Grizzlies, Scorpions, and Snakes...oh my!

by Becky Lomax

For us northerners, backpacking in the desert conjured up images of rattlesnakes coiled ready to bare their poisonous fangs at every footstep. Around every corner, surely huge scorpions the size of lobsters stood with tails arched over their heads ready to sting unsuspecting hikers misplacing their feet.

Nothing could be farther from the truth, but to our northwest Montana mountain minds, highly illiterate in southwestern ecosystems, we expected nothing less. After all, the hiking guidebook said that the small midget faded rattlesnake lived in Utah; undoubtedly, it hid behind every rock.

In Glacier, our backyard national park, we hiked where large predators make it their business to forage twenty hours a day, not small crawly things imbued with toxic tinctures. Hiking in grizzly bear country required only common sense and some precautionary behavior. Hollering out nonsense around blind corners was reflexive to us as sneezing. Hanging food bags and meticulously picking up every noodle scrap was accomplished routinely along with brushing teeth.

We knew our backcountry training regarding grizzly bears would fail us in the southwest. For rattlesnakes lacked ears to hear our noise, and scorpions wouldn't care what we did with our food bags.

It never occurred to us that the poisonous creatures of the desert might be as elusive as our grizzly bears. In Glacier, with Night of the Grizzlies permeating everyone's mind--that fateful night in 1969 when in separate incidents grizzlies dragged two girls from their sleeping bags-bears resurrect base fears of being eaten. After a few days in the backcountry without seeing a bear, most hikers realize they may never even see a grizzly.

In spite of knowing of how infrequently we glimpse our predators, we failed to maintain that same logic toward rattlesnakes and scorpions as we bravely exited the land of snow urged on only by our need for sun. Armed with fragments of snake bite knowledge from girl scout first aid thirty years ago, we'd have been better off with our injuries being coronaries and broken limbs rather than venomous bites.

Walking into Canyonlands National Park permit office as soon as it opened in the morning, we sidled up to the backcountry desk, inquiring about four-day permits. Much to our delight, they were available. Then, the moment of truth: I shrugged my shoulders, confessed to the permit officer our crime of ignorance, and asked if she could pick a loop route for us based on available sites.

Since Sydney refuses to camp overnight in grizzly bear country, she quizzed the permit officer about grizzlies just in case one had wandered a few states south. Canyonlands listed black bears as one of their animals, and she wasn't going to be bamboozled into camping in a tent with grizzlies breathing right outside. Double checking with the permit officer on the last sighting of a grizzly in Utah relieved her fears. None of us addressed our concerns about rattlesnakes and scorpions.

Finally synching our pack straps down and setting foot on the trail, we hiked across a sagebrush plateau, eyeing every rock for a coiled rattler, every rabbitbrush for a hidden scorpion. Meanwhile, Sydney, who paid attention in the park service video in case it mentioned large predators, recited what she had seen--the usual principles of Leave No Trace and how we should avoid walking on the desert crust. Adamant that we were going to help preserve the desert cryptobiotic life forms, she chanted a mantra to keep their protection in the forefront of our minds.

Suddenly, there it was on the side of the trail-cryptogamic crust. Brownish-black miniature towers of life looking more like rain spattered mud piles than anything else. We stared at our first wildlife. It didn't bite. We survived.

Cryptos, as we dubbed them, erected their fragile structures everywhere. Requiring 25 years to grow back from the implant of a footprint, these combinations of fungus and blue-green algae sprouted across entire hillsides holding the clay soils intact from erosion. Protecting the soil from blowing away to California, their unique crust allows seeds to find purchase for growth.

Although we imagined standing immobile while cryptos slowly crept over us, like a B-rated sci-fi flick, these pint-sized creatures lacked fangs and stingers. As we hiked into Squaw Canyon, more and more cryptos encrusted desert sands, but we spied not a trace of what we feared.

Later that evening in camp, out of habit we hung our food. In grizzly country, we hang our food high up in trees, but in the riparian canyons of the southwest, juniper trees afford no luxury in height, so our bags dangled awkwardly at chest height. Good thing no grizzly bears roamed Utah!

With fears of waking up to scorpions lurking in our boots, we tucked everything inside our packs for the night. Clamoring into our tent, the three of us settled in, delighted to have survived our first day amidst the desert creatures. Even with the heat, we zipped up the tent to protect ourselves from the onslaught of snakes that would come slithering out from the rocks at night.

In the middle of the night, threatening noises woke us. Something big rummaged in our food bags. After elbowing each other with a "you do it," Kellie finally swept her flashlight through the darkness. Two tiny sets of beady mice eyes reflected back at us.

Rock throwing posed no deterrent. Neither did cursing. By flashlight, we finally moved our food bags to another tree, only to hear the mice toes scraping the nylon again as soon as they thought we were asleep.

In the morning, we relegated Kellie's mouse poop littered gorp to our garbage bag. We survived our second encounter with wildlife with only the loss of our snacks and unkind thoughts for the fate of the two mice who pilfered our treats. Maybe they would be eaten by a rattlesnake.

As we explored the maze of canyons in the Needles district, our anxieties about the venomous creatures slowly diminished. Each time we imagined setting a hand blindly on a rock to have it stung, no violation occurred. We never even saw the tail of a small snake slither away through the tangles of tamarisk.

Four days later, we exited the land of orange and tan sandstone spires, layers of rock worlds, and narrow fins dividing the bowels of canyons. Like grizzly bear country, what we feared most, we did not even see. We were unscathed. No rattlesnakes. No scorpions. Just mice and the diminutive black crust trudging in a Darwinian world to survive the centuries.

About the Author

Becky is a backpacking guide in Glacier National Park who, since this first venture to Canyonlands, treks every spring to the southwest for desert backpacking.