Snakes

Fascinated Since Childhood

I have been fascinated by snakes since I was a very small child growing up in Florida. We caught them all the time. Sometimes we kept them in aquariums for a while, sometimes we brought them around to show the other kids, and often we simply watched them for a bit and then let them go.

Growing up in South Florida also meant learning early that some snakes could be dangerous. We were taught to recognize the venomous species found in the region, including rattlesnakes, cottonmouths, coral snakes, and the other pit vipers we might encounter. The broad, triangular heads and heavy bodies of the pit vipers were often useful clues, while coral snakes had their own very distinctive pattern.

One of my earliest and strongest memories was visiting the Miami Serpentarium with my grandparents. I was still a tiny boy when I watched Dr. Bill Haast handle and milk venomous snakes. He would demonstrate how venom was collected for research and antivenom production. Seeing that taught me two lessons at once: snakes could certainly hurt or kill you, but they were also remarkable animals worthy of study rather than creatures that should automatically be destroyed.

In the 1960s, it was still common to see people deliberately drive over snakes in the road. During Boy Scout trips toward the Everglades and the old jamboree sites, we would sometimes encounter snakes crossing the pavement. Many people believed every snake should be killed. I never felt that way. I wanted to catch them, observe them, and understand them.

Bear Hill Pond and the Outdoor Aquariums

Later, when Marty and I lived at Bear Hill Pond, snakes and other aquatic animals were part of everyday life. I kept a large 55-gallon aquarium outside and changed its occupants depending on what I happened to catch—turtles, fish, frogs, snakes, crayfish, and almost anything else that came out of the pond.

I kept a light beside the aquarium at night. Mosquitoes, moths, beetles, and other insects gathered around it, turning the tank into an automatic feeding station. When frogs were in the aquarium, the whole thing became a nighttime feeding frenzy as they jumped at every insect that came near.

I also operated the weed harvester on Bear Hill Pond, a large conveyor-belt machine that pulled up aquatic nuisance vegetation. The vegetation often contained turtles, fish, crayfish, frogs, and other creatures, so I kept buckets nearby and rescued whatever I could. At one point we had four aquariums operating at the same time—some for feeder fish, others for turtles, snakes, crayfish, and whatever else I had brought home.

The Bushmaster in the Amazon

My closest and most dangerous snake encounter came in 1996 while I was working for the Smithsonian in the Peruvian Amazon. During that remarkable four-week expedition I worked alongside scientists from around the world, collecting insects and assisting the herpetology team whenever I could. If you would like to read the complete story of that expedition, visit my Smithsonian Amazon Expedition page.

Five herpetologists from different parts of the world were also working at the site. I became friends with them and often joined their nighttime fieldwork after dinner, when most people were back in the laboratory sorting, cataloging, and preserving specimens. There was always more work than people, and I was happy to stay up late and help with snake surveys, traps, and habitat sampling.

One project involved fencing a roughly circular area about 30 meters across and clearing the vegetation so the team could attempt a nearly complete inventory of the reptiles and amphibians within it. On another day we were surveying trees with range finders. I stood about 50 feet from the others beside a tree, calling out measurements.

When I looked down to move, I saw a huge coiled snake about three feet away. The coil was larger than a basketball. I froze and called to the others, “Whoa—big snake right here in front of me.” They immediately told me not to move.

Native Peruvian guides came running with machetes and identified it as a Bushmaster. They killed it, but the snake continued moving and expelling venom from its fangs even after its head was nearly severed. Eventually they dragged it to a stream and held its head underwater. The snake was approximately six feet long.

That encounter could easily have ended my life. The only transportation in or out of the research camp was by helicopter. The nearest place where a plane could land was about 20 miles away on a riverbank, and from there a helicopter was required to reach the camp. A serious Bushmaster bite in that location would almost certainly have been fatal.

That was unquestionably one of my nine lives—and one of the stories that belongs with the other close calls on my Nine Lives page.