I'll never forget the first time I experienced the exhilaration of interacting with my first indigo snake. I was attending, for the first time ever, a reptile swap out in then still semi-rural Streamwood, in northwestern Cook County. I had learned about this swap from a Petco employee by the name of Rocio (somehow that name stuck with me). Petco was where my friend Joe and I would go to to look at subjects of his interest - cichlids. While we chatting up our love of herps, Rocio revealed to us that she had been going to this secret swap meet for awhile and that if we were into herps we too should go. So we looked up the swap in the newspaper ads and found the address and dates/times. Fast forward a week or so and there we were, standing just beyond the entry door of a prefabricated horse stable where we had just paid four dollars to enter and had the backs of our hands stamped like we were now part of the "club".
Previous to this, I had always loved herps. My exposure to them was through the ones I'd catch at home in Chicago, ones in zoos and pet stores, and of course, ones in books. On this day, I was thrust into a fairytale world where surrounding me on all sides were animals I had never seen before, and many I had only dreamt of seeing. Rows and rows of folding tables, covered with all sorts of exotics. Deli cup-style containers held young snakes and lizards, ten-gallon tanks with an inch or two of water teeming with baby turtles, larger bird cages housed chameleons and iguanas, and big plastic tubs contained everything from tortoises to tegus. Of course there was no shortage of amphibians, arachnids, and all of the feeder mice, rats, rabbits, crickets, mealworms, and caterpillars you could shake a stick at. This carnival's aroma was a unique blend of humus, rodent urine, musty barnyard, and (human) body odor. The air was thick and warm. Most might hold their noses. But just like snake musk, when it's associated with something you love, you tend to embrace it.
The swap meet was crowded. To even see many of the tables, you had to push through the sweaty people gawking at exotic animals. These people, where did they come from? So many, dare I say, unsanitary and overall sketchy-looking people, most with bad tattoos, old dirty leather, and facial piercings. Lots of oily or greasy hair. Cold sores were rampant. In order to communicate among each other or to vendors, they had to shout in most instances. It looked like a trading floor run by the Ramones' technicians and groupies.
I wanted to see everything I could while I was there. My friend Joe, a lifelong squeaky-clean suburbanite from the Norridge Bubble*, stayed close. We shuffled and zig-zagged our way through the first of two connected buildings. I was tantalized by many of the reptiles for sale and wanted to bring some home but I kept reminding myself that I was ill-prepared for new additions. I quickly became discontented with the brusque demeanor of many of the vendors; I'd ask questions related to their animals and they'd stand there, gazing to the side with arms folded, offering the most vague answers as if they were being bothered. Maybe it was because I was a young teenager who smelled like I had taken a shower in the last four days, maybe it was because I wasn't being aggressive enough or didn't appear interested enough. Soon enough it occurred to me that if I wasn't overtly making an offer, I was not worth their time. It was strictly business.
Entering the second building through one of two narrow doorways, I noticed that this area was decidedly less dense. It was airy and cooler than the humidity factory that was the first building, and featured more cages and supplies than livestock. There were heaps of tangled pieces of driftwood for sale as well as old aquariums and other enclosures. At the back of the building, there was an open door ushering in some sweet fresh air heavy with the scent of fresh cut grass. I wasn't in the market for cages or driftwood but I thought I'd use this opportunity to open up my lungs before heading back into the sweltering melee of the first building.
It all happened really quickly. I was turning a corner when all of a sudden, there's this guy behind a table holding a large (7-8 foot) eastern indigo snake. The owner was fidgeting with something else - trying to do two things at once but the snake was making the process difficult. Before I had a chance to fully process what I was seeing, the guy looks at me and sort of chuckles, and says, "Hey, would you mind hanging onto this guy for a sec?" Slightly flustered, he handed me the huge, writhing serpent before I could even mutter anything. Holding this animal was probably the most incredible snake-related experience I had ever had to that point (and remains so today). Until that point, I had handled several larger boas and pythons, but none could compare to the tense power of the body of an indigo snake. Boas and pythons are indeed very strong, but most move pretty slowly and have softer, looser skin, which gives them a bit of a "tamer" feel. The indigo snake, however, was a fast and lean animal, moving about expeditiously and never really presenting as if it were comfortable in my possession. It darted its head and body about in order to liberate itself from me, though at no point did I ever sense that it was going to bite. It just didn't want to sit still like a boa constrictor. While marveling at its strength, I was awestruck by its deep blue-black hues and iridescent quality of its scales. Its eyes, made fierce by its overhanging supraocular scales, were like daggers to the soul. A flash of red color along the jaws and neck was the only feature breaking up the dark theme, yet it seemed very appropriate. And its large black tongue flicked in and out with clear purpose.
I spent probably less than a minute with that snake before its owner offered to take it back now that he had achieved what he had been trying to do. "Pretty cool, huh?".
"Yes...YES...just, wow..." is probably all I was able to get out.
Now in the hands of its owner, the big indigo snake writhed a big more before being put into a temporary enclosure. "I should have babies next year", he said.
I quietly chuckled. Of course, I thought I found a semblance of soul among frantic wheelers and dealers at this place - AND I had one of those "A-ha!" moments to boot - but in the end it was all about business. I suppose that's what the swap was there for, anyway. Still, for me, those moments with the indigo snake transcended society's money. I didn't need to have one to understand everything the indigo snake represented. A snake of that magnitude isn't built for inclusion within a stack of plastic cages. Though I've always been an advocate for the proper, responsible keeping of pet reptiles and amphibians ("herpetoculture", as it's known), there was no way I'd ever provide an artificial landscape to the snake's liking. Nor did I care to.
I had separated from Joe briefly, but long enough that he had no idea what had just occurred by the time he came walking toward me. Even if he was witness to my interaction with the big indigo, there was no way he'd understand the high I was experiencing. It was a dream I had had for many years that materialized unexpectedly and I couldn't find a way to adequately convey my feelings at the time.
In the ensuing years, I'd go to the reptile swap many, many times, but I was never able to match the feeling I felt from interacting with that big indigo. In fact, I'd never see another indigo snake there again. My goal is to one day experience one of these beasts in the wild, in their native habitat.
The only place truly fit for a king.
Entering the second building through one of two narrow doorways, I noticed that this area was decidedly less dense. It was airy and cooler than the humidity factory that was the first building, and featured more cages and supplies than livestock. There were heaps of tangled pieces of driftwood for sale as well as old aquariums and other enclosures. At the back of the building, there was an open door ushering in some sweet fresh air heavy with the scent of fresh cut grass. I wasn't in the market for cages or driftwood but I thought I'd use this opportunity to open up my lungs before heading back into the sweltering melee of the first building.
I spent probably less than a minute with that snake before its owner offered to take it back now that he had achieved what he had been trying to do. "Pretty cool, huh?".
"Yes...YES...just, wow..." is probably all I was able to get out.
Now in the hands of its owner, the big indigo snake writhed a big more before being put into a temporary enclosure. "I should have babies next year", he said.
I quietly chuckled. Of course, I thought I found a semblance of soul among frantic wheelers and dealers at this place - AND I had one of those "A-ha!" moments to boot - but in the end it was all about business. I suppose that's what the swap was there for, anyway. Still, for me, those moments with the indigo snake transcended society's money. I didn't need to have one to understand everything the indigo snake represented. A snake of that magnitude isn't built for inclusion within a stack of plastic cages. Though I've always been an advocate for the proper, responsible keeping of pet reptiles and amphibians ("herpetoculture", as it's known), there was no way I'd ever provide an artificial landscape to the snake's liking. Nor did I care to.
I had separated from Joe briefly, but long enough that he had no idea what had just occurred by the time he came walking toward me. Even if he was witness to my interaction with the big indigo, there was no way he'd understand the high I was experiencing. It was a dream I had had for many years that materialized unexpectedly and I couldn't find a way to adequately convey my feelings at the time.
In the ensuing years, I'd go to the reptile swap many, many times, but I was never able to match the feeling I felt from interacting with that big indigo. In fact, I'd never see another indigo snake there again. My goal is to one day experience one of these beasts in the wild, in their native habitat.
The only place truly fit for a king.
*"Norridge Bubble" refers to an area comprised of two suburbs, Norridge and Harwood Heights, which are surrounded on all sides by Chicago. Not only is it truly a "bubble" geographically, but the term also refers to the isolation incurred upon its residents out of fear of Chicago.
Photo 1: From "Snakes" by George S. Fichter (1953). One of my first books on reptiles.
Photo 2: From "Snakes" by Ruth Belov Gross (1973). Also one of my first books on reptiles.
Photo 3: From "Living Reptiles of the World" by Karl Schmidt and Robert Inger (1957). Also one of my first books on reptiles.
