The Accidental Herpetologist

By Cara Byington

True confession: I come from a long line of snake killers. My cousins grew up on a farm in Georgia and used to shoot snakes — any snakes, venomous or not — with pellet guns and then delight in showing me, the visiting city girl, the loose, lifeless bodies. If my uncle saw a snake on the side of the road, he would deliberately swerve to hit it. As I remember, his aim was quite good and any number of hapless corn snakes, rattlers, and copperheads met their demise under the wheels of his ancient Chevrolet pickup.

My family history is replete with tales of such gratuitous reptile carnage, and even I admit to having snake blood on my hands. Once I hacked a cottonmouth to death with a shovel when it slithered out of its creekside home and too far onto my creekside patio. Not counting mosquitoes, black flies, and one unfortunate black widow spider, killing that snake is the only deliberate and remorseless act of violence that I have ever committed against a fellow member of the animal kingdom.

And while I have never bragged about it, I’ve certainly never lost any sleep over it either. At least, not until today. After spending the better part of a sunny Tuesday searching for snakes in the oak savannas of Kankakee Sands, about two hours south of Chicago, I’m feeling pretty bad about that cottonmouth. And that feeling, I realize, is a sign of a deeper change — from snake fearer to snake sympathizer.

It seems somehow fitting, and strangely Biblical, that my reptile conversion should come at the hands of two field assistants named Sarah and Rachel (and a herpetologist named Chris). I’m a believer now and, like many converts, I am eager to share my newfound faith.

Unfortunately, snake appreciation is a hard sell. It actually might be easier to persuade my second-grader to give up his dreams of baseball stardom than it is to convince the average person that he or she should care about declining populations of reptiles and amphibians. Snakes definitely have their place in ecosystems adapted to their presence. They help control rodent populations, for instance — though it’s possible that for many people it’s a toss-up as to whether they find rats or snakes more objectionable. If it’s hard to communicate the inherent value of a turtle or even a fish, that goes double for snakes and probably triple for venomous ones.

“No kidding,” agrees Chris Phillips, half wry, half sad. “It’s not like anyone goes out of their way to chop a fish’s head off with a garden hoe.”

I decide not to mention the Cottonmouth Incident to Chris. A herpetologist — that is, a reptile and amphibian researcher — with the Illinois Natural History Survey, he is conducting a survey of large-bodied snakes in the Kankakee Sands area at preserves owned by the Illinois Department of Natural Resources and The Nature Conservancy. The snake survey, supported by the Conservancy, actually began life as an ornate box turtle survey that went somewhat awry when, after three years of looking, biologists and field assistants found only two turtles.

Because of the sandy soils that underlie its prairies and savannas, the Kankakee Sands area supports a number of species that are at the edge of their ranges in Illinois, such as the ornate box turtle, which is common west of the Mississippi River but reaches its far eastern edge in the Kankakee Sands. Ornates were once thought to be fairly common here, but unfortunately that no longer seems to be the case.

“Something is limiting ornate box turtles at Kankakee Sands,” notes Chris Phillips, “but we don’t know what. The population is so close to Chicago that it may be that too many people have collected too many turtles. Or maybe it’s something else. But when we didn’t find any turtles, we started to wonder if something was going on with reptile populations as a whole. That’s when we started looking for snakes.”

Snakes can be awfully hard to study, because even if the populations are healthy, snakes can be awfully hard to find. In hours of walking the open savannas of Kankakee Sands and turning over countless rocks, dead branches, discarded roofing shingles, and large pieces of corrugated tin, we find exactly one bull snake.

I watch Chris, Sarah, and Rachel handle this agitated snake with a tremendous amount of skill and enthusiasm. Sarah Baker and Rachel Bradfield are with us at Kankakee Sands because they need a break from their summer gig surveying massasauga rattlesnakes in Lake and Cook Counties. They’re a little depressed, because in weeks of searching, they’ve only found eight snakes. Things may not be looking so good for massasauga rattlesnakes in Chicago Wilderness, but that’s another story.

Today, the women are delighted to find this bull snake and take turns holding it while Chris goes back to the truck for instruments to record the particulars of their catch. “Some bull snakes get really mad when you catch them,” Sarah tells me as she lets the snake twist around her arm. I force myself not to flinch as it climbs around her neck. “But this is one sweet snake. Do you want to touch it?”

It’s so annoying when those moments of truth sneak up on you. She holds the snake out to me, and I put aside my past and touch the smooth, cool body with one hesitant fingertip. I can feel the strength in the muscles beneath the scales, and as my curiosity overcomes my aversion, I curve my hand around its body — though I do carefully avoid the business end. Bull snakes are constrictors, and while they’re not venomous, they can still leave a nasty mark. I have no wish to extend my reptile experience into anything involving puncture wounds.

But the snake makes no sudden moves and neither do I. Familiarity slowly breeds confidence and for the first time in my life, I find myself looking at a snake with curiosity that is not tinged with horror or fear. It is beautiful, and the word that comes to mind as I watch the snake move is grace. There is a grace about this creature that shames my fear and changes me. Funny, I know, but I never truly thought of snakes as living creatures before, never appreciated their inherent elegance and how supremely adapted they are to their environments.

Concern for the preservation of reptiles — especially snakes — has always been a rather abstract thing with me. I mean, let’s face it, snakes are no baby seals. Until today, the thought of snakes being endangered or threatened never caused me specific pain, but now it troubles me, like it does Chris Phillips, that the ornate box turtles missing from Kankakee Sands just might signal a larger problem with reptiles and amphibians here.

Chris returns with the instruments he needs to document the snake. Watching him and Sarah measure the writhing bull snake with a red and white tape is like watching someone try to gift-wrap an out-of-control garden hose. When they use a field scale and pillowcase to weigh their catch, my conversion to snake sympathizer is complete. I find it difficult to maintain a proper level of terror for something being weighed in a pillowcase embroidered with butterflies. And maybe that’s the point. While some say familiarity breeds contempt, it also breeds comfort, appreciation, and concern. At a time when we are growing ever more removed from nature, the salvation of natural landscapes and their living inhabitants may depend on remembering — and reminding each other — to reach out and touch that world in whatever way we can.

Cara Byington is senior conservation writer with The Nature Conservancy in Illinois.