Local Boa Constrictor

So I'm breezing along a bike trail through rural country, feeling the exhilaration you get on a bike in Indian summer, when suddenly I find myself swerving hard to avoid a snake.

A large snake. Two feet plus, chocolate brown, mingled with the shadows.

Garter snakes routinely bask on that path, and what with the perfect climate and habitat, some grow quite large.

But not that large. Or that colour. And never in shade; Thamnophis is a sun-worshiper, intently keeping pace with her chosen beam as it crosses the pavement.

I hit the brakes and doubled back. And that's how I met my first wild rubber boa constrictor (Charina bottae).

Scion of an otherwise tropical family, the rubber boa lives farther from the Equator than any other. (As for the "rubber" bit, a glance at the photo here will cover that.) Thus Charina follows the pattern of North Coast reptiles: we have fewer species than other regions, but those exceptions are notably charismatic. A tradition this wayward constrictor further upholds by bearing its young live, like most other local reptiles, and then by being so uncommon, and so hyper-local, that though I grew up just 5 miles from that spot, I'd never encountered one before. The only specimen I'd ever seen, more than 40 years ago, was a captive juvenile taken in this self-same south-county microhabitat.

The heads of both were so small and sleek that telling one end from the other was initially difficult. This is part of an unorthodox defence strategy, as rubber boas hide their business end when frightened, and if the threat persists, lunge at the tormentor with their blunt head-like tail, to confuse it.

"

Those striking gold eyes, tiny for a boa, are the result not just of nocturnal habits but also the fact that rubber boas spend most of their lives – more than 50 years – beneath rotten logs and forest litter, where large corneas would be a medical liability.

But it's their disposition that's truly legendary. Charina is the Greek root of the English "charming", and likely the French câlin (cuddly, snuggly), both of which epitomise this disarmingly affable creature. When I knelt to pick it up – prudently, behind the jaws – he not only declined any attempt to bite, but even to escape. Instead he just rolled into a ball in the palm of my hand and buried his head beneath the coils.

The gentle shyness, along with the velvet softness of his liquid body, had me talking baby talk immediately.

"Funny snake," I chided, stroking his silky back. "You can't s'eep here; you'll get runned over."

As I struggled to bag a one-handed photo of his face, he eased into lazy loops and tentatively explored my gloved hand. I snapped away best I could (whatever advantages this newfangled phone photography offers, ergonomics ain't one), and shortly he relaxed, wrapping himself around my hand and wrist with real warmth.

Comparison to a long, linear cat would not be unwarranted.

I was sorely tempted to keep him, but didn't, of course. That their diet is made up almost entirely of new-born mice, and they won't even eat that half the year, was just another reason.

So I walked wistfully a ways into the trees and carefully deposited the sweet little guy on the forest floor. He edged away reluctantly, as if he'd've happily come along if asked.

How the pet industry missed this one is beyond me, but I'm glad these magical beings endure in my native forest.