Rattlesnake Mountain

By Bernard Martoia

The drumming of rain against the Deer Head Inn’s windowpane stirred Waffle Print from sleep. After twelve straight days of sun in Pennsylvania, the weather changed, mirroring his challenging endeavor to cross New Jersey.

Then, he remembered the crowded streets as he made a frantic trip to Manhattan to buy himself boots.

“Perfect timing,” he reflected, remembering the huge holes in his old shoes. 

Even though he stayed up late, enjoying the jazz band’s music at the fancy restaurant, he still left the hotel early, as the sky blushed with the dawn’s first light.

Despite the Delaware Water Gap’s fame, Main Street stayed vacant and quiet. 

Every year, fifteen million passengers travel through the Delaware Gap. The Interstate 80, connecting the country’s coasts, begins on the bustling Washington Bridge in New York City and concludes on the iconic Oakland Bay Bridge in San Francisco. At twenty-nine hundred miles, it trails only I-90 as the second-longest highway.

Waffle Print imagined a matching track that would connect the two seashores. At 6,800 miles, the American Discovery Trail exceeds the total length of the two longest highways. This journey includes a combination of paths, forest roads, and county roads.

The solitary individual reflected, “Constructing and preserving the path will provide tons of labor for those lacking skills in the digital era.”

At the end of Main Street, he turned right on Broad Street, where the Village Farmer & Bakery held business, its door ajar.

A wave of roasted chocolate’s scent washed over the customer. He could not stop himself from the temptation when he perceived the homemade raspberry chocolate bar. To quell the subtle guilt, he convinced himself that he ought to consume the treat the next day on the trail. 

“That’ll be seven bucks,” the cashier said, her voice monotone. 

“So much!” The buyer announced in disbelief of the price. 

“This chocolate is fantastic,” the freckled woman declared, handing him his change. He secured the confection within the zipped chest pocket of his green waterproof jacket.

Once outside, the steady shower poured, and the world appeared blurry. He got drenched in the rain as he walked the fifty yards to the Water Gap Diner.

The guidebook recommended this place as an ideal spot for having breakfast. As he wrote postcards, the charming server refilled his coffee mug amidst the pleasant chatter. The downpour lessened, yet he awaited a break before heading to a mini-market within the gas station. It proved an adequate location to restock before departure.

His legs seemed leaden as he returned to the Deer Head Inn. The stage ahead did not incorporate these two extra miles. Prior to his difficult day on the trail, he protected his backpack with a rain cover. The thin nylon of the pack shield led him to question whether the rucksack would stay dry.

He strolled along the crossing over the Delaware River, a three-foot concrete barrier shielding him from the passing vehicles. The rumbling of trucks going by stunned him, and the bridge shuddered with each spasmodic wave of their weight. Relief filled him once he reached the waterway’s left bank.

After half a mile beyond on a county road, he paused at the Kittatinny Point Visitor Center, with two park workers in their usual gray-green garments present. He expressed an interest in mounted specimens of animals, such as deer, fawn, vulture, snake, tortoise, and bear. The Kittatinny Mountains housed a thriving Ursus population. Upon satisfying his curiosity, he continued his trek.

The trailhead parking area contained a single automobile. A man disembarked from the car and advanced towards him. He needed conversation. Friday served as his day off. Residing in Stroudsburg, he became bored while listening to music in his vehicle. 

“What prevents you from hiking?” Waffle Print suggested. 

Although he grasped its advantage, he did not possess the bravery to investigate beyond his existing familiarity. As the downpour returned, he dashed to his car.

The path went along the Dunnfield Creek, where the shiny, greenish moss on the rocks appeared cool and damp to the touch. Waffle Print considered, “I should be glad to be here, rain or shine.” 

He then reached Sunfish Pond, the first glacial lake that hikers discovered when heading north on the Appalachian Trail. When the last ice age ended, glaciers receded, leaving sizable ice mass deposits in depressions. 

A contentious court battle culminating in the Supreme Court’s decision led to the designation of this famous lake as a National Natural Landmark.

In his dissenting opinion in the Sierra Club versus Morton case in 1972, Justice William Douglas referenced the Sunfish Pond.

Beyond the protracted legal proceedings within the American judicial system, the nomenclature applied to this body of water presented inconsistencies with its origins.

Ponds with shallow water characterize the countryside, while the deep, cold glacial lakes are a typical feature of mountains sculpted by glaciers.

Waffle Print concluded the idea of Sunfish Lake being a better name for Sunfish Pond.

Regardless of the nomenclature, this body of water’s surface yielded an unforgettable memory for him. 

In October, under a crisp blue sky, he wanted to take a snapshot of the pristine lake. He stood on a rocky peninsula reaching into the water.

A quiet voice spoke from behind, requesting him to remain motionless. He agreed to the request, which resembled a warning. Though frozen in place, he scanned his surroundings, hoping to identify the unseen threat. His current danger became clear from the downward view. A copper rattlesnake, its scales catching the sunlight, crawled between his boots. The beast’s slow, methodical advance held his attention, and he stopped breathing, his heart pounding. With the serpent now a safe distance away, he spun around, his heart still racing. To his dismay, two rattlesnakes were coiled, but the third, more aggressive, darted its tongue and displayed its venomous fangs.

No matter the predators, he remained calm, creating space as the hiker observed.

A singular, and frightening meeting revealed that the forgetful person was on the peninsula during rattlesnake mating season. 

The weather deteriorated as he revisited the familiar pond. A thin woman, appearing to be middle-aged, approached from the other direction. They acknowledged each other and kept going.

Along the lake’s shore, he observed an animal in slow motion amidst the rocks. 

“Forget about snakes when it’s wet out. What’s up?” He wondered. 

As he got nearer, he saw a crayfish, its small claws scrabbling on the rock face. The daring shellfish edged inland, seeking shelter from the foamy white coast, the froth created by the crashing waves. 

The soaked hiker found solace under the green canopy after leaving the stormy shore of the lake. He crossed the outlet of Catfish Pond. 

The Mohican Camp sat half a mile from here. “I’m not staying there Friday night with all the weekend folks coming,” the loner pictured, yearning for a calm evening.

When the rain stopped, he took the data book out of his backpack. “The stream is seven miles away. Might I arrive there prior to nightfall?” He felt afraid, pondering it. 

Past a road, the path split into three different trails. “Which one is the right one?” he wondered. After walking two hundred yards, he retraced his steps to the fork. His attempt to use the second trail proved also futile. The final selection was the correct choice — the AT, recognized by its white blaze. With the fading light, precious time vanished.

He encountered a large group en route to Mohican camp. This confirmed his instincts about avoiding this location during the weekend.

The flat terrain atop the Kittatinny Range’s ridge allowed for his rapid progress. As darkness fell, he hesitated. “Do I need to get my flashlight? It’s under a mile to the creek,” he reflected. He messed up his shoulder in the same way in Northern California. Folly triumphed over sagacity. Without a torch, he continued at a reduced pace on the rugged path. 

He arrived at the stream, the limpid flow a welcome sight at the bottom of the rocky hill. The darkness made it difficult to find a suitable spot to establish camp. 

As he washed his muddy legs in the stream’s cool water, he noticed a large print in the mud, featuring five distinct claw marks. Damaged boughs showed a clear marker that an Ursus Arctos had been on site. 

The rain started up again as he cooked rice, the tiny stove hissing. His brain filtered the rhythmic drumming of the shower from the crackling sounds of the burning cooker. Amidst the rustling leaves, he paused, thinking, “Is that the heavy tread of a black bear I hear?” 

Within the forest, a Spartan’s life taught self-preservation.

“Each man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day; wisdom consists in not exceeding that limit,” said the American philosopher, Elbert Hubbard.

Bernard Martoia is a retired French diplomat (1981 – 2017)