Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
When a Snake Crosses Your Path
I was nine when my dad, sisters, and I rode horseback along the four-mile-long road circling our property. My dad liked the longer ride of four miles. He guided the horses through the deep sand that had accumulated in the red dirt of Western Oklahoma.
It was a bright, crisp spring afternoon. The season had warmed the land for several weeks. Still, I wore a light jean jacket to ward off the lingering chill.
Riding with my dad was always a solemn occasion. We never spoke much; we rode. Yet, when we returned home, we understood each other completely. Words weren’t necessary—the simple joy of riding together across the open land spoke directly to the soul.
Like my sisters, I had been on horseback since I could remember. My dad had propped me up in the saddle before I could sit upright. I considered myself a decent rider. Still, I was nowhere near my father’s skill. He seemed to move with his horse as though they were one being.
That afternoon, I sensed that my sisters were there more out of duty than enjoyment. Their smiles felt forced, their laughter shallow. Though they didn’t do it outright, I could tell their hearts were elsewhere. I didn’t think this would be the last time they rode with us. They were growing up. My sisters were drawn to other interests. They were leaving behind the horses that had once been a central part of our childhood.
I was the fourth rider in our single-file procession, coming behind my dad and sisters. We had traveled this route countless times. I knew the landmarks well. There was an oil well pump that sometimes startled the horses. Barking dogs lived at a neighbor’s line. A tattered rag flapped from a barbed-wire fence. These were the things that made a horse shy, and I took note of them with each ride.
We had covered nearly three miles when I noticed my dad and sisters had gained some distance ahead of me. It was just a few lengths, nothing unusual. But as I would later learn, riding close together has its benefits.
As we neared a mainly sandy stretch of road, my oldest sister turned in her saddle. She glanced back at me. Her expression was unreadable, but how she looked made my stomach tighten.
And then I saw it—a six-foot black bullsnake slithering onto the road.
It had watched the first three horses pass, believing the coast was clear. But I was still coming. Just as my eyes locked onto the snake, my horse saw it, too.
His reaction was immediate—dodge and run.
My horse reared before I knew what was happening, jerking to the left while I pitched to the right. The world tilted, and sand rushed up to meet me. Then, there was an impact. I hit the ground hard, my breath escaping in a sharp gasp.
I hated snakes. At that age, I was convinced they were all out to kill me. I was lying in the dirt. My heart pounded as I scrambled to my feet, half-expecting the snake to strike. But my faithful horse hadn’t abandoned me. The horse trotted back, ears flicking, nostrils flaring with the same nervous energy I felt.
Ahead, my dad turned in the saddle, completely unaware of what had just happened. He saw me standing there, dust-covered and rattled, and called out in his usual no-nonsense tone:
“Would you quit fooling around and get back on your horse?”
I was “fuming.” I muttered curses under my breath—at my horse, my dad, and that wretched snake. And at myself for not anticipating the spook that can send a horse sideways.
I climbed back into the saddle. I was convinced the snake would follow us up the road. It would try its luck again. It didn’t. But my horse remained, shying at every stick and shadow for the rest of the ride.
When we finally arrived home, I unsaddled and brushed him down, smoothing his coat and murmuring reassurances. He had been just as much a victim in the afternoon’s chaos as I had.
That afternoon was the second time I was ever thrown from a horse. The last time came when I was twenty. I was riding a high-spirited horse that my dad no longer handled. That horse was downright mean—no snakes needed to send him bucking.
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