I set off this morning down the gravel path from my cabin to the lake. The day before, I’d put the sailboat up on the shore and repaired a small crack in its hull with epoxy. I’d left the repair to dry overnight and was setting out to put the boat back in the water.
No further than ten meters from my door, I saw snake lying on the path – a four-lined rat snake (Elaphe quadrivirgata). It wasn’t moving, and flies and ants were feeding on exposed flesh, mostly on its head. I picked it up and was going to remove it away from the house when it started moving a little.
I decided to give it a chance. I moved it out of the hot sun and hosed it down to wash off the flies and ants. Then I put it in the shade and covered it with a net.
Within a couple of hours, it had stopped moving, and I realized that when I first picked it up, its muscles may have twitched reflexively—snakes (and other reptiles) often exhibit post-injury nerve or “spinal” movements even when close to death.
We’ll never know what happened to this snake, but here is a likely scenario:
Shortly after first light, when the morning chill still lingered on the gravel, a diurnal predator—perhaps a hawk or a crow—spotted the shimahebi basking on the path. Four-lined rat snakes often emerge at dawn to absorb warmth, and their mottled pattern offers little camouflage against a stony track. A swift strike to the head would have immobilized it instantly, leaving the skull mangled and jagged rather than punctured.
When the predator was disturbed—by a passing bird call or an unexpected movement—it abandoned its meal. The injured snake dragged itself a few meters into the shade, seeking cover, but lost blood too rapidly to survive. By the time I found it at 9:30, its tissues were already attracting blowflies and ants, which converge within minutes on fresh carrion in this forested region.
Defensive bites from a rodent would leave neat, paired puncture marks around the jaws or body, but this wound was a broad tear—consistent with a “bite-and-rip” attack. The reflex twitches I saw when I first lifted it were pure spinal nerve responses, not signs of genuine recovery. Cooling its scales and washing off insects could not reverse the massive trauma.
After covering it with netting in the shade, I returned to the lake and launched my repaired sailboat. As I sailed out into the morning calm, I thought about how this forest path—my daily route to the water—serves as a highway for countless other creatures, each with their own urgent business of survival.