He slid into the river, swam across, and climbed out the other side, heading toward the yellow clay slip on the nose of that hogback up Steele’s Corners way. “I just stood quiet, not aiming to attract attention. I don’t know what made me look up, but there, about fifteen paces away, was the biggest snake I ever see, sliding along easy and slow in plain sight on the bare ground. “I thought they was acting kind of funny, but I didn’t pay it much mind. “Twothree days the dogs was nervous, and finally they wouldn’t go over there with me at all,” he said. His deepest mark was upon the people of the wild, wooded valley between Cleveland and Akron his longest was a trail that circled the earth.Ĭlarence Mitchell was hoeing his piece of corn ground between the Everett swamp and the abandoned bed of the old Ohio Canal on June 8. There were branches broken and bark scuffed from tall trees when it fell, frightened, before still more frightened beholders. There were tracks in the mud at the river’s edge. There were tracks “like those of an auto tire” across the softness of freshly tilled fields. FROM the time the Peninsula Python first crossed that Ohio field of sprouting corn before the astonished eyes of Clarence Mitchell in the summer of 1944, until it holed up for the winter, presumably under the overhanging banks of the Cuyahoga River, it left many a mark on the face of the earth.
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