The blackness at the base of the tree might have been shadows in the roots, but then it began to move. 

Sunlight through the leaves left sparkles on scales as the mass of blackness quivered and the long black snake began to knead itself, moving in and around, not to settle, but seemingly with purpose. I saw the head, knew there was no danger, and I watched it roll into itself.

Again and again. But then a second head emerged, slipping up though the darkness and through the coils, arching, twisting and reaching toward the other.

Oh my God, there are TWO snakes! I jumped back and saw what I had missed. Transfixed by the slippery mass at the base of the tree, I had not seen the second snake slowly inching its way into the pile with at least four feet of snake still stretching up the tree.

The second snake continued to work its way into and through the coils of the first, a mesmerizing dance as foot after foot of snake disappeared from the tree and the coiling pile continued to grow and take shape.

The dance continued and I realized the obvious and watched their mating in awe.

In and out, over and through, both moving the pile of twisted slickness and pushing themselves this way and that, the two worked insistently to wrap themselves together and stretch each other out. The mass lengthened and the knot of snakes slowly came untied as the wrestling and writhing struggle continued.

One’s mouth clamped down on the other’s neck, apparently with devotion, not malice. And I swear the snake made eye contact with me; it knew I was watching them mate. If a snake could wink, that one would have. Or maybe it did.

On it went until the two became one, head next to head and tails intertwined. And the rolling and twisting and struggle continued, and the two pushed and stretched against each other with common purpose. I know not what exactly was being linked to and/or into what, but the dance was riveting.

The coils began to pulse and bulge and the mass started shimmy and throb. A long series of convulsions along the length and the tails twitched together, then relaxed.

The gently rolling continued, and I left them to themselves.

I have never before seen anything like that. And that is why I come into the woods.

Two groups of young Boy Scouts struggled into camp at dusk, barely 10 minutes before the thunder and lightning brought a heavy downpour that soaked them as they huddled in the trees and fought to stay dry.

I relaxed in my tent, enjoying the storm as it came and went, and then helped the Scout leaders and their demoralized young hikers get organized and pitch tents and string hammocks for their first night on the Appalachian Trail.

          The trail is a magical place, a storied footpath that stretches 2,185 miles from Georgia to Maine. Thousands of visitors step into the woods each season to follow its white blazes. Some are experienced; too many are unprepared.

This is my fourth season as an Appalachian Trail Ridgerunner, one of three hired to keep tabs on the wilderness shelters and foot traffic along 75 miles of trail in New Jersey. We are trained in wilderness first aid and Leave No Trace, and we educate folks about bears and ticks and snakes.

My job is to protect the trail and forests while helping guests enjoy their visit. The trail is my office, and I am in the woods five days a week.

Our season starts Memorial Day weekend, but I am out early this year and hiker traffic already seems better suited to mid-summer than late spring.

Mike, a 60-ish Brit, was better than 450 miles into what “God willing” will be a thru-hike of the AT. Todd, a 30-ish Pennsylvanian, was five days into a 150-mile hike to New York.

          Eight middle-schoolers and three teachers were on the second night of a three-day 25-mile “graduation” hike.  Working easily in pairs, they pumped and filtered water from a small stream and set up their camp with little instruction.

          A dozen Outward Bound hikers arrived at sunset, packing in their noisy city banter for their first wilderness adventure.  The chatter stopped as they made camp, leaders had them work together in silence, using only non-verbal communication to set their tarps and stow their gear.

          These groups of young people were wildly different, but all were a joy to watch. No one had phones or electronic devices, but all seemed to enjoy simply being with their friends and most appeared to find comfort in the quiet of the woods.

          The chatter dies away as darkness falls. Sleep typically comes easy to those who have carried their packs up a mountain to get here. Night sounds remind us that other creatures share the forest. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll see a bear.

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