The Cold Blooded News

The Newsletter of the Colorado Herpetological Society

Volume 28, Number 3; March, 2001

Herping in Hostile Territory

by Dave Prival

Reprinted from the Sonoran Herpetologist, the Newsletter-Journal of the Tucson Herpetological Society, Vol.14, No.2, February 2001.

The giant horseshoe of anticipation flew through the Sulphur Springs Valley early Saturday morning with only the faintest wobble, knocking smiles on to the faces of small children and toothless old men alike. Ranchers, miners, and drunks from miles around had flocked to Willcox, Arizona for the celebration known to all singing cowboy fans as Rex Allen Days. Little did the gathering crowds know that a far less reputable bunch had descended upon the local Circle K.

As I pulled into the convenience store parking lot, I was surprised to encounter a rough-cut band of fellow researchers, including such shady characters as Gordon Schuett and Roger Repp, heading for the Galiuros to search for Arizona black rattlesnake (Crotalus viridis abyssus) dens. As we all tried to muster up some optimism regarding our respective missions, Dan Bell, who had been "too busy" to join my expedition, emerged from the building. His jaw dropped open and he frantically glanced around for a place to hide, unsuccessfully. "Well, at least I'll be home in bed tonight instead of shot full of holes on the side of a mountain," he explained sheepishly.

One by one, the foolhardy arrived just down the road at a crowded Regal Restaurant, awash in a sea of cigarette smoke and cowboy hats. Chris Scott, James Borgmeyer, Mike Wall, and I joked nervously about our chances for survival as we wondered whether we were eating our last meal. The four of us were heading into a range in which nobody we knew had ever set foot; a land controlled by well-armed, bad-tempered, antigovernment ranchers; a locality rumored to be inhabited by twin-spotted rattlesnakes -- the Dos Cabezas Mountains.

According to Robert Stebbins' classic field guide "Western Reptiles and Amphibians", twin-spotted rattlesnakes (Crotalus pricei) occur in five U.S. mountain ranges -- the Chiricahuas, Huachucas, Pinaleños, Santa Ritas, and Dos Cabezas. The species has been well-documented in the First four ranges. As the Dos Cabezas are directly between the Chiricahuas and the Pinalenos and reach an altitude of over 8,300 feet, it seems reasonable to expect that this high-elevation species would be in that range as well. However, the Dos Cabezas locality seems to be based on a single record that does not include an observer name, date, or location other than "13 mi. NW Portal". A quick look at a map reveals that, even if our nameless friend did find a twinspot at that location in his timeless year, it is the Chiricahua Mountains that are 13 miles northwest of Portal, not the Dos Cabezas. Was the classification of this record as a Dos Cabezas twinspot just a mistake and the area devoid of these snakes, or were there no good records because nobody had looked for twinspots in the range? We were determined to find out.

The main reason the mountains remain virtually unexplored herpetologically is the somewhat enhanced risk of violent death associated with the range. Although theoretically controlled by the Bureau of Land Management, the Dos Cabezas Mountains have been successfully invaded by a locally notorious family. In an effort to stave off any major lawsuits, we'll call them the Krusts. One can't spend much time in Cochise County without hearing stories about this infamous group, some of which may even be true: the Krusts killed a jaguar a few years ago in Arizona and were busted after selling it to an undercover agent. A SWAT team was called in to move the Krusts' cattle off a BLM grazing allotment after the Krusts threatened violence. One of the Krusts murdered his wife and buried her somewhere in the Dos Cabezas Mountains. The Krusts have illegally placed a locked gate across the road leading into the Dos Cabezas, where there have been armed standoffs with federal employees. And most important for us, the Krusts claim ownership to a cone of territory starting at the center of the earth, encompassing the entire Dos Cabezas range, and extending into the atmosphere above the range to outer space, and have threatened to shoot anyone "trespassing" within that territory.

Any herpers found searching for protected rattlesnakes in the Dos Cabezas would likely be met with arms, unfortunately not the open variety. In an effort to be inconspicuous, we planned to pose as hunters scouting for deer. I wore camouflage in an effort to play the part and better hide when the lead started flying. Chris did his part to be inconspicuous by driving his silver Mercedes convertible, top down, radio blasting, along the Rex Allen Days parade route in front of the substantial crowd. Just as the actual parade started, we headed south out of Willcox, foregoing the opportunity to wave to Miss Rex Allen Days in our missionary zeal. Soon after, in the town of Dos Cabezas, a small, gray kitten served as our last contact in safe territory as we squeezed into James' truck and ventured north on the dirt road into the unknown.

It was a beautiful October morning -- completely clear, sunny skies with a slight breeze. We drove through the dry grassland foothills past decaying foundations of ore processing buildings and abandoned mine shafts, a reminder that we were not the first to venture into these hills on an unlikely mission. Chris held the "shotgun" position in the traditional sense -- an M-16 rifle between his legs and a .40-caliber Glock on his hip. After a few miles, we came to the foretold illegal locked gate, plastered with warnings about trespassing and electronic surveillance. There were no Krusts in sight. However, as we were still a long way from the ridge, we decided to try one of the old mine roads we had passed instead of leaving the truck at the gate, where our presence would be impossible to conceal. Half an hour later, we stashed the truck behind a hill along a rough 4WD road at about 6,000 feet. Momentarily setting aside our strong pro-gun control beliefs, Mike, James, and I fought over Chris' M-16, each wanting to be photographed with the gun and a menacing grimace to impress our friends later. However, the morning had almost entirely slipped away already and we knew we had better get moving.

The radio tower near the peak looked tantalizingly close, although it was almost 2,000 vertical feet above us. For some reason, the gravitational field was particularly strong near the truck, making our packs much heavier than they had been at home. Nevertheless, we managed to more or less keep our balance as we began slowly trudging up the steep, rocky, agave-covered slope. Fortunately, after about 30 seconds, James gave us an excuse to stop and take our packs off by finding a short horned lizard (Phrynosoma douglassi), which was profusely photographed under the pretense of documentation.

Although one member of our party passed out during the trek and was duly left for dead, we all finally regrouped on the ridge a few hours later. We were welcomed by phenomenal views of the Sulphur Springs and San Simon Valleys, with the imposing sheer cliffs of Dos Cabezas Peak before us to the north. James received a special welcome to the area, as a caterpillar painfully stung him on the derriere as he squatted over a shallow hole. We walked along the ridge to a meadow and found a spreading Gambel oak tree under which to camp.

Later that afternoon, we encountered striped plateau (Sceloporus virgatus) and mountain spiny lizards (Sceloporus jarrovii) as we swam through dense thickets of mountain mahogany and netleaf oak shrub, searching for twinspot habitat. After a couple of hours of snakeless searching, we returned to camp just in time to watch a red-orange ball of fire sink behind the Dragoon Mountains. After a cold dinner and a brief display of our superior firepower, which was highlighted by Chris shooting James' hat out of a tree in the dark, we put the guns away and the heavy drinking began. Chris celebrated our continued survival with a bottle of Jose Cuervo. The rest of us shared a tequila brand that better reflected our income levels -- Pepe Lopez. Pepe proved to be a cruel master, as James and I spent much of the night getting reacquainted with our dinners.

The next morning we blearily assessed our situation. Somehow, we had overestimated the amount of water we brought (or perhaps underestimated the amount of water we would need to dilute the tequila in our bloodstreams below lethal levels), meaning we each had less than a quart remaining. Nonetheless, we were determined to find whatever montane rattlesnakes might inhabit the area. Leaving the M-16 in camp, we fanned out, welding gloves tucked into our belts. Within an hour, I heard Mike yell "Lepidus!" on the other side of the ridge. Not a twinspot, but still good reason to get excited. I jumped off a six foot ledge into dense vegetation and, cursing loudly, stumbled on to the small, bouldery talus slope Mike had found. About 45 minutes later, we finally captured the snake -- a feisty, shedding, male banded rock rattlesnake (Crotalus lepidus klauberi).

Shortly after noon, I pulled another large banded rock rattlesnake out from under a boulder by her tail. Mike and I had just released this snake, after measuring and photographing her, when the sound of a close shot reverberated off the cliffs around us. We called for Chris, thinking he might be trying to signal us, but he was not responsible for the shot. Had the hunters become the hunted? Were we about to meet our Maker? [Insert your own cliche here]?!?

We decided to rely on the "what you don't know can't hurt you" principle and continued searching for snakes. Chris and James had explored a remnant stand of quaking aspen, composed of about 30 trees, and found the initials "E.U. Krust" carved into one of them. Could it mark the burial site of the murdered wife? Mike and I climbed down the slope to investigate, but couldn't find the right tree. We had run out of water hours ago and as we climbed back to the top of the ridge, it took most of our willpower just to keep moving. I fervently hoped we wouldn't find any more snakes so I wouldn't have to take the time to document and measure them. It was time to head back to the truck.

As Mike and I reached the ridge just above our location when the shot had been fired, we made a disturbing discovery. A senseless tragedy lay sprawled on the ridgeline before us, cheeks full of nuts. Our dehydrated minds gasped at the possible implications. Why would a rock squirrel, seemingly a healthy young buck, shoot himself in the head? Loneliness? Heartbreak? Boredom? Surely life in the Dos Cabezas couldn't be that bad. Eventually, it occurred to us that perhaps this was no suicide. Perhaps some psychopath had hiked all the way up here, seen our M-16 leaning against the tree in camp, and, rather than risk a confrontation with four apparently heavily armed trespassers, murdered this innocent squirrel and left the corpse where we would be sure to find it as a warning. We heard rustling in the shrubs nearby as we headed toward camp again, but continued on, too thirsty and tired to really care whether we lived or died.

Chris and James met us in camp with a stash of bottled water they had discovered under the radio tower. We drank heartily to avenge the squirrel's death, in the off-chance that the water belonged to the killer. Soon after, we packed up our belongings and headed down the mountain, feeling that we were leaving just at the right time. We had documented four reptile species in the range and gained some new insight into the suitability of the mountains for twinspots -- the range seemed too hot and dry to support the species, even at 8,300 feet. However, it seemed just right for supporting bands of lunatics with guns. As we finally drove out of Krust air space later that day, I felt heartened that there are still places in Arizona where tourists are nowhere to be found, survival is not a guarantee, and rattlesnakes await anyone stupid enough to come looking for them.