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A Snake to Die For

Most Americans had no idea what was going on in Sinaloa, Mexico, in the 1970s. The fertile soils in the western foothills of the Sierra Madre Occidental provided an ideal setting for growing tomatoes destined for American salads, but also opium poppies and marijuana, and these operations were run by Mexican drug lords. The narco violence we now know about all too well thanks to Netflix was there but on a much quieter scale—and the murders on the streets of Culiacán (Sinaloa’s capital and the epicenter of the West Coast drug trade) rarely made headlines in Los Angeles. Back then we had no idea about any of these hazards—we just wanted to find snakes. Lots of snakes. Snakes we couldn’t see in California or Arizona or Texas.

Ron Tremper, my closest herping buddy back then, and I made our first pilgrimage to northwestern Mexico in the summer of 1975. I was a college undergraduate and Ron had just completed his bachelor’s degree in zoology, both of us at California State University–Fresno. Ron was the first serious herp person I’d met. He’d already done a Peace Corps stint in Cameroon and worked as a summer intern at the Arizona–Sonora Desert Museum in Tucson. As a teenager, he’d corresponded with the famous rattlesnake expert Laurence Klauber, just missing a personal meeting with him as Klauber fell ill and died soon after.

Ron and I first met in September 1974. We lived in an area that seemed devoid of other aspiring herpetologists, unlike the major metro areas of California—San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. A regional herp group did not exist. There was at least one other local herp guy we knew of, but we suspected he was a poacher and smuggler, so he was off limits. I think both of us were excited to have met a kindred spirit, somebody who was happy to talk herps for hours on end. We each had jobs at a local mall and coordinated our work breaks. It was during one of these breaks that Ron hatched the idea of going to Mexico. Mexico! The thought of going to Mexico to hunt snakes was pretty wild (maybe even dangerous?), but Ron was determined that we should go. And so the planning began.

Ron took the lead in obtaining a scientific collecting permit from the Mexican government, a months-long process but ultimately successful. He had a new job at the Fresno Zoo and would later become its first curator of reptiles. In the meantime, a state-of-the-art reptile house was to be constructed, and we hoped to obtain some of the first display animals that would eventually live there.

I spent months in the university library researching species distributions and activity periods. There were no field guides for Mexico available back then. Color photos for many species had never been published. I filled three large binders with photocopies of scientific papers concerning the herpetofauna of northwestern Mexico and made regional checklists for the places we planned to hunt.

I owned a near-new VW Beetle, and we decided that it would be a reliable and economical vehicle for our trip. Ron had expertise in fabricating stuff, so he built a large metal storage locker that would fit on the car’s roof rack. After reading one-too-many travel warnings about what to avoid eating and drinking while in Mexico, we decided we should take our own food and would prepare our own meals. Our menu was not too exciting—Spam, canned corn—there must have been other stuff, but that’s all that I can remember decades later!

July 13. Finally, the day of departure arrived. The first leg of our epic adventure was the long drive from Fresno, California, to Tucson, Arizona. We made it in time for a bit of road cruising in the Gates Pass area on the outskirts of Tucson, finding a California Kingsnake and a Black-Tailed Rattlesnake. The next day we crossed the US–Mexico border at Nogales and continued south to Hermosillo, Sonora. After securing a motel room and enjoying a meal of Spam and corn (!), we headed out for a first night of hunting in Mexico. We were not disappointed. From 8:40 p.m. to 1:55 a.m., we found 16 snakes. This was Upland Sonoran Desert, thus many of the species were familiar to us because they ranged into southern Arizona. Our highlights were a beautiful Sonoran Coralsnake and a Tiger Rattlesnake.

We spent a second night in the Hermosillo area, but by then the subtropics were practically crying out to us. On the next morning we drove south on Highway 15, headed for the small town of Alamos, tucked into the foothills of the Sierra Madre in southern Sonora. Alamos had long been a popular destination for herpetologists, bird watchers, and naturalists of all stripes. This was near the northern limits of the subtropical thornscrub forest that cloaked the Pacific slopes of the northern Sierra Madre. The regional checklist I’d assembled suggested it was possible to find such novelties as Mexican West Coast Rattlesnakes, Spotted Cat-Eyed Snakes, Cantils, and Beaded Lizards, among others. Species diversity here was notably greater given that this was the meeting place of two major biotic communities—Sonoran Desert Scrub in the lowlands and Sinaloan thornscrub in the foothills—producing a curious mix of familiar desert regulars like Sonoran Gophersnakes alongside Boa Constrictors!

Alamos met and exceeded our expectations. The allure of road hunting for snakes at night is that you can cover a lot of territory in a short time. And, you don’t know what you might find next, maybe even a species you’ve never seen before. Although we were able to identify nearly everything we encountered, one Alamos snake was a puzzle. It was a dark snake with cream-colored bands, smooth and shiny body scales, a blunt tail and measured about 450 mm in total length. We had no idea! (Upon our return to the United States at trip’s end, we stopped in at the Arizona–Sonora Desert Museum, where resident herpetologists Merritt Keasey and Steve Prchal readily identified our mystery snake as a Sympholis lippiens, sometimes called the Mexican Short-Tailed Snake).

It was time to venture farther south, into Sinaloa, where new landscapes and new species beckoned. We checked into the Motel York in the small town of Guamúchil, on the coastal plain about 100 km north of Culiacán, Sinaloa’s capital. Our trip fell during the summer monsoons—a hot and humid period punctuated by near-daily afternoon rain showers. Night driving followed, usually revealing uncounted frogs and toads, along with a nice diversity of snakes. Hunt late into the night, sleep in the next day. That was our routine. On this particular day (24 July) we lounged around the motel pool under threatening skies and hot, humid conditions. The characteristic chatter of the ever-present Boat-Tailed Grackles filled the air. Soon enough, the skies opened, and we headed for cover. However, the storm was short-lived, and the sun made an appearance by late afternoon. This cycle—rain showers followed by sunny skies—usually meant that snakes would be on the move that night.

We studied our Sinaloa map, hoping to find roads beyond the ever-expanding maw of industrial agriculture, where native habitats were likely to produce snakes. On the map we noticed a paved road running from the Pacific lowlands winding into the foothills of the Sierra Madre. The Badiraguato Road looked promising and would be one of our targets that night.

We both had species we hoped to find on this trip. I was particularly interested in Loxocemus bicolor, sometimes referred to as the Mexican Burrowing Python, at the time considered the only New World member of the Pythonidae (pythons) but really more of an evolutionary mystery. Over the years it has been kicked around like a phylogenetic football, variously grouped with pythons or boas, eventually being placed in its own family, Loxocemidae. I badly wanted to find this enigmatic snake! It does not range as far north as Sinaloa but would be sought later in our trip. Ron had his sights set on finding a tropical milksnake (aka Sinaloan Milksnake, then known scientifically as Lampropeltis triangulum nelsoni). This beautiful red, white, and black banded snake was one of many subspecies then placed within L. triangulum, a species with a range that extended from Canada to Ecuador. Ron had long been interested in kingsnakes (Lampropeltis), and this would be a chance to add a spectacular new species to the list of those he’d seen in the wild.

Before leaving California, we’d been warned not to drink the water, to avoid unwashed fruits and vegetables, not to keep all our cash in one place, and not to be surprised by the widespread practice of mordida (small bribes solicited by local police or other officials). But nobody told us about the Narcos.

Once darkness arrived, we headed out from the hotel parking lot, turning south onto the two-lane Highway 15—a crowded mix of buses, trucks, and rain-filled potholes whose depths could not be gauged. After hunting some side roads, we eventually reached our turnoff to Badiraguato. I was piloting our trusty VW that so far had held up well on Mexico’s roads. According to my field journal, it was 10:20 p.m. and the air temperature was 80 °F under overcast skies. In the distance we saw some faint lights on the other side of a one-lane wooden plank bridge over a small stream. Onto the bridge we drove—it was quite narrow so I was creeping along.

As we progressed, we noticed a group of men who appeared to have automatic weapons and pistols—all pointed at us. We did not have the option of turning around so we moved forward at about 10 mph. As the distance between our car and the men closed, the brilliant red bands of our target snake materialized in front of us … right on the bridge! Ron screamed nelsoni! and without concern for the consequences, flung open the passenger door and rushed forward to capture the snake—and in doing so running right at the gunmen, who were only a few meters behind the snake.

I was already mentally processing how I was going to tell Ron’s wife that he’d gone down in a hail of gunfire … for a snake. Meanwhile, in an instant Ron had captured this brilliant meter-long tropical milksnake—a dead ringer for the local and highly venomous Mexican West Coast Coralsnake. In typical milksnake fashion, it sank its teeth into Ron’s hand and started chewing, quickly drawing blood. Still no gunfire. Ron held his prize aloft, unconcerned about the bites, blood streaming down his arm, all brightly lit by the headlights of our car. He is overjoyed, I am incredulous. Still no gunfire. Meanwhile, the Mexicans are now very agitated, yelling at Ron, coralillo! (Spanish for coral snake). We make it across the bridge and are pulled from the vehicle at gunpoint. The Mexicans can’t believe Ron isn’t affected by the bite of the snake. Using my limited Spanish, I tell them that we are American students looking for snakes. They think we are crazy. Gringos locos they called us. After checking our car and finding only more snakes (in bags), they actually let us continue hunting on their road.

Years later, I learned that the Badiraguato region was not just another random drug-growing area in the foothills of the Sierra Madre. It holds special status in Sinaloan drug lore as the birthplace of Joaquín El Chapo Guzmán, the notorious Mexican drug lord. It was here that his father, a gomero (opium poppy farmer), taught his son how to grow, harvest, and transport their illicit crops.

A snake to die for—almost.