Living in the wild, wild west

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, my concept of "wildlife" was pretty tame, along the lines of the neighbors' dog chasing me as I rode my bike. When Kelly and I moved to Orange County, I had to expand my definition, as oh-so-cuddly raccoons on our porch sometimes ended up as dinner for not-so-cuddly coyotes on the pool deck below us. And, after moving back to the Bay Area, our biggest animal concerns were squirrels stealing tomatoes from my garden and the mouse family that died in and stunk up our heater ducts.

So, when we moved to Redding, nothing had prepared me for the wildlife encounters we'd have here. At times, I've felt like Marlin Perkins on the episodes of Wild Kingdom I used to watch with my grandfather—only without his calm and cool.

Just a few months after we arrived, a bear was discovered in a backyard less than half of a mile from where we were living. For a city slicker like me, that was one heck of a wakeup call.

Just a few days later, I saw an honest-to-goodness bald eagle in front of our post office. How cute, I thought, even if its talons could easily rip my eyes out. I admired its majesty at a respectful distance, ever more aware that up here, nature knows no boundaries.

Just a few days after that, Fish and Game officials were summoned when a mountain lion was found in a backyard two miles from us. At that point, I was prepared to pack up and move to a high-rise in the city, even though I hate high-rises and cities

But then, things got relatively quiet. Yes, I discovered that Redding apparently holds claim to the largest black widow spiders on earth and that mice had invaded our garage. But living on the fringes of wilderness, it wasn't surprising we'd have such pests.

And, there have been attractive aspects to living among local wildlife. We've witnessed graceful deer wandering about with adorable fawns in tow. And huge flocks of wild turkeys offer an amusing delay as they dawdle and block the street.

But it wasn't long before we spotted our first rattlesnake. And on the scale of things I fear, spiders may be a nine, but snakes are a definite ten.

The first sighting came almost immediately—a baby near the mailboxes down the block. And though I wasn't sure if the legend that infant rattlers are more toxic—a fact I've since confirmed—I was plenty scared.

During the ensuing two years, we've spotted a few more rattlesnakes and heard of neighbors doing the same. Then last week, nature encroached a bit too much when Zach was playing on our driveway and came within inches of stepping on yet another baby rattler.

Too chicken to capture it, we watched until it slithered off. But doing so made me think twice about leaving our garage door open for hours on end when the kids are outside.

Having woken with a snake in my bed once before—though it was a harmless garter snake and this was years ago, shortly after Zach was born—I sometimes bolt awake, fearful the tag or whatever else rubbing against my foot is a rattler. And knowing Zane was bitten on the face by a gopher earlier this summer, I didn't hesitate to invest in a series of rattlesnake vaccines for him.

Scared as I am, I suppose I'll just have to be content with having my guard up and my fingers crossed. Because the fact is, while I’d prefer wildlife were a little more out in the wild, that’s pretty much where I find myself. And the reality is, I’m no Marlin Perkins.

Anyone happen to know of a high-rise apartment available in the city, cheap, by chance?

UPDATE: The day after I posted this entry, we had yet another wildlife encounter nearby—only this one wasn't quite so menacing, at least not initially. As the headline on our local paper's web site proclaimed, "Flaming squirrel started spot fire." It seems the critter chewed through a high-voltage line across the street from Zoë's school, ignited, and fell to the dry grass below. It ultimately took 18 firefighters and six engines to contain the blaze. I kid you not, even if it sounds like a deleted scene from Caddyshack.