Night Hike on Rattlesnake Hill

By SoDak

Turning off of Highway 44, in the Black Hills, the Ford Bronco spits gravel as we make our way down the forest service road. Like so many other times, Jerry, Mike, and I venture out for another night of hiking. An old cassette tape by New Model Army accompanies us, serving as one of the soundtracks to our lives. Above the song, “Green and Grey,” Mike notes that “Mars will be visible tonight.” I wipe the grime of cigarette smoke off of the back window to look towards the sky, hoping that the clouds have cleared off so we can have a clear view of the stars. It looks promising.

Jerry slows the truck after a half mile down this dirt road, and parks in front of a forest service gate that closes off the area from vehicle use for several months each year. Stepping out of the truck, we look at the pinhole sky above, as points of light emerge from the darkness. I breathe deeply, taking the cool April air into my lungs, and I feel at home in these woods with my friends.

After gathering backpacks and gloves from the backseat, we pause for another moment. Jerry lights a cigarette, then unzips his pants to pee on the tire of the truck. Encouraged by the action, I relieve myself on the road as I stare at the Big Dipper. As quick, as I button up my pants, we set off on our hike. I walk around the gate, while Jerry jumps on the metal bar and leaps into the air, tackling Mike as he emerges from underneath the bar. We chuckle at each other, as our routines are deeply established after so many years going on adventures together. Our lives, our friendship, and the Black Hills are intertwined. We hike as many nights as we can every week. Every Sunday, we go hiking during the day. Tonight is just one more night, a chance to share each other’s presence. We joke around and wander from subject to subject without much concern for a connecting thread.

We follow the road for two miles, then head up the hill. The unused dirt road is barely visible, given that the new moon was two nights ago. The darkness produces a sense of comfort, a time and place to unwind from the stress of daily life. We share reflections from the day—Jerry is an electrician, Mike is a reporter, and I am interviewing homeless folks for a research project. We are familiar with the grind and the challenges that each of us confronts.  

“I would love to change careers. Carrying a heavy tool pouch up and down ladders and stairs all day is wearing out my knees. I feel much older than I am.”

“What else would you like to do?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“I don’t know what I want to do either. It seems that any full-time job amounts to sacrificing one’s life.”

As we climb upwards, our conversation drifts towards discussing friends, love, and future plans. Each of these nights, our lives unfold. Reflections and dreams become inseparable. We actively analyze our lives and create the intricate threads that hold us together. We feel fortunate to have each other as close friends, and we relish each opportunity to share our lives under these stars, in these hills, and among these trees.

The darkness provides the space for our creativity, as concrete objects lose their definition. Trees, plants, rocks, the hills, and the road are present, but the boundaries are not as sharp. Our imagination expands. We create faces in the branches of the trees; we imagine huge vistas as we look over rock outcroppings; we listen to the water flow over rocks, but we envision the ripples and current as we stare at the blackness that separates the stream from the banks where dried winter grass and the sprouting foliage of spring are mixed together. The night is a collage, a space for expression and freedom.

I love the night, especially when I share it with friends. I am filled with a yearning, a desire, for that moment to go on forever, that nothing would change. It is one of the only times I feel complete contentment with life. The night is an embrace, arms that comfort the heart, providing an opportunity to collect my thoughts. On these nights, I may dream of a new day, but it is actually this space and time that is perfect and what I desire the most. It is here that I am exploring the world, away from an alienating job, and creating memories. Under the cover of night, we are who we desire to be, as we share these hikes. We bring out the best traits of each other, hoping to carry our humanity into the next day. There is a peace, a calm, that is one of the greatest pleasures that I know. Yet, at the same time, underneath this happiness, a sadness exists, because I know this moment will not last. The revolving stars in the sky, which bring me such joy, also usher in the dawn. My comfort under these constellations will always be interrupted. My contentment and my sorrow are inseparable. While contradictory and inevitable, I want to seize every moment that I can to experience this.

Walking this primitive road is easy. I don’t even watch the ground to see where I am stepping. I survey the blurred outlines of the trees and hills on either side of me. All forms seem to be variations of a silhouette. As I piece together the map of the Black Hills in my head, I realize that I have never been to this area during the day. I suppose that this is not really a surprise, given the majority of our hikes are at night, but it still seems odd, considering the miles we have traveled together through the years. “Have you guys been out here during the day?”

“Corny and I used to go four-wheeling out here,” says Jerry.  

Mike adds, “Plus we went sledding back here a couple of years ago with Troy, Maggie, and Jason.”  

Jerry continues, “This area is not one of my favorites, but it is nice for an easy night hike.” Suddenly, thinking about the day of sledding, he adds, “Oh yeah! That was the day I cut my leg on a rock. I got a big scar from that wreck.”

Laughing, Mike replies, “You just had to make a ramp to catch some air.”

“Damn right. Had to show you how it was done.”

“But you wrecked!”

“Just part of the experience.”

I simply nod, thinking about the years of hiking in the Hills. Bit by bit, we are piecing sections of the Hills together, as we explore canyons, gullies, and ridges. We walk, often with no particular goal or destination. It is just spending time together that we seek. Nevertheless, through this process we are connecting the different sections of the Hills on our adventures. We continue to find new ravines and ridges. A deep satisfaction is present knowing that we will live our entire lives in the Hills and never cover every inch of it. The Hills remain our world of discovery, and the night enhances this, as the moon, in its endless revolutions, casts different shadows, or not, depending on the phase, across the landscape. Each hike is a new world, a new exploration. The Hills are our unending quilt, as we forge our friendships on its fabric. I am moved to tell Mike and Jerry that I love them, but they already know this because I tell them often.  

These nights and these hikes make me very emotional. With tears in my eyes, I scan the hillside, only to be surprised by my next step into fresh cow dung. “Goddamn it!” The squish is audible in the still air. 

“Fuckin’ cows on public land. I bet this is part of what pushes the deer out of the woods and into the city.”

“Better watch your step, I think I can see more piles of shit on the path.”

“Goddamn. Cows are already grazing in the Hills. Soon it will be shit everywhere. So much for clean water.”

“Hey Mike, whenever I step in crap it makes me think of our trip to the Grand Canyon when you kept slipping on the ice and landing in the mule shit.”

Mike laughs. “You kept trying to catch me, but I had shit all over my backpack, so you got filthy. That was one hell of a great winter trip. We should go back there and hike from the South Rim to the North Rim.”

“I would love to, but sometimes I worry I wouldn’t make it out of the canyon.”

“Oh hell, we all could make it. We would just take our time. What do you think Jerry, would you like to go someday?”

“Not anytime soon. I don’t have any money, and I am too far in debt. Plus, I couldn’t get the time off of work.”

Our everyday lives never truly leave us when we are in the woods. We drift between stories about work, family, and politics. Our daily lives remain an essential part of who we are and influence what we can do—what we have time and money to do. We strive to find affirmation in life through the struggles we undertake as we eke out a meaningful existence through our work and daily relations. Yet the realities of our working lives also crush some parts of our dreams and hopes of freedom and a future together. Of course, this situation should be expected, as it is an unavoidable part of life. Nevertheless, it is maddening. I am sure that this is just one more reason why our night hikes are so important, as we are able to have these discussions and reflections without the distractions of televisions and telephones. The land is open and provides a space for us to move, as we explore the world beyond our little boxes with windows, doors, and belongings.

Without a word, we depart from the road, walking through the short grass, which the cows have chewed down to the nub. Tonight, we have a destination, so we start the final ascent up the hillside. I forgot how long and steep this hill is. I am sure we will stop several times along the way to catch our breath. Breaks provide more opportunities to appreciate our time together and the beauty of the Black Hills, as we scan the rolling hills against the night sky and make plans for future hikes. This place has marked me. It resides in my heart.

On the steep slope, Jerry and Mike look at me and start laughing. “I remember the night that you ran down this hill in a full sprint, jumping and screaming as you went. You scared the hell out of me, but you almost made me fall over laughing as I watched your arms flapping all about you.”

Eight years ago, on a warm summer night in July, we hiked up this hill to watch a meteor shower. On the way down, I took small steps trying to keep my balance to avoid sliding down the slope. Mike was ahead of me, but off to the left. Jerry, as usual, was already half way down the hill, running and jumping, having one hell of good time, in a way that only he can do. Mike and I watched Jerry, marveling at his balance and good fortune, as we carefully negotiated our way around a patch of bushes. Suddenly, I heard the distinct sound that I used to hear when I would be visiting my grandfather’s ranch. The rattle of a snake pierced the silence of the night. It was somewhere by my feet. I could not see the ground below me, and I had no idea where the hell the snake was. I leaped into the air, propelling myself down the hill, yelling and screaming something along the lines of, “Fuck, fuck, a fuckin’ snake, shit, oh shit, be careful, ah!”

Due to the steepness of the slope, I was able to make large gains down the hillside in a few bounds. Rather than stop, I kept going, hoping that I could get to where Jerry was at the bottom of the hill without further complications. Mike followed at my heels, but at a much more relaxed pace, as he was stifling his laughter from watching the spectacle of me screaming and springing down the hillside. We regrouped by Jerry, to catch our breath and to tell different versions, based on vantage points, of my encounter with the snake. From that point on, the hill became known as Rattlesnake Hill.

Tonight, we retell this story, while listening for any sudden sounds from the ground, despite the unlikely chance of a rattlesnake this early in April, especially given how cold it is. This story leads to many others, as we recount so many events from our lives for each other. Jerry recalls how common rattlesnakes were when he was a child. His parents lived on the edge of town, so their house was surrounded by fields. Whenever he had to mow the lawn, he would discover rattlesnakes in the tall grass, usually after the lawnmower blades had shredded them. Mike’s parents also lived outside of the city. His father used to kill rattlesnakes, mainly because the cats would get into fights with the snakes, and the kitties would generally lose.  

For me, snakes and death danced together. They are connected to fear and memories of my father. He grew up on a ranch and killed rattlesnakes as part of his daily chores. He carried this routine into his adult years. While rattlesnakes were less common at this point, living in the city, he would come across them while driving down gravel roads. Doing his inscribed duty, he would stop the car and pull out the pistol from underneath the seat. From the backseat of the car, I would watch through the window. He would shuffle and two-step on the road, sparring with the rattlesnake. The snake would repeatedly lunge at my father, as he brandished his gun preparing to shoot. The tension was too much for me. I was paralyzed, thinking that my father was going to die. These memories have stayed with me. The sight and sound of a rattlesnake sends chills up my spine, despite my respect for the creatures. Our lives are so fragile. And the same goes for rattlesnakes, as my father crushed their heads with a tire iron, cutting their tails off as mementos. Right or wrong, these are the lessons I learned from father, who spent half of his life on a sheep ranch. The rattles are still in a box hidden in the bottom of the closet. 

These stories carry us to the top of the hill. The valleys look much deeper than they really are, as darkness envelops the meadow below. Jerry and I stand silently, enjoying the view.  Mike, who is always prepared, at least when it comes to keeping warm, due to the lack of meat on his bones, pulls out an old, wool army blanket to spread on the ground and wrap around us. Jerry and I laugh, not at Mike, but because we never can remember to pack anything that will keep us warm. With a huge grin, Mike pulls out a pair of mittens and a wool cap.

“Goddamn, I’m going to be nice and comfortable as we watch the sky tonight.”

“How many layers do you have on?”

“Three shirts, long johns, and two pairs of socks.”

Steam is coming off of our bodies, due to the arduous climb up the hill. It won’t be long until it starts to chill us, so we join Mike on the ground. I rummage through my backpack to find the thermos filled with ginger tea. As I pour a cup, I can feel the warmth of the tea through the plastic. I take a deep breath, inhaling the stem rising from the cup. Jerry shakes his head, telling Mike and me that we are getting wimpy, yet he thinks a sip of tea sounds pretty damn good.

We scan the sky, searching for Mars. Once we locate the red planet’s position, we settle on top of the blanket, leaving enough of it to wrap over our laps. We lean back, finding support against the same bare log that we sat on eight years ago. As we pass the cup back and forth, Mike tells us that Mars will progressively get brighter until June. None of us knows much specific information about the night sky, except for a few constellations, but we mark the passing of the months by the cycle of the moon, and, as often as we can, we share our lives together.