Copperhead snake: poisonous viper of Eastern United States

Reclining with Vipers
In suburbia, a venomous snake lurks

f 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." Wild beasts were the furthest thing from my mind as I pulled into the parking lot of a Fairfield County nature preserve. Another suburban dweller sat in a gleaming white air-conditioned jeep, talking on the phone.

Minutes after I began my walk, deer flies buzzed threateningly 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 though it hadn't rained significantly 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 insect piranhas waiting for me to pause, I did not look for the undaunted singers. It had become a walk for exercise, not nature study, and I was disposed to get it over with.

Half-way along my 90-minute route, I noticed the shed scales of a snake on a rocky ledge. At this same spot I once happened upon a black rat snake that was double the thickness of a garden hose and, I estimated, six feet long. I scanned the ledge for this shy constrictor but instead found, nestled in a shallow fissure, a 2½-foot northern copperhead. In an instant I forgot the heat, the stickiness, and the bloodthirsty bugs.

The copperhead, a venomous snake, is dangerous, but its bite is rarely life-threatening to healthy adult humans. Although it is near the northern limit of its range in Connecticut, 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 either remains motionless in its red and brown camouflage or senses through the ground the vibrations of an approaching hiker and slithers away.

This was not my first copperhead encounter. Some years ago on another trail I narrowly missed stepping on one. Before the snake 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 was curious. The snake outsmarted me: though 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 mountain laurel thickets and mixed woods, with a stream nearby. Loosely coiled 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.

"Copperhead Snake on Dead Leaves" by Abbott Thayer

Leaving enough space between us, I sat on the sloping ledge and studied the copper-colored upturned head, the eye with its pupil narrowed into a vertical slit, and the brown hourglass-shaped crossbands along the pale brick-red body. The crossbands are narrow on the back, wide on the sides. Usually there are conspicuous brown dots between some of the crossbands. This snake's appearance was typical, but the color and pattern of copperheads can vary.

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. So intently was I focused on this copperhead that 10 minutes must have elapsed before I noticed a second shed snakeskin, and then a third, farther down the ledge.

Satisfied that the motionless copperhead had no inclination to approach, I stretched out my legs, leaned back on my elbows, and let my eyes wander. My gaze fell on an alarming sight. It was another copperhead, but this one was huge, surely the largest copperhead on earth. It appeared to be eight feet long, and it rested in a crevice a yard from my heels.

I folded my legs and, before rising, slid away from the monster. More confused than frightened, I knew that copperheads rarely exceed three 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 their siesta. Spilled into the crevice, they made me think of disembodied, living intestines. One 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 snakes never moved, never even 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 crack and depression 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 found myself stopping at every suspicious rock, every pile of decaying wood, every bed of rusty 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 thuds of my boots would warn other snakes to withdraw. My feet carried me safely to the nature preserve's trailhead, as they have for more than 20 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. Destruction of native animals would be antithetical to the purpose of a nature preserve.

A scrape with nature's hidden danger gives the true hiker a raw thrill. Other thrill seekers have river rapids and mountain precipices. Let me have my beautiful and fearsome copperheads.

Copperhead Facts

- Comprising five subspecies, the copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix) is one of the most widespread venomous snakes in the United States, but its venom is relatively mild. A person envenomated by a copperhead may not even be treated with antivenin, which carries risks of its own.

- Like the rattlesnakes and the cottonmouth, the copperhead is a pit viper. In front of each eye, these snakes have a small, deep depression, or facial pit—a heat-sensing organ used to locate warm-blooded prey. Of some 20 venomous snakes in the United States, all but the coral snakes are pit vipers.

- As a pit viper, the copperhead has hollow fangs that, most of the time, stay folded along its upper jaw. When the snake strikes, the fangs spring forward and inject venom.

- If alarmed, a copperhead may vibrate its tail. The tail doesn't have a rattle but may produce a rattling sound as it hits surrounding vegetation.

- Although normally nonaggressive, the copperhead will strike vigorously if provoked.

- The copperhead preys on small rodents, young birds, frogs, and insects

- It may lack external ears, but a copperhead can still hear a person's approach. Its body transmits the vibrations of human footsteps through its jawbone to the columella, a bone that, in turn, conducts these low, ground-borne frequencies to the snake's inner ear.

- In winter, copperheads hibernate or den up, often choosing rocky recesses, which they may share with other snake species.

- Keep your distance from venomous snakes—even dead ones, which have been known to bite reflexively.

- In the United States, snakebite fatalities are rare. Each year, about 8,000 Americans are bitten by venomous snakes; only about a dozen die.

- According to an article on venomous snakebites in the journal American Family Physician, "at least 25 percent of snakebites do not result in envenomation." This article, which is available online, includes a section on snakebite prevention and first aid.

Related article: How to Save a Life

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A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world.

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