“Getting called up to the All-Star game, huh?”

I was standing in the parking lot of Southeastern Expeditions near Long, Creek, South Carolina talking about my upcoming move to West Virginia for several weeks.

The All-Star game being referred to was Gauley season. If you’re a river guide in the United States, you’ve inevitably heard of the “beast of the East.” Known for it’s scenic beauty and dangerous rapids, the Gauley River is the daydream of many a whitewater enthusiast.

With several respectable names on my resume, and resolved to see my dream of guiding in West Virginia come true, I submitted applications to several companies. One emailed me back fairly quickly. Their email politely told me not to hold my breath—they would be pulling Gauley guides from their full-time staff. Not one to be easily defeated, I waited for a response from the other companies.

One day in early August, I came back to the outpost to a missed call from a West Virginia area code. My mind racing, I called the number back. A man named Roger answered the phone. He told me that he had seen my application and wanted to formally offer me a job for Gauley season. I accepted without hesitation. He told me that I’d need to be there for opening weekend which gave me about three weeks to prepare.

The weeks leading up to my departure were filled with excitement and a healthy sense of trepidation. I knew that once I arrived I would have only a few days to prove myself worthy of guiding on such an infamous section of whitewater. I would begin training the day after I got there.

We put on early in the morning and did an all day trip. I was fortunate enough to get some stick time, and I felt fairly confident that I was making a good impression. By the time I made it back to the guide campground, I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like doing anything but curling up in my sleeping bag and passing out in the back of my truck, but some friends of mine from the Chattooga were in town, and I wanted to see them.

Less than enthusiastically I changed out of my river clothes, put on my chacos, and started driving towards their campsite in Summersville. Spotting their car in the campground they were at, I parked next to their site and started to climb out of the truck. As my left foot hit the ground, pain like a thousand pins and needles shot through it as I felt something trying to wriggle itself from underneath my Chacos.

I did what I imagine looked like a crude river dancing routine before turning on my headlamp to catch a glimpse of whatever had just bitten me. A fairly large copperhead was slithering quickly away toward the gravel parking area.

Dazed, I stood there for a moment before walking into the campsite and announcing my misfortune. In a drunken stupor, my friends looked at me with puzzled expressions. Finally, someone seemed to grasp what I had said and let out a hushed “no way.”

Beginning to feel a small sense of panic, I asked “who’s riding with me to the hospital?’ They all stared at me blankly. I quickly realized that, in true river guide fashion, none of them were sober enough to go with me. I couldn’t blame them.

As I raced down the gravel road towards town, I saw a ranger locking a gate and slammed on my brakes.

I hollered, “Hey buddy! A snake just bit me. What hospital should I be heading to?”

He gave me a look similar to the ones my friend had. “You jus—what now? Summersville Medical Center.”

At this point, I knew for certain that it wasn’t a “dry” bite. The wound was beginning to sting, and my foot was swelling. After parking my truck, I got out and started hobbling my way towards the entrance. The waiting room was empty. The receptionist gave me a cheerful “how may I help you?”

“A copperhead bit me.”

Blank stare. Come on, Susan.

Two minutes later I was in a different room with two nurses and a doctor drawing lines on my leg with a sharpie, stabbing me with needles, and saying things like “I think we have anti venom. Do you know if we have anti venom? I found the anti venom!”

Throughout this entire ordeal, I’d been fairly calm. It wasn’t until the nurses came in to administer the medicine that I began to panic. After starting the drip, they told me they would have to wait with me for several minutes. When I asked them why one of them replied “Some people have… ‘severe’ reactions.” It was my turn to give a blank stare. “Define severe.” “Death.” I started crying. I was a few hundred miles from my family, I had a swollen foot the size of a small melon, and the medicine they were giving me might kill me.  

After fifteen minutes it was determined I wasn’t dying, and the nurses left.  My foot was so swollen that it felt as if the skin was going to start ripping if it stretched any further.  A nurse came in with a vial of clear liquid. I assumed it was morphine, but I asked what it was anyways.

“Fentanyl.”

“You mean, like, the stuff that’s stronger than heroin?

“Yes.”

“Can’t I just have a hydrocodone or something?” She looked at me disapprovingly.

You would think that hospitals in a state ravaged by opiate addiction would prescribe milder medication when possible. No such luck. I was given a choice between taking the Fentanyl and going without. I conceded.

When I awoke the next morning, my mom was sitting across from me in the hospital room. Tears crept down my face as I thought back to the night before and how scared I’d been at the prospect of dying far away from my family. Perspective, y’all.

Determined not to let a swollen foot stop me from guiding, I started eating Motrin like candy, and a week later I took my first commercial trip as a Gauley guide.

I took five trips that season, which was a fair amount for a first year. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty convinced that I got so much support from my coworkers because I was the poor kid that got bit by the snake his second day in town.

I suppose it all just goes to show that when life hands you lemons, or a copperhead, you’ve got to make lemonade—or go to the hospital. Whichever.