspecies, the San Joaquin Coachwhip, is in decline and listed by the state as a Species of Special Concern. Once found throughout the Central Valley at least as far north as the Sutter Buttes, they’ve lost a lot of habitat, for coachwhips can’t persist in cultivated lands, much less cities and suburbs. Beyond the Central Valley, San Joaquin coachwhips also exist along the edges of the Salinas Valley, as my friend Mike alluded to when he texted me recently with a very specific message: bring me coachwhip tail tips from west of Highway 25. It was kind of like the Wizard of Oz asking for the broom of the Wicked Witch of the West, but less arduous.

Tail tips provide DNA used to determine if taxa are genetically unique enough to be considered separate species, subspecies, or populations of evolutionary significance. In terms of conservation, DNA could be used to make the case for the snake’s protection, and that’s part of the appeal for me.

Another part is that it’s a challenge, and in some cases it can be downright fun. Obtaining lizard DNA involves lassoing lizards, which I swear is every bit as enjoyable and even more challenging than fly fishing. Collecting snake DNA isn’t quite as thrilling; you’re basically driving around looking for road kill. In a sane country, RFK Jr. would be spending his golden years pursuing his passion for dead wildlife by putting it to good use, scanning the highways for rare snakes. Instead, he’s the Health Czar. We’re cooked.

A couple of years ago I found a dead coachwhip on Highway 25 just beyond a blind curve. You never realize how crazy-fast people drive until you walk along a highway without shoulders. I must’ve been mighty conspicuous hovering over a flattened snake with toenail clippers and a vial of alcohol. Thank god no one stopped to ask what I was doing; the truth would have taken too long to explain. I save the old “tastes like chicken” line for such occasions; I’m not too proud to let people think I eat road kill.

I’ve seen dead coachwhips from Coalinga Road and the Bitterwater area along Highway 25 north to Paicines. I’ve never seen one north of Hollister and I’m pretty sure no one else has either. There are no records for them dead or alive in Santa Clara County, nor would I expect any— it’s just not arid enough. But I’m aware of at least one report, such as it is: my neighbor, a cowboy who’s 35 going on 17, told me he saw a pink snake along the access road below my property last summer. It sounded promising, even though the habitat is too wooded and I’ve been walking/driving that road daily for over twenty years without ever seeing one.

During that same conversation he also claimed to have a photo he took here of a pair of ringtails (he couldn’t find it) and confided that he recently heard Bigfoot communicate by swinging a log against a tree trunk. All this while downing three beers in ten minutes.

Not all reports are worthy of further investigation, so whether it’s a coachwhip, ringtail, or sasquatch, best to be vigilant and have your camera ready.

San Joaquin Coachwhip

Helena Handbasket:

I don’t know when it began— maybe 15 or 20 years ago— but sometime in the not-too-distant pass the word poop became the go-to word for describing solid waste. I’m not pleased.

I’m not a prude; far from it. In fact, if you recorded me at home you’d probably hear the word fuck almost as often as the, it, or and, especially if I turn on a Giants game.

(Editor: That’s a 5-dollar fine for a Sportsball reference; make it 10 for invoking the most lifeless, frustrating, and inept team in baseball. You’re clearly an addict and need help.)

(Me: Not so easy banishing the Giants from all civil conversations, is it?)

I’m not against the use of the word poop because I find it vulgar or offensive; no, I dislike it because it’s a kid’s word, like doo-doo. Yet it’s everywhere, from bold-print story lines in the New York Times to the mouths of academics and scientists. I get why some terms might not work there: feces (too obtuse), excrement (too stuffy), turd (too crass). I prefer droppings or scat when referring to animals, but those aren’t as easily applied to people.

So what to do? Me, I just say shit. Problem is, it’s on the taboo list, according to George Carlin, one of seven words you can’t say on television.

But why? How come shit is forbidden while crap is merely crude? The two are entirely synonymous and can be used interchangeably, yet only one of them is censored. I have a theory.

Shit is more passionate, more intense, more angry. It’s short and sour, a one-syllable, guttural sound that, like Fuck, can be downright cathartic to utter. Bullshit sounds serious; bullcrap sounds like something Mr. Rogers might have said if he ever lost his temper. To call someone a shithead is to tap into the highest level of dopamine a human can hit; calling someone a craphead makes you sound ridiculous, like people who say h-e-double toothpicks.

The powers that be don’t want the hoi polloi expressing themselves so vigorously. They’d rather water down the language. So, we’re encouraged to say freaking instead of fucking, poop rather than shit.

That’s my belief, and if it comes across as a conspiracy theory, well, I really don’t give a….

Brewer’s Clarkia, one of my favorite spring wildflowers.

Song of the Week: Coming Up Easy, Paolo Nutini

I first heard this song over a decade ago when it appeared at the end of one of my favorite movies, Lucky Them. It was so good, so smooth, so old-school soul that I waited for the credits to roll to see which artist it was. When the name Paolo Nutini came up I was mystified; I expected a Black dude from Jamaica but got an Italian by way of Scotland.

I can’t say enough about this song, the way the organ and horns slowly propel it behind Paolo’s voice. It rolls along with the kind of undefinable excellence of the best Van Morrison songs, until it starts building to the end. At a place where the voices of mere mortals give out, Paolo somehow finds a higher gear and his voice becomes even stronger. Damn, can that man sing.

(Editor: Sounds like someone’s got a man-crush!)

(Me: You know I hate that term with every fiber of my being.)

A couple of other thoughts: at first I thought this was a relationship song, and in a way it is, just not with another person— the ‘you’ he’s referring to is marijuana. It’s a breakup song alright— he’s dumping weed.

The other is the video. I have conflicting thoughts about music videos. On one hand, I truly dislike having music arrive with a visual component. When I hear a song, I form my own mental image as it plays, and that can be a very powerful experience. A video negates that completely, replacing my imagination with that of some director. Fuck that.

But I can’t deny that music video is definitely an art form, and that there are some amazingly creative videos out there, including this one. And while Paolo’s a handsome guy, that rabbit steals every scene. There’s something about his eyes— they’re much too close together for a rabbit, more like those of a predator, and it freaks me out.

Then we have the whole anthropomorphic thing going on, where he’s wearing a shirt but no pants. Bottomless cartoon critters have always bugged me, going all the way back to Porky Pig. They either gotta wear nothing, like Bugs Bunny or Snoopy, or put some damn pants on. You can’t have ‘em sporting shirts while strolling around bottomless, and frankly, I’m surprised such cartoons haven’t been banned in several Southern states.

(Editor: You must have been a strange, strange child)

(Me: Quiet, you)

Our rabbit had quite a night— dancing with a woman, grabbing her ass, nearly getting into a fight, and finally puking his guts out on the concrete. He did everything but re-ingest his own fecal pellets, as rabbits are wont to do.

Paolo, on the other hand, all he did was sing.

Have a great week everybody, thanks for reading, and happy Mother’s Day to all you moms out there.