We’re parked at the Picture Rocks trailhead in Saguaro National Park, sorting water and supplies into a backpack for a hike in the 85-degree midmorning heat.
As we’re finishing, a grizzled older man parks a pickup and unloads a noticeably hissing, sealed five-gallon bucket from the bed, along with aluminum snake tongs. I ask, Is that a rattler? It is. Sounds big. A big one, he confirms, and sets off on foot.
A few minutes later we follow down the trail, which quickly narrows into a canyon. A quarter mile along we find him rising from a crouch, the bucket now empty. He gestures to spot roughly three feet off the trail, indicating a shadowed cleft at ankle level. Indeed, we can see eyes and a flickering tongue. A head as large as my fist.
While hiking, it occurs to me that neither his truck nor clothes specified any official status.
Hours later, at a visitor center packed with kids, I can’t help but wonder what made a seemingly competent local guy bypass dozens of roadside turnouts spread across thousands of acres to release a big one on a trail popular enough to be included in every guidebook.
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