Dapper in a topcoat and tails, feet moving fast and graceful as birds skimming still waters, he whirled and swooped, catching my mother, still young and slim, by the waist, bending her backward. She ... [+]
I got Jo when I was 23 years old and living in Montana. She was no more than 10 inches and skinny as a twig. Before I adopted her, I wanted to get bitten so that I wouldn't be afraid of my own snake. In Jo's cage were 20 or so of her brothers and sisters, all twined together in brown and gold clumps, some half buried in the wood shavings that covered the cage floor. Every time the snake handler opened the cage, the babies were furious and afraid. They coiled, flattened their heads, and started hissing, making a noise like a broken bagpipe sack or a small bike tire deflating. It didn't strike immediate fear into my heart, but it didn't encourage me to stick my hand in either. Nonetheless, I knew I needed to be bitten before I could confidently own a snake; snake ownership could not proceed any other logical way. I stuck my hand into the cage, turned my head away, and winced preemptively. Immediately, I felt a bite. It felt as if a staple had lightly brushed the back of my hand and then pulled away. I slowly retracted my unmarked hand realizing that I had probably terrified the babies much more than I had overcome my fear of snake bites.
I looked at the snake handler, Jeremy, and asked, "That's it?"
"Yup," Jeremy replied. "But it hurts a lot more when they get older. Check this out." He proffered his hand where I could see a large, red scab. "I was feeding Defiant the other day and messed with a thing in his cage while he was eating. He bit me pretty hard, but I've had worse."
Defiant was Jeremy's best buddy, a three-year-old Bull Snake who he had raised from birth. Defiant was his second pet Bull Snake, a replacement for his snake, Sal, who had died at 20 a few years prior. Jeremy and Defiant went everywhere together in the summer. Jeremy's main job- snake education and removal- allowed him to carry a four-foot Bull Snake in his pocket with only mild suspicion from members of the public. And honestly, I think he liked the element of surprise that was constantly at his disposal. There's no experience quite like seeing someone nearly jump out of their skin when a 24-year-old man in cargo shorts whips out a snake to demonstrate a point.
Any opportunity Jeremy could find for snake education he took. Any mention of snake harm or murder was answered with an impassioned lecture and demonstration of a snake's inoffensive personality. Jeremy was not an ordinary man. He chased snakes around the hills of Montana all summer, able to see them in places where no one else could see a snake. When I met Jeremy, I lived in Great Falls and worked in a local state park as a burgeoning ranger. When Jeremy stopped by the ranger station, he usually brought a new snake to show off the multitude of garter snakes, racers, bull snakes, and hognose snakes he had lying around at his house or that he had found in the hills of the park.
I once went snake hunting with Jeremy along the banks of the Missouri in the state park where I worked. He was teaching me how to find and identify garter snakes and to be less afraid of catching non-venomous, wild snakes. I would walk in front of him, peering into the golden willows, red osier dogwood, and tall grasses along the river bank. Inevitably, he would call me back, pointing into a sun-dappled section of the brush, saying, "Look! Can't you see it?"
But I never could, until Jeremy was practically touching it or until it slithered rapidly away fearing for its life. The snake didn't know that we were ardent admirers instead of hungry predators.
Eventually I got a bit better at finding snakes on my own. But even after I adopted Jo and lived alongside her, sleeping in the same room and having long, one-sided conversations, I never gained the same confidence that Jeremy displayed in a snake hunt. I never found the chutzpah to pick up and handle the snakes we found unless they were less than two feet long. The thick, aged garter snakes were still too daunting an obstacle. Besides, I figured if the snake had lived that long, it deserved to rest in whatever sun it could find away from birds, marmots, and well-intentioned snake hunters.
I looked at the snake handler, Jeremy, and asked, "That's it?"
"Yup," Jeremy replied. "But it hurts a lot more when they get older. Check this out." He proffered his hand where I could see a large, red scab. "I was feeding Defiant the other day and messed with a thing in his cage while he was eating. He bit me pretty hard, but I've had worse."
Defiant was Jeremy's best buddy, a three-year-old Bull Snake who he had raised from birth. Defiant was his second pet Bull Snake, a replacement for his snake, Sal, who had died at 20 a few years prior. Jeremy and Defiant went everywhere together in the summer. Jeremy's main job- snake education and removal- allowed him to carry a four-foot Bull Snake in his pocket with only mild suspicion from members of the public. And honestly, I think he liked the element of surprise that was constantly at his disposal. There's no experience quite like seeing someone nearly jump out of their skin when a 24-year-old man in cargo shorts whips out a snake to demonstrate a point.
Any opportunity Jeremy could find for snake education he took. Any mention of snake harm or murder was answered with an impassioned lecture and demonstration of a snake's inoffensive personality. Jeremy was not an ordinary man. He chased snakes around the hills of Montana all summer, able to see them in places where no one else could see a snake. When I met Jeremy, I lived in Great Falls and worked in a local state park as a burgeoning ranger. When Jeremy stopped by the ranger station, he usually brought a new snake to show off the multitude of garter snakes, racers, bull snakes, and hognose snakes he had lying around at his house or that he had found in the hills of the park.
I once went snake hunting with Jeremy along the banks of the Missouri in the state park where I worked. He was teaching me how to find and identify garter snakes and to be less afraid of catching non-venomous, wild snakes. I would walk in front of him, peering into the golden willows, red osier dogwood, and tall grasses along the river bank. Inevitably, he would call me back, pointing into a sun-dappled section of the brush, saying, "Look! Can't you see it?"
But I never could, until Jeremy was practically touching it or until it slithered rapidly away fearing for its life. The snake didn't know that we were ardent admirers instead of hungry predators.
Eventually I got a bit better at finding snakes on my own. But even after I adopted Jo and lived alongside her, sleeping in the same room and having long, one-sided conversations, I never gained the same confidence that Jeremy displayed in a snake hunt. I never found the chutzpah to pick up and handle the snakes we found unless they were less than two feet long. The thick, aged garter snakes were still too daunting an obstacle. Besides, I figured if the snake had lived that long, it deserved to rest in whatever sun it could find away from birds, marmots, and well-intentioned snake hunters.