As I make my way down what I call ‘bear creek’, the thick jungle growth crowds down to the waters edge. The only solid footing is in the creek itself as its shallow waters slowly meander and twist along over the white sandy bottom.

Dense Ferns overhang and obscure the shoreline of the shallow waterway while windblown trees of all sizes form frustrating obstacles to be climbed over or ducked under as I scout the swampy terrain for bear trails.

Why would a mature and otherwise normal individual wander into such inhospitable terrain you might ask? Well, to be hones, I never professed to be normal.

On this day I have followed several bear trails as I search for a likely spot to set up a camera blind in order to photograph brother bear being his bearish self.

As I wade along I am careful where I place my feet. A miss-step could cause a broken leg, and back in the deep swamp that could very possibly ruin more than one’s day.

Cautiously, quietly, always scanning for any sort of movement or anything out of the ordinary, I move downstream.

I am very much aware of my surroundings.

Pressed in on all sides by the green canopy I pass a leaning cabbage palm on my left. It hangs precariously at about a thirty degree angle less than an arms length from me as I pass.

Perhaps a hundred feet further along I come to a jackstraw mass of windblown trees that are piled in helter-skelter jack-straw fashion across the creek. Oh well, this is the end of my exploration for this day unless I am willing to continue while crawling on hands and knees through the tangle in front of me. I am not so inclined, at least on this day.

I turn and retrace my steps. When I come to the leaning palm tree I pause and stand there for a moment just soaking up the environment.

For some reason that I cannot fathom I have a strange sense of unease. Something is not quite right, I feel a presence.
I start to reach out my right hand to brace myself on the palm when out of the corner of my eye something white flashes a warning. I pull back and immediately withdraw my hand and stare.

There, no more than six inches from where I was about to place my hand on the leaning palm is a cottonmouth water moccasin, coiled and ready to strike if pressed.

The snake’s formidable head is raised and tipped back, mouth agape, revealing its white interior. This then is where it gets its common name,”cottonmouth”.

The reptile’s sheathed fangs are quite obvious as it holds that threat gesture in typical cottonmouth style.

It is of average size, about three to three and a half feet in length and I must give it credit for with that flashing white mouth it had warned me of it’s presence.

That sense of unease I spoke of had to be nothing less than divinely inspired, warning me of imminent danger. I walked away leaving the cottonmouth in possession of that portion of the creek, may it live long and prosper.

Listening is more than the use of one of the senses; it is almost a lost art. People don’t listen today and even when they should be listening they are in reality thinking of a clever comeback, a rebuttal. Husbands don’t listen to wives, wives don’t listen to husbands and nobody listens to the kids.

Yes, listening is a skill, an art, a gift that we can give to others by listening to them.

But then you might say that the cottonmouth didn’t make any noise. O.K., if that’s true, what did I hear?

You may think me strange when I say that I believe there are those times that we hear a still small voice that can only be interpreted as coming from God.

I have had this happen too many times in my life for it to be coincidence so how do you interpret it?

If you have ever had a similar experience let me know, I would like to hear from you and if you imagine me somewhat strange, well, considering that, in a survival situation I think would rather trust to my senses than yours.

You have a good day now ya hear,

Chaz

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