My grandfather was a cotton farmer in Alabama. He was plowing one day when he heard a distinctive rattle. He looked down and realize he had stepped into a coiled rattlesnake. He yelled for his son to run to the house and get a rifle. His son shot and killed the snake. After that he always carried a sidearm in the fields.
He’s lucky he didn’t get bite when he stepped on it.
I was hunting in New Mexico once and stepped on a skinny 2 or 3 feet buggywhip sized rattler in some prairie grass. I let out a girl sound I didn’t even know I could make, and then flew straight up until the soles of my boots were a solid 5 feet in the air. Then I flew about 8 feet to the side.
I hate those things.