Snakes on the Brain
For pets or status symbols, by chance or design, taking up serpents is taking off.
by Randy Harward
There are three reasons it took 20 years for me to get a snake.
First, my grandfather was scared of them. When my great-grandfather caught a garter snake while fishing in Provo Canyon and gave it to me, his ultra-pious son-in-law drew a line in the leaf litter. “I don’t want no damned serpent in my house.”

We left the snake, whom I christened Ace Frehley, outside in a large sun-tea jar, ostensibly safe in the shade. Hours later, I found the shade had shifted, and Ace was cooked a crispy golden brown.

Reason 2: My mom doesn’t like snakes. On a scout hike, a friend caught and presented me with another garter snake. Ace the Second lived in a Keds shoebox, from which he regularly escaped—much to the histrionic cleaning-day dismay of my mother. When one day he decided to have a run through mom’s friend’s 1980s-style white-lady afro, Ace was summarily evicted from his shoebox and the apartment.

Reason 3: Despite a fervent childhood fascination with snakes, I became afraid of them.

During mom’s indefinite moratorium on snake possession, I picked up on the palpable snake hysteria many feel. Kids at school spoke of Super-Duper Vampire Tyrannosaurus King Muthahugga Cobras that could kill you in two seconds—nay, one second—just by peeing on you. One afternoon, I saw Strother Martin turn Dirk Benedict (familiar to me as the Face Man on The A-Team) into a giant snake on the KSL Big Money Movie matinee of Sssssss. On a trip to Hogle Zoo, I saw a massive reticulated python longer than a car and a shazillion times thicker than my novelty giant pencil. They said it could eat me. I believed them.

My next snake encounter, with a Colombian Red Tail Boa constrictor at age 23, nearly sent me into an epileptic fit as it attempted to crush my forearm. “Dude, it’s not constricting—it’s just hanging on,” said my stoner neighbor as I teetered on the edge on insanity. Sure.

Damned serpent.

“COB-ruhs”!
It was the late Steve Irwin—the Crocodile Hunter—who helped rekindle my childhood enthusiasm for snakes. At first, his show was just good TV for nights in altered states. But, in one striking way, Irwin was better than MTV’s Jackass. For one, you learned things while enjoying the vicarious thrill of his ostensibly buffoonish antics. As he toyed with—wow!—a Muthahuggin’ Cobra, he let you know it could kill. Not in a second and not with poison wee and—despite its aggressive, hooded posturing—not without provocation.

Irwin schooled his growing legions of viewers, many of whom came for his seeming jackassery and stayed for the education, on the splendor of the fascinating animals, from venomous cobras (he pronounced it “COB-ruhs”!) to nonvenomous, girder-thick constrictors. He was joined in his efforts by other Animal Planet adventurers like Jeff Corwin and Austin Stevens—Snakemaster! Each week these nuts would risk their lives in the name of conservation education. Sadly, some people don’t have cable, and many who do can’t separate fact from fiction, entertainment from education. That’s where it gets tricky, even tragic.

Belief in Satan not required
Outside of the media and sesquicentennial zoo visits, we only hear about snakes when they do something bad. “Man Survives Deadly Snake Attack,” was a headline in Lismore Australia’s Northern Star Jan. 25. “Grandfather Fights 16-foot Snake to Free Grandson” was recently on CNN.com. They’re just two of several snake attacks that were reported while this story was being researched. And maybe you’ve received that e-mail, the one with a picture of a 13-foot Burmese python that was released by its owner into the Florida Everglades where it thrived until it swallowed a 6-foot alligator—and exploded.

So much bad press—but it’s not like they’re rescuing toddlers from icy lakes or funding new hospital wings. They’re snakes.

They’re snakes. It’s generally accepted, not just by Grandpa Harward, that snakes are bad, nay evil. RadarOnline.com, using stats from MisterPoll.com, recently reported that reptiles’ approval rating is as abysmal as that of President George W. Bush—only 28 percent of respondents love all reptiles. Twenty percent tolerate turtles, 28 percent don’t mind lizards … 15 percent chose dragons. Nobody chose snakes. Sure, it ain’t Gallup … but ask around, and you’ll see it’s a pretty close representation of the general attitude toward snakes.

Of course snakes aren’t pure evil—even some of the reptiles’ most fervent and faithful foes can admit that. But snake hysteria is a hard habit to break. For many, it goes back to the story of Adam and Eve—the famous tale of Satan masquerading as a serpent and offering Eve that shiny red fruit. Even if logic tells them not every snake has a devil inside, they still see a manifestation of evil and … it … must … die!

“They’re all guilty,” says Grandpa. He’s one who knows better, but still can’t shake the snake willies. “When we was kids, we’d sleep out. And we woke up one morning to rifle fire.” Dar Allred in the sleeping bag next to him had shot two snakes. “They were comin’ right for us. And he killed them—right from the bed.”

You don’t have to believe in Satan to be afraid of snakes. Even confirmed atheists like my wife take exception to their appearance, undulations, forked tongues and methods of capturing and consuming prey. “I just don’t like them,” she once said as she held my fat 3-foot Sumatran Blood Python—at arm’s length—so I could treat its injured tail. She doesn’t like them because “they eat cute fuzzy things.”

A cool gust against the ankle
Fear of snakes results in more human-to-animal harm than animal-to-human. There are no statistics—nobody keeps score—but when humans encounter snakes, in the wild or in their back yards, every day is Whacking Day. For snake enthusiasts, this is sad to infuriating.

“[People] just don’t understand snakes,” says Springville orthodontist J.R. Schouten, who breeds king, milk, garter and hognose snakes on the side. “I think the mythology of their evilness, from Adam and Eve, is probably part of it—but a lot of it is they just don’t understand that. They think every snake they see is venomous, whether it’s a garter snake or a rattlesnake.”

“They get a bad rap,” says South Jordan snake breeder Jason Nelson. “They really do.” It’s true for all snakes, even the non-venomous bull, gopher and pine snakes he favors—sometimes they look more aggressive and dangerous than they are.

To demonstrate, Nelson opens a Sterilite container that houses one of his “bull” hatchlings. The snake immediately hisses, rattles its tail (a defensive tactic mimicking real rattlesnakes) and rears back into a defensive, figure-eight position. Nelson extends a knuckle closer and closer toward the snake’s face. It hisses louder, raising itself up like a stretched Slinky—but doesn’t strike. It’s a terrifying and fascinating display, the snake attempting to evade the hand, not bite it. After four gentle nudges it finally nips Nelson’s knuckle, leaving only a bloodless scratch on its chuckling victim.

I decide to try it. The snake’s hiss is a cool gust against my own knuckle. The result is identical.

“This one’s too small to do any damage,” says Nelson, explaining a hatchling would only be able to latch on to the skin between your fingers. A sub-adult or adult, however, can get up to 6 or 7 feet long and deliver a powerful, bloody bite … but still as a last resort. His point is clear, but he says it anyway: Whether it’s a bull snake or a rattlesnake, “They really just want to be left alone.”

Schouten seconds this. “They’ll go to great lengths to stay out of your way. The last thing they want to do is get stepped on or have someone chop them up with a shovel, which is the fate of a lot of them.”

The “herp” community
Forty-five-year-old James Dix is a plumber by trade, but when he’s not snaking drains, he’s caring for scores of snakes, lizards, turtles, frogs, spiders and birds.

Dix founded and runs the not-for-profit Reptile Rescue Inc. He and a staff of part-time volunteers have set themselves up as a Humane Society and hospice for really unwanted pets. They rescue and rehabilitate the animals, then adopt them out—for a nominal fee—to hobbyists, breeders and other rescue organizations around the country.

A hulking figure with long brown hair, a full moustache, perpetual seven o’clock shadow and a bass-y voice, Dix is like Tarzan of West Valley City. His garage, basement, living room, dining room and bedrooms all have at least three, and up to 50, animals—most of them snakes. His brown SUV is adorned with snake stickers, the Reptile Rescue logo and phone number, and decals that warn all comers that there are live serpents on board. When he’s on a plumbing job and the call of the wild comes through on one of his three cell phones, he drops everything to answer.

“I have a love for reptiles and always have since I was a kid,” Dix says over an evening breakfast at a Draper greasy spoon. Between mildly flirty exchanges with the waitress, Dix tells of a childhood spent catching tadpoles, snakes and bullfrogs at a now-dry lake in Simi Valley, Calif.

“When I was 11,” he says, “I was catching rattlesnakes and doing all kinds of punk-kid stuff. I was a gang member … and most of the people I grew up with are either dead, in prison or on their way to prison. It made me look at things a lot differently. I wanted to give something back to society.”

Reptile Rescue mixes Dix’s penance and passion; Dix has focused his “punk kid” energies into serious activism. He gets as much notice in the local herpetocultural or “herp” community for his activities as he does for being extremely outspoken about wildlife laws, irresponsibility among pet owners and our old friend "snake hysteria." Sometimes the kid in him gets mouthy and irritates everyone from his fellow herpers to Division of Wildlife Resources biologists to law enforcement. But, ultimately, it’s toward one end: education.

Snake as status symbol
Dix witnesses snake hysteria and its equally vexing flipside: snake fascination. Some people are drawn to snakes because they’re cool and buy them on impulse or as status symbols. These poorly informed snake owners, when the novelty wears off, neglect or simply abandon their pets.

Enter Jim Dix. Once he was called to a vacated apartment where someone left a 10-foot Burmese python in the shower. A snake that size, unfed and improperly housed, can be dangerous.

Speak of the devil: Meet Diablo. This gorgeous 20-foot tiger reticulated python, one of the largest and sometimes most ill-tempered species, was caught in a custody battle between its divorcing owners. When Dix rescued it last June, it hadn’t eaten since January. Snakes can go a long time without eating—but it makes 'em cranky.

“I gave it 40 pounds of rabbits when I got it home,” Dix says. The next day, he went to examine the snake. It was still hungry and tried to take Dix down. (He was able to fend off the snake with help from a volunteer.) Now Diablo is the centerpiece of Dix’s educational outreach programs which he puts on at schools and law enforcement agencies.

Dix says his main motivation is to save lives—both human and reptile—by exposing more people to snakes. A little education goes a long way, says Dix. Once people spend time with snakes and learn about them, the hysteria begins to dissipate. But it’s an uphill battle.

Pricey pythons
Right now, no other Utahns are more aware of snake hysteria than Dan and Colette Sutherland. The snake breeders who specialize in pricey genetic morphs of popular and docile ball pythons recently tried to relocate their business from Palmdale, Calif., to Mapleton, Utah. When word got out—coincidentally at the same time that Snakes on a Plane was in theaters—that two of the three large buildings they were constructing were intended to house a snake-breeding facility (and one for feeder rodents), Mapleton’s citizenry freaked.

The uproar was reported in virtually every major local media outlet. Citizens were quoted in town meetings as saying, “There’ll be snakes in Mapleton over my dead body!” They mobilized against the Sutherlands, forcing them to stop construction on their facility, delay their move and split their family in two—kids in Utah County with their grandparents and parents in California—for several months.

Colette Sutherland stands over a trash can helping a 4-foot caramel pastel ball python shed. She looks casual, like she’s just shucking corn for a cookout—but for the frustration in her voice. “They thought our snakes were going to get out,” she says. Nobody would listen when the Sutherlands tried to explain that their facility and housing systems are virtually inescapable.

“They just didn’t want snakes here,” she says. The irony however, is that “there are snakes all over the place” in the surrounding hills, nearby canyons and fields of Mapleton. The protests reached almost comic proportions. “One guy said the snakes would smell like ‘a dead corpse.’” She laughs at the redundancy. Nearby, Dan Sutherland laughs and shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say what’s on his mind. People just don’t understand.

Eventually the Sutherlands had to concede. They’ve set up shop in a warehouse in neighboring Spanish Fork. The move is permanent, but the situation in Mapleton remains unsettled and the couple is reluctant to discuss it further, lest it flare up once more. They just want to get back to breeding their beautiful snakes, which are recognized around the world for their variety and innovation. It’s something they enjoy, and the snakes fetch a pretty penny—anywhere from $250 to tens of thousands of dollars, with customers such as the members of Megadeth and, Colette seems to recall, a guy who looked an awful lot like Slash from Guns N’ Roses.

One reckons they’d like to sell some of those big-sticker snakes right now. Despite the sexy prices, it’s tough enough to make a profit under normal circumstances. Now they’re paying two mortgages, plus a lease on the new warehouse. All because of snake hysteria.

Snake charmers, charming snakes
Snake hysteria will never get a full-on Mapleton City rejection. It’s too prevalent and, says Nelson, “too ingrained.”

There’s no way to make snake lovers out of everyone—and who’d buy mandatory serpent-sensitivity training anyway? But it is worth giving snakes another look. I did, and now own seven serpents. Or at least six I can account for. Mom would be upset to know there’s a Mexican Black Kingsnake cruising around the house. My wife now grudgingly admits they’re at least scientifically fascinating and sometimes—like with my western hognose snake—cute. Even Grandpa Harward is coming around.
“Last year, we went down to Tennessee, to a big place where they had alligators and all that stuff. And this guy says ‘Come here, I wanna show you something.’ He had a snake. I said, ‘I ain’t gettin’ near that sonofabitch.’ But I took a picture of your grandmother touchin’ that snake. It was huge.”
So maybe there’s hope for you, Grandpa? Since you got that close?

“Heh-heh. Yeah.”