We Caught Rattlesnakes for Extra Credit in College

This story, “Bag of Venom,” appeared in the August 1953 issue of Outdoor Life.

The professor of biology told us about it at the beginning of the spring term. He’s Dr. Herbert L. Stahnke, head of the department of biological sciences, Arizona State College, and way up there on research in animal poisons. Any class member, he said, could earn up to 100 extra points toward his final grade in biology by collecting such things as tarantulas, scorpions. black-widow spiders, and poi­sonous snakes. A two-inch scorpion, for instance, would rate one point; a black widow, up to three.

It was a good deal for everyone. Dr. Stahnke has been working for years on ways to treat the poison such critters can inject, and has perfected an anti­-scorpion serum that’s used by hospitals in the Southwest. Specimens we brought in would be milked of their venom, which, of course, is used in developing antivenin. Now, as an ex-G.I. from Portland, Oregon, getting college training under the G.I. Bill, I could use the extra points. So could my roommate, Donald Hansen, who hails from upstate New York and is a vet of 28. We weren’t just silly kids, un­aware of the danger we might face.

Well, Donald and I went out looking for scorpions. We looked. and searched and sweated. We came home tired, hungry, and discouraged. For all our efforts we had just five little scorpions; three points for Don, two for me. So I buttonholed Dr. Stahnke and put it up to him: “How many points for rattlesnakes?”

“Oh, from 10 to 20,” he said. “Depends on their size. You and Don plan to try for some? Well, you two have learned to take care of yourselves. Be sure to go with someone who knows snakes and the snake country, though.”

I immediately thought of Johnnie Ray, and as soon as I saw him I put it up to him. He said he’d be glad to help us get our points. “I’ll lead you to all the rattlers you can use,” he said. “I know a place that should be crawling with them.” Well, that was Monday and we planned to go out on Saturday, so we were pretty careful to see that nothing happened to Johnnie the rest of the week. Under his direc­tion we made two snare sticks. Each consisted of a sturdy rod about five feet long, along which was a row of staples. We ran a stiff wire through the staples from the handle end, formed it into a loop at the business end, and fastened it to the rod. When one pulled on the wire, the loop would tighten around the rattler’s throat-one hoped. We’d take along five or six gunny sacks to hold our captives.

On Saturday morning we picked up Johnnie, who had a big Colt Peacemaker revolver strapped to his hip. To be prepared against possible snakebite, we stopped at a drugstore to pick up two metal tubes of ethyl chloride — a chilling agent used in Dr. Stahnke’s new method of field treat­ment — and drove to a point several miles southeast of Phoenix. Then we threaded our way along a desert trail to some low hills.

“Where we heading?” I asked.

“To a den area,” said Johnnie. “Rattlers should be out of winter quarters by now and soaking in this spring sun. We’re almost there. Park the car here.”

We were at the base of a 500-foot hill on which, Johnnie said, we’d find our diamondbacks. He spun the cylinder of his Peacemaker to check its ammuni­tion. Don slung his camera around his neck and we picked up our sacks and snare sticks and started up the hill. The east slope was cool and damp in spots that March day, and we climbed slowly and carefully. When Don and I caught up with Johnnie at the crest we found him resting amidst some rocks.

“Any rattlers?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, pointing with his cigarette. “There’s one right there.”

I saw it, curled up cozily in the sun just six feet from Johnnie. I stared.

“Big, isn’t it?” I said uncertainly. I had seen rattlesnakes before — even killed a couple — but I’d never attempted to capture one alive. Don had never even seen a wild rattlesnake but he has what it takes and was willing to try.

“Shall we get started?” he asked.

“Aw, sit down and rest a minute,” said Johnnie. “He hasn’t seen us. If he had, he’d come back here to his den.”

“Here?”

“Sure, right to these rocks. We’re in the middle of the dens.”

I elected to rest standing up. If any rattler was going to give me the busi­ness I’d prefer to get it in the foot. Don stood up too. He said he didn’t relish the thought of having his backside frosted with ethyl chloride.

Johnnie finished his cigarette and flipped it away. Don set his stick against a rock and got busy checking his camera. I unselfishly handed my stick to Johnnie. He laughed. “Aw, go ahead and take him,” he said.

“No,” I said, “you saw him first. I’ll hold the sack for the first honors.”

Johnnie eased over the rocks and hunched over the rattlesnake, his feet spread apart on two boulders. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the loop. Now it was near the snake’s head. The head darted back an inch; the rattler had come wide awake. It shifted its coil slowly.

“Jiminy,” I thought, “that’s a wicked-looking thing.”

Now the snake was tense and alert. lt sensed danger but its weak eyes could not clearly discern the small wire loop. Johnnie followed the head with his stick. Then he passed the loop over the head to the narrow neck-and pulled the wire.

Until then the diamondback had not given us a buzz. Now it set up an awful commotion. Its rattles sang as it twisted and thrashed and writhed and flopped around. Johnnie lifted it clear of the ground and I stepped closer, holding the sack open. Johnnie started to lower the snake, tail first. I watched it — all five feet of it-going into the bag, just a foot from my face. Its rattles sizzled; its body flipped and twisted; its belly glistened; its jaws were wide open, revealing fangs and white throat. My stomach turned over.

Now it was in the sack and Johnnie loosed the loop and jerked back the stick. I twisted the bag down snug, and Don quickly tied it. With relief. I blew the pent-up air from my lungs. This was going to be a lot more nerve­-racking than I’d anticipated.

“Well,” said Johnnie calmly, “there ought to be more around here.”

We reconnoitered the rocks, carefully watching each step we made. “Hey, here’s another,” I called.

“Where?” asked Johnnie, coming back.

“There, just under the edge of that rock. See him ?”

“Be darned!” said Johnnie. “I missed that one. Stepped right there too.”

“He missed too,” I said fervently.

I moved aside and Johnnie cautiously jockeyed for position. The snake was in a difficult lay, and Johnnie had to ease himself down on one knee close in front of the rattler. Its head remained rigid but its fat coils began a long, slow, undulating movement. It too was jockeying for position. Johnnie jabbed the stick forward and passed the loop over the snake’s head, then jerked it out. It lay writhing and hissing in the sun.

“Another nice one,” Johnnie beamed. I stared, fascinated. “Well, come on, chum,” said Johnnie. “Open the bag.” I stooped and picked up the twisted top of the sack. Instantly there was a warning buzz from inside and I stopped, smiling sheepishly.     But Don quickly reached over and untied the rope. I held the sack open and Johnnie slid the

snake into it.

When it was tied again we stood and listened to the buzzing rattles, louder now with two snakes together. “Guess I owe you an apology, Johnnie,” I said. “I had my doubts about this sack busi­ness but you’ve got us two big ones.”

“Why, sure,” he laughed. “You think we come out here huffing up this hill for nothing?”

We spread out a little and began working our way north along the hilltop, scanning each bush, shrub, and rock. It was ticklish business. With rattlers out sleeping and sunning themselves, there was no telling where or at what moment we’d find one. Suddenly Don called softly, “Hey, here’s one.”

I joined him. “Where ?”

“Under that mesquite bush by the rock.”

“Whew!” I said. “Another good one. “Nice going, Don. It’s hard to spot one in there.” The scraggly shadows of the mesquite blended perfectly with the snake’s skin design.

Don tried his hand at snaring this one and succeeded in fine style; I held the bag open. Johnnie had worked his way out of sight beyond some rocks. Ten yards later Don bagged another one. Then we got another, with me taking a turn.

“That makes five, doesn’t it?” asked Don.

“Yes, and five years off my life,” I replied. “Let’s go see how Johnnie’s making out.”

We found him in the brush beside a large flat boulder, down on his hands and knees. His head was screwed sideways and he was poking his stick under the rock.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Two more in the sack,” he said. “And there’s a big one under here. I’m not leaving here till I get him. Go round to the other side of the rock — it’s I open there too — and see if he’s coming out.”

I climbed over. The snake stuck out his snout but not his whole head. I tried several times to loop him but he was too wary. Finally Johnnie shoved his hand in under the rocks and groped around for the snake’s tail.

“Let me know if he pulls his head back,” he grunted.

“O.K. Can you get hold of him?”

“No. Can you loop him?”

“No. The ornery critter won’t poke his head out far enough. Hey — he’s turned!”

“Yeah, I know,” said Johnnie, scrambling to his feet. He pulled the big snake out by its tail and held it at arm’s length-over five feet of dangling, deadly rattler. “Now you see why I wanted him?” he gloated.

Maybe the guy has ice water in his veins. Actually, though, it wasn’t just a foolhardy stunt. Johnnie knew that in spring rattlers are strictly loners — that he wouldn’t be ambushed by another snake under the rock. And as long as I could see the head, he was safe grabbing the tail.

We now had eight rattlesnakes parked in five bags along the hilltop. “You boys are piling up biology points real I fast,” said Johnnie.

“Beats scorpions at a point apiece,” I admitted.

Don nodded. “You bet—Hey, there’s another! This place is lousy with rattlers.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t want to wallow around in them waist-deep.”

I picked up a sack containing two snakes and waited while Johnnie crept up on our latest one. 

“Got your sack ready?” he asked.

He deftly hooked the snake and I opened the bag. Then all hell broke loose. The next few moments almost wrecked our point system, my nerves, and the English language. One of the captive snakes reared up through the sack opening and put its head and some six inches of body over the side — right beside my hand. I yelled, flung the sack down, and jumped back. The snake plopped at my feet and I jumped again. Then the rattler raced toward Don, and Don jumped. Next it slewed around and came in my direct:ion. I stamped the ground with my feet and it halted and threw itself on the defensive, neck back, head pointed at me, rattles screaming, coils weaving and shift­ing about.

“Damn!” I choked. “What a kettle of fish!” I felt sick, mad, and humiliated. Johnnie was holding the latest captive to the ground and it writhed and sizzled. The one remaining in the open sack was noisy and moving-he’d be out at any moment. The loose one, alert and buzzing on the ground, was ready to throw himself at anything. We had to get him — quick.

Don stepped over and diverted the rattler’s attention. I grabbed the sack, shook its occupant to the bottom, and said, “Johnnie, dump yours in here and get that other one.”

He did that and Don secured the rope.

I mopped my forehead and hands, and said, “Dammit, fellows, I’m sorry—”

“Forget it,” Johnnie grinned.

“I’d have done the same thing myself.” I didn’t believe him but it helped.

“How was I to know the stupid thing would crawl up—”

“They ain’t stupid.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

During this exchange of courtesies Don had located another rattlesnake. I got a sack with two big critters in it, untied it, and held it in readiness. I was determined not to upset the applecart a second time. The boys were ready with No. 10, and I opened the sack mouth. Johnnie lifted the big diamondback and paused for Don to guide it in.

“Drop  the sack!” Johnnie yelled abruptly. “Drop it! He’s comin’ over your hand!”

I felt the smooth, cold rub of the slick scales and glimpsed the head as I jerked away one arm. Clutching the sack, I slapped the snake’s head, trying to knock it back in. Then I slapped it again.

“Drop it!” yelled Johnnie.

“No, I won’t!” I fumed. “Be damned if I’ll drop it again.”

I flopped the sack, jiggled it, juggled it, and scooped the snake back in. The strength of his tail was spent, and he dropped like a hawser to the bottom. I twisted the bag and held it. The sack sounded like a seething beehive.

Johnnie still held his snake, and the nearest bag with plenty of room for it was too far away to fetch ( one didn’t dare run in that area), and we had to sack our newest captive soon or its neck would be injured. I gingerly untwisted the neck of my bag and we quickly slipped the rattler into it.

We went back and exchanged our sacks for others containing single snakes, then retraced our way toward the den rocks. We became separated as I searched back along the top of the hill, with the other boys moving down the west side and farther ahead. I saw them snare two snakes before they disappeared behind rocks and brush.

I sat down on a rock, for I needed a rest.

“Good grief,” I muttered. “What a way to get a grade.” Then I relaxed and laughed out loud.

By the time the gunny sack had quieted down to only an occasional burst, I felt refreshed enough to go on. The other boys hadn’t come in sight again; maybe they were having good hunting. I ranged over toward the den with its big, jagged boulders, thinking I might nab some more points. I laid the bag down and crept forward, eyes on the ground, picking my way carefully to within a few feet of the rocks.

The air was quiet; it was midday now. Only the faint singing of insects touched the desert silence. Pausing between steps and stooping slightly, I studied the ground to the left, then to the right. I took two more cautious steps that brought me almost against a rock. Suddenly I sensed danger and glanced up. I stifled a yell, sucked in a gob of air, and froze.

Froze solid! Squarely in front of me, on top of a rock that jutted out shoulder-high and barely 2 1/2 feet away, a large rattlesnake lay, poised to strike. Its deadly head and neck were inching back in the familiar S-shape, and its powerful, supple coils were slowly stir­ring. No sound. No warning. No buzz. It was just waiting, alert, ready to jab at this moving object in front of it.

My heart thumped heavily, like an unbalanced crankshaft, then pounded hard against my ribs. Every muscle, nerve, and tissue of my body con­stricted tightly; a raw, wet, terrifying fear poured through me; the blood drained down into my innards. I was sick with fright.

I dared not move. It was too late. Any movement, however slight, would cause the rattler to stab out. I breathed short, tiny draughts to avoid chest motion. I stared at the tense, threatening snake; at his loathsome head; at his vitreous eyes; at the long thin line separating his jaws and giving him a hideous grin; at the diamond patterns blending and oscillating on the sinuous coils.

The first nauseating wave in my mind began to subside and I started to think, to weigh my chances. I’d been caught off balance, left arm askew, left leg bent, right heel off the ground. I slowly moved my eyes to the right, to the left. There was another snake crawling out of the rock a few yards away. Then I spotted still another. Probably there were some behind me by now, so I dared not leap back. I couldn’t have moved quickly enough anyhow; that head in front of me would strike much more swiftly. And if it did? In my head or chest, close to the heart. No place for a tourniquet. Nothing.

Thoughts raced through my brain. Brain? I had no brain — I’d been a fool to get caught this way. Why had I let myself become separated from the others? Oh Lord, where were those guys?

The rattler’s head moved out to the left, slowly, stiffly, still watching me. I felt a pulse of hope. He was uncertain now, searching for a better view of me. Again I weighed my chance of leaping. Better to be bitten in the leg by one of the other snakes than in the neck or chest by him. I tensed for the jump. No, I knew I couldn’t make it. That swift head would dart too fast.

My eyes caught a movement in the rocks yards away. The head and shoul­ders of Johnnie came into sight. Don was behind him. My flesh slacked with relief. Johnnie waved and called, “Any luck?” Then he noticed my immovabil­ity, my strained position. “Boy, you are in a spot,” he said softly.

Slowly and softly he came over the rock, the noose in front of him. The snake’s weak eyes evidently caught no movement. for its attention was still riveted on me. Now the noose was moving above its coils, settling gently in front of its head, moving back toward the neck. A jerk, a wild scramble, a burst from the rattles, and I relaxed, a free man.

I let Don and Johnnie sack that one; I was beat up. “That’s enough,” said Don. “Let’s go home.”

“You don’t have to twist my arm,” I said and stepped back. Sz-z-z-z-z! Right at my heels. I’d almost trod on a bagful of rattlers.

Read Next: 7 Ways Not to Die from a Rattlesnake Bite

We took back 17 big rattlesnakes, and they got us 200 points — the maximum of 100 apiece for Don and me. Dr. Stahnke was delighted; his laboratory had been practically empty of the badly needed reptiles.

“It wasn’t all beer and skittles,” said Don gravely. “A heck of a thing hap­pened. I had a chance for a wonderful picture, and I forgot I was carrying a camera.”

Editor’s Note: This description of the treatment method was included in the story, which was published in 1953. The best thing to do if you’re bit by a rattlesnake today is the exact opposite of this. Call 911. Do not use a tourniquet or ice water, and do not cut the bite. Instead, wash the bite with soap and water and apply a clean, dry dressing. Stay calm and lie or sit down with the bite in a neutral position.