The Tucson Herpetological Society

The Ides of March, '92

by Roger Repp
From Sonoran Herpetologist, February 1996

It was on Wednesday that a smiling Michael Goodrich, Tucson's local weather hero, pronounced the words that I had hoped to hear. After nearly a solid week of dank and miserable rain, the sun was once again going to make an appearance, and in the process radiate its heat to progressively higher temperatures for the next three to five days. Normally, one might take anything Mr. Goodrich may say with a grain of salt, but after years of being his devout fan, I read him like a book. Any time that he hedges, ignore his forecast. But if he's smiling and cocky, believe him!

Not that the weather would have mattered, for we would have gone if it was pouring down rain. The plan was, we were going out herping the following Saturday, period. But I received the news of good weather with the same rejoicing that one might feel while holding onto a lotto ticket with six correct digits.

I called my herp buddies with this joyous news, and we made arrangements to hook up again on Friday to finalize plans. The necessary fine tuning was completed, and at nine o'clock the following morning we beheld a beautiful desert slope, resplendent with saguaro, decorated with multi-colored flowering shrubbery, and dappled by the morning sun.

There is a great feeling of anticipation that wells into one's soul when beginning the first crunchy footsteps up to a herpetological wonder garden. The roar of the city is left far behind, the silence broken only by the sweet symphony of tweety birds and the humming of busy insects. The hedgehog cacti, the pinkish, delicate penstemon flowers, the colorfully named blue-dick, the green-barked palo-verde all drift slowly past as we work our way upward towards the boulders that harbor the reptiles. On such a sunny day as this, they will surely be found there.

Excluding the weather, and the flowers, and the grandeur of the area, another reason to enjoy the day is the company that I keep. For with me on this day are two great ones. First, there is none other than Dennis Caldwell, a gifted artist and wildlife photographer. Then there is Don Swann, park ranger, world traveler, and total all out turtle and tortoise fanatic. With eyes such as these, in a place such-as this, there can be no such word as fail.

Dennis forks slowly uphill, his path skirting the base of a rocky embankment. He slowly shines the cracks, and drifts ever away from the parallel course of Don and me. We too are on a mission, one that (luckily) doesn't interest Dennis. We are heading to view a known tortoise. Dennis is on to better things.

We arrive, sans Dennis, at the den of tortoise number three. She is a weathered old female that Don and I had discovered earlier this winter. Upon peering under the wheelbarrow sized boulder, we are not totally disappointed to see that she has cleared out. This is normal. Now the question is, which way did she go?

"I say we go downhill," Don pipes, after much quiet inspection of all escape routes from the den.

"I agree," comes my reply. The really great thing about Don is that we think alike. In matters concerning herpetology, anyway.

We erroneously weave our way downhill, pausing at every likely looking boulder to closely inspect for tortoise activity, but find nothing. Just as we work the slope all the way back to the wash, Dennis gets the day going.

"Hare gars, r got er heeler!" Dennis's gibberish drifts from high above into the depths of our nothing land.

Don immediately turns and heads back up the slope towards Dennis.

"Hey, where are you goin?" I ask, perplexed.

"Where do you think I'm going?" Don shoots back. "He sez he sawr a Gila."

"Alright!" I exclaim, "he sawr, er uh, saw a gila. Yes, I would like very much to sawr, er uh see, a gila monster!"

"Shut up!"

Don is from Massachusetts, where the English language is routinely slaughtered. Being from the midwest, I try to teach him proper enunciation. My tutoring is seldom welcome.

We arrive breathlessly at the point of Dennis's discovery five minutes later. Dennis points to a large, flat, knife shaped boulder, and announces that the gila monster has scrambled under this. While there is no reason to doubt the word of Dennis, I flop on my stomach and put my eye to the narrow, non-descript hole that he indicates. I see nothing but a black hole staring me in the face. As my eyes adjust to the gloom of the hole, I still see nothing but a black hole staring me in the face. I haul out the heavy artillery, and flash the hole. For two full minutes, reflected sunlight slowly sweeps the impressive inner chamber of a gila monster den. Finally, I catch the glint of orange on black, and I have "sawr" enough.

"Yep, he's in there, alright," I whisper.

Next it's Don's turn. He sprawls out, spends the necessary two minutes to explore the many chambers and hide spots, until he too witnesses the phenomena. Dennis declines the opportunity to lay in the cholla pods, having had the advantage of seeing the impressive animal completely out of its retreat.

At this point, lesser men would get out the crowbars, thoughtlessly pry the boulder to one side, and bag a much prized reptile. But we are on a mission of peace. We quietly build a subtle rock cairn atop the home of our beloved quarry, and slip away to rejoice elsewhere.

"Alright! Good eye buddy," I loudly proclaim whilst laying a couple macho back slaps to Dennis's scrawny frame. One must always encourage one's herp buddies, even if it does leave a bad taste in one's mouth.

"I'm psyched!" Don agrees. "Our day is made already!"

There is truth to Don's words. By not disturbing this most impressive reptile, we assure that in the days, weeks, and even years ahead, we can return to the lair of this gila monster and have a good chance at a repeat glimpse of a very hard-to-find lizard. As we split up and each drift to whatever patch of real estate interests us, I once again am grateful for the two like-minded herpetologists I am sharing this dream day with.

The three of us work our way westward across the flanks of the lengthy southern exposure that is our herpetological Mecca. We travel parallel routes, depending on each other to be thorough enough to cover all that falls within our respective routes. We are sticking to within a hundred feet of the contour where the heloderma was located, hoping that we are in their zone. Dennis takes the high road, I take the low road, and Don sandwiches himself between.

My route takes me past a steep faced mini cliff that extends westward for about fifty meters. The reddish white colored face of the eminence is crisscrossed by a series of splits, cracks and gashes. The soil that flanks the limestone-quartz formation is loose, and several deep pockets that can only be possible den sites of tortoises augur their way into the outcropping's base. The little green football shaped pellets that litter the ground here indicate what I already know: there is a tortoise nearby.

I alternate between flashing the cracks and shining the holes, and the process is slow. It would be foolish to hurry here. At length I draw closer to the known den site of tortoise number two, a young female which was first discovered in early January of this year. As I peer into the maw of the spot she had selected as her winter retreat, I once again am looking into an empty hole. She, too, has chosen to clear out.

I find some very fresh scat at the entrance of her burrow, and these little turd compasses point westward. She went that-away, and I follow, hoping to catch where she has moved to. At the first likely hole she is entirely forgotten as I view the salmon-pink and black hindquarters and tail of a mid-sized gila monster. I quietly slip away, scramble uphill, and loudly proclaim the news of the great event below.

Don is first to arrive, and together we stroll back to the area of my find. Don pulls his trusty Freedom 90 camera from his pack and snaps many slides of this, our momentous second find of the day. Dennis arrives shortly after, and after gazing lovingly at the most awe inspiring lizard the great state of Arizona has to offer, we leave. The rapture that we feel is immense. The only thing better than one heloderma is two, and the hunt for number three is intense.

A long period of finding nothing ensues as we continue our crawl westward. All of our tricks get us nowhere, our guns fall silent. I eventually immerse myself in some fantastic boulder strewn rubble to the east side of one of the many hillocks that flank the main wash below. I find much tortoise scat here, and begin a thorough search of the many pallets that lie beneath the brick red boulders. Don's cry of "tortoise" interrupts me, and I happily desert my search of this area to view his discovery.

She basks at the mouth of her den. A large female tortoise faces out into the sun, her head bobbing slightly, her scaly forelimbs pumping in and out in typical basking fashion. This is one of the dark shelled beauties that sometimes can be found here, the center of each scute on her carapace highlighted by a creamy white epicenter. Her gular has a pronounced upward curl, and she is nonplussed by our presence.

A marathon photo session ensues, in which all angles are taken into account. This is a new tortoise, and I assign her the number six. My method of numbering tortoises is simple; they each get a number sequentially in the order that they are found. Hence, this female with pronounced gular becomes forever designated as the sixth tortoise found here. Before departing, I stare lovingly at her wizened and homely visage, and she is not shy about staring back. In such a remote place as this, we may very well be her first human contact. We leave her to enjoy her day in peace.

I retreat back to where I had left off when Don interrupted me, and sprawl out on my stomach to explore the depths of a likely looking den site. Once again, I hear Don's cry that he has found another tortoise. I grumble a little to myself as I slowly get back to my feet.

"Doggone it, Don!" I snarl at him as I once again cross over the top of the hillock that separates us. "How in the hell do you expect me to find anything when you keep bothering me?"

Don laughs at my mock grumpiness, and points out a hand sized immature tortoise that is out in the open, well away from any protective den site. Dennis arrives at the happy scene just as I roll over the tortoise to try to sex it. This evokes a stern rebuke from the anal retentive, died in the wool conservationist. Something about amateurs fooling with things that they don't understand. This in turn evokes an admonishment from me to shut up. Much verbal baiting ensues between us as I try to find something to help identify this, our seventh tortoise from the area. I finally find what I'm looking for, and while enduring a few more choice criticisms from the big sheriff of the desert, make a note of some carapace imperfections. We then leave the young lady alone, hopefully none the worse for my major crimes against her well being.

I do not bother to return back to the area that so entranced me before these two tortoises were found. What's the use, Don will just find another tortoise and haul me away once again. We continue our westward trajectory, and at length arrive at the known den site of tortoise number one.

Much to our delight, this massive old matriarch of the desert is basking completely out of her burrow. She would be regarded (in better circles than mine), a class seven tortoise, the oldest of the old. Her weathered shell has lost all appearance of being sculptured, and the vertebral scutes that line the top center of her carapace have sunk a full millimeter below the costals. She is a large tortoise, maybe the largest wild tortoise that we have ever found. She is also special in that she is the first turtle to ever become a repeater. We had found her almost exactly a year ago in the same place, and she had returned once again this winter.

She is behaving exactly like her counterpart, number six, behaved. Her eyes are bright and alert, her head is erect, and her forelimbs are pumping in and out. I walk around to view the rear of the tortoise. The marginals that line this beloved animal's posterior could best be described as ragged. Some long forgotten tug of war had ensued between her and a large predator (mountain lion?), and she had been scathed but otherwise unharmed. Her pygal (the rear most marginal) is half obliterated, the struggle must have been intense. Whatever animal had tried to haul her from her burrow must have suffered one whale of a toothache.

We photograph her moment in the sun, and then we cover the short distance to the top of the hill that is home to our lady. We have worked our area for three hours, and our hunger alarms inform us that it is time to eat. We view the awesome spectacle of Mount Badass', a giant eminence just to the west of our current position. The reason for the inappropriate moniker is that the mountain has a temperament all of her own. Her terrain is steep and unforgiving, her soil is loose and treacherous, and her flanks are infested with the most ornery cholla forests on the face of the planet. Never once have I escaped unscathed from a journey to this sheer, jagged lump of volcanic rock. But the primeness of her habitat, and the consistent appearance of herpetofauna force many returns. I can only hope that my fall on this day will not be a bad one.

After peacefully munching our sandwiches and trail mix, we huddle up and discuss our next move. A plan takes shape. We will double back to my jeep, pausing long enough to explore a small pocket of habitat where Don had found tortoise number five not two weeks before. We highball our way through an area with no habitat, not wasting time on herpetological wastelands. We reach a saddle by following a saguaro studded wash to its apex. The boulder infested rubble pile that is home to tortoise number five is clearly visible from this saddle. Dennis chooses to fork to the right, to explore some massive crevices that line the north facing cliffs of another hillside. Don and I go right for the throat, finding tortoise number five just out of her den, basking in similar fashion to her earlier discovered counterparts. She is smallish in size, but her straw colored shell reflects the well weathered look of a mature tortoise.

We thoroughly explore the many virtues of the little hillside, but find nothing else. We cover the remaining ground to my vehicle without incident, picking up Dennis enroute. There is the usual fumbling with getting our gear and our bodies stowed into the little piece of junk, and we sputter up the wash that will take us to the foot of Mount Badass'.

The same fumbling that occurred with the loading ensues with the unloading, and then we begin the easy stroll which eventually will transform to a near vertical climb. The slope we approach has boulders the size of boxcars rumbling up its sheer flanks, and wherever they can gain a foothold, the plant life so indicative of the Sonoran uplands flourish. The saguaros stand stately and proud, the barrels are plump and erect, the hedge-hogs are numerous and unbelievable in size. Some are nearly crotch high. The brittle brush is in bloom, pockets of bright yellow in an otherwise parched landscape. The fragrance and delicate beauty of many annuals does not escape notice. There is a riot of lupine, the light blue flowers casting yet another hue to the ever changing patterns of this pristine mountain. The mallow, blue-dick, and penstemon cluster about wherever they can find purchase, and hummingbirds and honey bees flit about these with relish. Surrounding each and every boulder is a hodge podge of Neotoma debris. The place contains the biological soup that is the essence of every herpetological heaven.

We pass the first of the boulders on the ever steepening hillside without incident. The magnitude of the boulder land we are entering is such that even though we walk twenty feet apart, we lose sight of each other. We wind about the labyrinths and corridors that tortuously twist their way upward, our senses tuned, our eyes wide open, every fiber of our beings alert and ready.

I climb to the top of a boulder that is about one third the way up the slope, and see an enormous gash splitting it nearly in two. I shine this crack, and view our first chuckwalla of the day. It is a large adult, fully twenty inches in length. The broadside view I have of this black bodied lizard with thick green tail curled about it can only be described as indescribable. I sound off my find, but only Don makes the effort to come over and view the incredible plant eating mini-dinosaur. Dennis is being a dink, and cannot be persuaded to double back.

Moments later, Don flashes a perfect horizontal gash in another immense boulder, and the effort nets him two more chuckwallas inhabiting the same crack. Both are also very large adults. Even the dink doubles back to look at these, and then expresses a desire to continue upwards to the saddle. Don and me nix this idea, choosing instead to continue a thorough search of this area. We agree to work our way around to the east side of the mountain and meet him at a drainage that will be the end of his loop trail down. Friends such as us always try to make allowances for each other's independence. We wish Dennis luck as he tackles the near vertical slope that will be his stairway to the top. I take one last look at his lithe form slipping through a dangerously close packed cholla forest, and hope that he has brought a comb along. For he is surely going to get "spiked" by the merciless shrubbery.

Don and I split up, and for the next ten minutes, we do not see each other. I find another perfect gash that cuts diagonally through another huge boulder, and with my mirror and eyes directed into the depths of the crevice, begin stepping downhill to view this in its entirety. I feel my right foot step down on something soft, and it squirms beneath. The harsh, dry sound of a rattle vigorously shaking splits the air, and I barely side step the vicious swipe of a fully aroused western diamondback rattlesnake.

My heart leaps into my throat! How could I be so stupid? What kind of idiot goes tramping through terrain such as this without having his wits about him at all times? As I watch the four foot long dynamo drop from its defensive posture to resort to flight, I endure an all out case of the heebie jeebies. I had just gotten over a bad snake bite from last summer, and it was an experience I had sworn never to repeat. It was only pure scum bag luck that had saved me from being bent over right this instant, sucking and spitting the blood from a pair of identical puncture wounds.

Don hears the ear splitting rattle, and scrambles over to see what has happened. He no doubt notices my consternation, for he inquires if I am alright. I am not yet in a talkative frame of mind, and say nothing, just stand there making little whimpering sounds. Don ignores me and tracks the vibrant sound of the still lit rattle to its source. The aroused serpent has chosen to make its stand tucked away in an escarpment at the base of an outcropping. Its lunker head, replendent with full venom sacks, is raised a full foot off the ground. Its black tongue wavers in the air like a warning flag, and the alternating black and white ringed tail is ablur with action. As Don gets out his camera to photo the impressive reptile, I finally find my voice.

"Jeez Louise, Don," I manage to gasp. "I st-st-stepped right on it! I can't believe I didn't get hammered! That was way too close!"

Don's first aid for my crisis is to laugh, and heap abuse and admonishments to be careful in my direction. He points out that even idiots know to look where they place their hands and feet in such a place as this. (He forgets who he is talking to.) His verbal wet nursing continues as his camera whirs off a couple shots of the still alert and highly agitated snake.

I thank Don for his input by belching loudly, and on shaky legs turn to continue the hunt. Don feels the need to keep an eye on me, and does not let me out of his sight for quite a duration.

I find a tortoise den tucked under a flat boulder, the chamber is deep, and the floor is lined with dozens of pieces of scat. I try every angle possible to light up the hidden depths of this hole, to no avail. There is probably a tortoise in here, but it does not feel like revealing its presence. I ask Don to take a look, and he ambitiously works the hole, with the same result. We then begin our eastward sweep for the rendezvous with Dennis. From a distance of about thirty feet away, Don spots something dangling out of a rock crack.

"I've got something reptilian here," he announces.

I see what he points to, and closer inspection reveals a single loop of the midsection of a very large lyre snake. We inspect the snake from every angle, and determine that it could be as long as four feet. This is a noteworthy find, and while Don tries to shoot the snake from various angles, I take careful field notes in regards to location. For as long as I am able to return to this beloved place, I will check this rock crack, in hopes that like their tortoise counterparts, lyre snakes may use the same shelters.

After pausing overly long to admire Don's impressive find, we continue our eastward sweep across the boulder field. We arrive at the deeply cut gorge that is our arranged meeting place with Dennis. True to the earlier made agreement, Dennis is working his way downward, and announces the good news when he is once again with us.

"Found another gila."

"Where?" I ask, licking my chops in anticipation.

"Just below the cave."

The cave is way a mile up the steep hillside. Don and I take one look at the steep climb required to get us to the lair of Dennis's find, and decide to take his word for it. We will check the area out some other time. The cave itself is a filthy hole about ten feet in diameter by six feet high at its tallest point. The soft earthen floor is always littered with the empty food cans left by some unscrupulous hermit, and I do not share Dennis's enthusiasm for the place.

"I found an AK47 assault rifle in there." Dennis mentions as we continue to work the slope eastward.

"I hope you broke it in two," Don comments. None of us care for guns, or the people who feel the need to use them. We have found a lot of dead tortoises here, and I suspect that some have been shot. Never-the-less, I am glad when Dennis replies that he did not disturb the weapon. If there is survivalist nuts enough to arm himself in a fortified cave, we had better not be getting him mad at us.

We continue our eastward traverse of the rugged terrain fruitlessly for another hour, taking delight in the flower show provided by an exceptionally wet fall and winter. Our dream day comes to a delightful end when Dennis manages to tangle with the pernicious spines of a teddy bear cholla. One minute, there is old Dennis, babbling happily about how great life is, the next, his curses scorch the countryside. Big globs of the goose egg sized pods dangle off him like so much fruit, and I try not to laugh as I hand him my comb. For once, Mount Badass' chooses to assault someone besides me, and it is the only time I have ever seen Dennis become the victim. I am ecstatic. By the time Dennis is finished with my comb, blood trickles from a hundred different wounds. To me, sympathy is a word found in the dictionary, somewhere between schmuck and syphilis, and I mercilessly drill him for his carelessness.

Once this pleasant interlude is over, we make haste to get back to the vehicle. Before leaving this splendid portion of the world, we pause to get our field notes in order. Six hours of effort have landed us three gila monsters, four tortoises, three chuckwallas, a lyre snake, a western diamondback rattlesnake, and an AK47 assault rifle. Don and I also gleaned information about the two tortoises that had moved on.

As my four banger sputters to life and we leave, we have no way of knowing that we will be seeing some of these same animals, in the same place, for the next two years. Our careful policy of non-intervention will pay dividends.

For Julius Caesar, the Ides of March was a portent of doom. For us, the same time period is a harbinger of great things. We wait in earnest for the next go around.