We were walking in the Noanet Woodlands in Dover, MA, on an early Easter afternoon. Gusty winds swirled around us, tempered by strong sunshine. I was babbling on about how O.J. Simpson’s double-murder trial had whetted the media’s appetite for round-the-clock coverage of inconsequential stories, when suddenly—mid-rant—my eyes locked onto something on the path.
A snake.
Twisting and writhing in a wild sine wave at my feet.
Before my brain fully registered what was happening, I screamed. Not a planned, rational scream, but a raw, reflexive one. The kind that escapes your throat without asking for permission. In a blind panic, I grabbed Mr. P’s shoulders and attempted to launch myself skyward, as though he were my personal jetpack.
Startled (and now thoroughly rattled), Mr. P shook me off and bolted about ten feet down the path. “What is wrong with you? It’s just a snake!”
Yes, just a snake. A harmless garter snake, no less—the kind I’ve encountered dozens of times before. I grew up surrounded by snakes: in gardens, in woods, even in lakes and rivers where we swam. I’ve petted snakes at zoos and museums, and I pride myself on respecting nature, including its creepy, crawly, slithery denizens. So what possessed me to scream like a damsel in distress? Blame it on a primordial instinct buried deep in the recesses of my brain.
Emily Dickinson put it perfectly:
“I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.”
What Miss Emily means, of course, is that snakes make her scream like a sissy too.
Snakes are arguably the most symbolic animals in mythology, embodying everything from renewal, immortality, and fertility to death, deception, and Satan himself. In Hinduism, snakes are sacred, second only to cows. Serpents slither through the legends of the Greeks, Norse, Egyptians, Mayans, Yorubas, and Buddhists. Even Ireland, which has never had snakes due to geological quirks, celebrates St. Patrick for his supposed banishment of them. Despite their lofty place in myths, Christianity casts snakes as the ultimate villains, damning humanity by tempting Adam and Eve with the fruit of sin.
These days, though, if you mention “snakes,” chances are someone will respond with, “On a Plane!” The phrase instantly conjures Samuel L. Jackson shouting his iconic (and profanity-laced) line. The title of Snakes on a Plane—a film entirely based on snakes wreaking havoc on an airplane—has captivated the imagination of millions. Why does Snakes on a Planework while, say, Bees on a Plane or Wolves on a Plane would flop? Perhaps it taps into mankind’s ancient fascination with snakes: their unsettlingly smooth motion, their inscrutable eyes, their aura of danger. Whatever the reason, it’s a concept that perfectly blends terror and hilarity.
But back to the Noanet Woodlands.
After the initial snake-induced panic subsided, we walked on. My eyes stayed glued to the ground, scanning for any telltale flash of scales that might send me into another frenzy. About ten minutes later, I spotted it: two bright yellow stripes cutting through the earthy greens and browns of the forest floor.
“Look, another snake,” I said, surprisingly calm this time.
We stopped, watched it bask in the sun, and snapped a picture. Then we moved on, leaving it to its quiet, sunlit existence.
I felt at peace with snakes on a walk. Snakes on a plane, though? There’s not a damn thing you can do about that.
