Clay Davenport
Cerebral Nomad
KANSAS CITY, Mo. - On a hot spring day, workers began shredding more than a million tires that cooked in an overgrown quarry, oozing a hot rubber smell.
The rock walls of the quarry hid the dens of hundreds of timber rattlesnakes.
Rod Wittenberg is the man keeping the workers and the threatened rattlers from harming each other.
"My ultimate goal is to work this so that everybody is safe," he said.
For four years, Wittenberg has been a mother hen to the rattlesnakes, tracking them and protecting both the snakes and human neighbors who didn't even realize they were living among scores of rattlesnakes.
Wittenberg, a graduate of Belton High School and Avila College, is conducting research for his doctorate in biology at the University of Arkansas.
Last year, when Wittenberg learned that the Missouri Department of Natural Resources was planning to clean up the tires, which are home to millions of disease-carrying mosquitoes, he asked state officials to consider the snakes' welfare.
That led officials to offer the cleanup job to Tri-Rinse Inc. in St. Louis, in part because the company promised to protect the snakes' habitat.
Mike Morgan, president of Tri-Rinse, said the company delayed the tire cleanup to allow the snakes time after hibernation to move to woodlands and fields for foraging.
"We have gone through a lot of preparation so that we are not going to harm (the snakes) and our workers don't get hurt in the process," Morgan said.
Sam Seward, the project manager, said so far they have seen only one rattler at the site. It had crawled up in an engine and was killed when a worker turned it on.
The Kansas City Star agreed not to reveal the site of the quarry because Wittenberg said man can be one of the snake's most feared predators.
"I won't always be here," he said. "I don't want to alert rattlesnake poachers, or even thrill seekers. Next you know, you can kiss them goodbye," noting that they could end up on somebody's hatband or in a rattlesnake roundup.
In Missouri the timber rattlesnake is a protected species, so it is illegal to kill them.
It is the state's largest venomous snake, averaging 3 to 5 feet long with a life span of 16 to 22 years. It tends to winter in groups in rocky areas with southern exposure. Come spring, it moves out of its den to mate and forage for squirrels, rabbits, shrews, moles, weasels, insects and birds.
On this recent steamy day, Wittenberg showed off a couple snakes, a young male and a pregnant female.
The skin of No. 15, the female, was velvety to touch. Wittenberg had placed her in a long tube head first with the back half of her body and rattler hanging out. On her underside, he had notched her scales for identification. Her eyes were blue because she was preparing to shed her skin.
A bucket she had been resting in stood nearby carrying a label marked with skull and crossbones and "DANGEROUSLY VENOMOUS."
Wittenberg has notched nearly 200 snakes during his study and placed red radio monitors that looked like firecrackers in about two dozen. Using a radio and what looks like a 1950s antenna, he has tracked them as they fanned out in woodlands and pastures, following a beeping noise from a box near his belly hanging from a rope around his neck.
As far as rattlers go, Wittenberg says the timber rattlesnake is pretty docile.
"They really aren't hell on wheels," he said. "You would actually almost have to step on them and cause them physical pain before they whip around and bite you."
But Wittenberg knows about the physical pain that snakes can inflict. He once made a mistake with a copperhead he was handling, and it sunk its fangs into his index finger.
"I had this tingling, numb feeling, and by the end of the day, the entire hand to my wristwatch was swollen and my stomach was cramping," he said.
For almost 30 days, doctors considered amputating the finger. At one point, most of the skin fell off his finger.
But it finally began healing, and today he has regained most use of it, but it remains misshapen. But he says the incident was his fault because he had acted "stupid."
"I didn't give the copperhead any choice but to bite me," he said.
Wittenberg selected the quarry rattlers to study because he wanted to learn how the snakes had integrated into "their environmentally disturbed habitat."
But it also became a lesson in how well people had adapted to living with the snakes.
Most neighbors didn't know about the rattlers, so he set about educating them, explaining that they should keep their grass mowed like a golf course and never walk to the mailbox at night without wearing a pair of boots.
He became friends with one neighbor who managed to trap a couple snakes for him.
Wittenberg put a radio monitor in one that the neighbor dubbed "Mr. Big."
"He was really enamored of the snake," Wittenberg said. "For three years I had to give him reports on Mr. Big."
Then late last summer its signal disappeared.
"He was so upset that Mr. Big had disappeared," Wittenberg said. "He drove me all over the roads to different places searching for him."
But Mr. Big was gone. The radio's signal quit or he was killed, possibly by a car while crossing a road or by a mower while laying in a field waiting for prey. Many snakes lose their lives to farm machinery.
A rattler will stake out a territory and may spend an entire summer in a single field or wooded area, waiting days in one spot for a rodent or bird to come along, Wittenberg said.
One summer, Wittenberg was tracking a rattler when he heard the sounds of four-wheelers. He suddenly found himself in the midst of a barbecue and his snake in a nearby woodpile. He told residents what he was doing and asked if they wanted to see the snake.
"They kept saying, `No, I don't want to see it,' " Wittenberg said. "But I knew they wanted to see it."
Wittenberg told them how the rattler was curled up like a cinnamon bun and how vital snakes were to the ecosystem.
"They kept creeping closer and closer, and finally they were peeking over the edge of the log without disturbing it," he said.
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The rock walls of the quarry hid the dens of hundreds of timber rattlesnakes.
Rod Wittenberg is the man keeping the workers and the threatened rattlers from harming each other.
"My ultimate goal is to work this so that everybody is safe," he said.
For four years, Wittenberg has been a mother hen to the rattlesnakes, tracking them and protecting both the snakes and human neighbors who didn't even realize they were living among scores of rattlesnakes.
Wittenberg, a graduate of Belton High School and Avila College, is conducting research for his doctorate in biology at the University of Arkansas.
Last year, when Wittenberg learned that the Missouri Department of Natural Resources was planning to clean up the tires, which are home to millions of disease-carrying mosquitoes, he asked state officials to consider the snakes' welfare.
That led officials to offer the cleanup job to Tri-Rinse Inc. in St. Louis, in part because the company promised to protect the snakes' habitat.
Mike Morgan, president of Tri-Rinse, said the company delayed the tire cleanup to allow the snakes time after hibernation to move to woodlands and fields for foraging.
"We have gone through a lot of preparation so that we are not going to harm (the snakes) and our workers don't get hurt in the process," Morgan said.
Sam Seward, the project manager, said so far they have seen only one rattler at the site. It had crawled up in an engine and was killed when a worker turned it on.
The Kansas City Star agreed not to reveal the site of the quarry because Wittenberg said man can be one of the snake's most feared predators.
"I won't always be here," he said. "I don't want to alert rattlesnake poachers, or even thrill seekers. Next you know, you can kiss them goodbye," noting that they could end up on somebody's hatband or in a rattlesnake roundup.
In Missouri the timber rattlesnake is a protected species, so it is illegal to kill them.
It is the state's largest venomous snake, averaging 3 to 5 feet long with a life span of 16 to 22 years. It tends to winter in groups in rocky areas with southern exposure. Come spring, it moves out of its den to mate and forage for squirrels, rabbits, shrews, moles, weasels, insects and birds.
On this recent steamy day, Wittenberg showed off a couple snakes, a young male and a pregnant female.
The skin of No. 15, the female, was velvety to touch. Wittenberg had placed her in a long tube head first with the back half of her body and rattler hanging out. On her underside, he had notched her scales for identification. Her eyes were blue because she was preparing to shed her skin.
A bucket she had been resting in stood nearby carrying a label marked with skull and crossbones and "DANGEROUSLY VENOMOUS."
Wittenberg has notched nearly 200 snakes during his study and placed red radio monitors that looked like firecrackers in about two dozen. Using a radio and what looks like a 1950s antenna, he has tracked them as they fanned out in woodlands and pastures, following a beeping noise from a box near his belly hanging from a rope around his neck.
As far as rattlers go, Wittenberg says the timber rattlesnake is pretty docile.
"They really aren't hell on wheels," he said. "You would actually almost have to step on them and cause them physical pain before they whip around and bite you."
But Wittenberg knows about the physical pain that snakes can inflict. He once made a mistake with a copperhead he was handling, and it sunk its fangs into his index finger.
"I had this tingling, numb feeling, and by the end of the day, the entire hand to my wristwatch was swollen and my stomach was cramping," he said.
For almost 30 days, doctors considered amputating the finger. At one point, most of the skin fell off his finger.
But it finally began healing, and today he has regained most use of it, but it remains misshapen. But he says the incident was his fault because he had acted "stupid."
"I didn't give the copperhead any choice but to bite me," he said.
Wittenberg selected the quarry rattlers to study because he wanted to learn how the snakes had integrated into "their environmentally disturbed habitat."
But it also became a lesson in how well people had adapted to living with the snakes.
Most neighbors didn't know about the rattlers, so he set about educating them, explaining that they should keep their grass mowed like a golf course and never walk to the mailbox at night without wearing a pair of boots.
He became friends with one neighbor who managed to trap a couple snakes for him.
Wittenberg put a radio monitor in one that the neighbor dubbed "Mr. Big."
"He was really enamored of the snake," Wittenberg said. "For three years I had to give him reports on Mr. Big."
Then late last summer its signal disappeared.
"He was so upset that Mr. Big had disappeared," Wittenberg said. "He drove me all over the roads to different places searching for him."
But Mr. Big was gone. The radio's signal quit or he was killed, possibly by a car while crossing a road or by a mower while laying in a field waiting for prey. Many snakes lose their lives to farm machinery.
A rattler will stake out a territory and may spend an entire summer in a single field or wooded area, waiting days in one spot for a rodent or bird to come along, Wittenberg said.
One summer, Wittenberg was tracking a rattler when he heard the sounds of four-wheelers. He suddenly found himself in the midst of a barbecue and his snake in a nearby woodpile. He told residents what he was doing and asked if they wanted to see the snake.
"They kept saying, `No, I don't want to see it,' " Wittenberg said. "But I knew they wanted to see it."
Wittenberg told them how the rattler was curled up like a cinnamon bun and how vital snakes were to the ecosystem.
"They kept creeping closer and closer, and finally they were peeking over the edge of the log without disturbing it," he said.
Link