Last Sunday I officiated a memorial service for William H. Martin, better known as “Marty Martin, the snake guy.” A multitude gathered at Morgan’s Grove Park, including herpetologists from across the country who came to pay tribute to one of their own who was one of a kind.
Turns out there are a lot more herpetologists in the world than I ever imagined which means there are a lot more snakes in the world than I ever imagined. I didn’t know that there are more than 3,000 species of snakes. I didn’t know that only 600 are venomous and that, of those, only 200 are deadly. Or that snakes live on every continent but one: Antartica. Herpetology 101.
And by the way, nearly all snakes are shy and fear humans more than we fear them. In other words, they’d like us to leave them alone.
(No problem. I can definitely do that!)
But a few of us can’t.
For example, Marty.
Marty was smitten with snakes when he was just a child. He was the first person ever to discover a den of rattlers in the Bull Run Mountains. He was 13 years old.
Marty was a natural naturalist. He turned his passion into a career, spending most of his adult life looking for snakes in high and low places, counting them, tracking them, protecting them, but otherwise leaving them alone.
Marty looked after snakes. It’s what he did. And he was good at it.
He became a world expert on timber rattlers. He coauthored The Timber Rattlesnake: Life History, Distribution, Status, and Conservation Action Plan, a 450-page study.
Museums, universities, and environmental groups from around the world sought his advice. In 1999, he assisted Steve Irwin for a Crocodile Hunter episode featuring timber rattlers.
Marty turned 80 last December and kept on bushwhacking in the Appalachians. And then the unimaginable happened. He was smitten by a timber rattlesnake and died the next day.
Last Sunday we gathered to pay tribute to Marty’s bodacious life and noble work. But just as we were about to begin something happened.
Lightning flashed. Thunder clapped. A ferocious storm rolled slowly over the pavilion. Rain pounded the roof. Wind bent trees. We waited together in silence. And waited.
The rain stopped.
The wind subsided.
The sun shone.
Mother Nature had announced her presence.
This is my “ambassador of rattlesnakes”!
Now you may begin.
* * *
To learn more about Marty’s work, see Ed Zahniser’s Terrain.com magazine piece, Ambassador of Rattlesnakes
Wow, rest in peace. I recognized him on his public access snake show because of the familiarity of small town faces. Then I saw him in the Meck one night and was like “snake man!” and we struck up a long conversation. Such a friendly, bright person.
Nature is amazing – thank you.
I had the good fortune to spend a few minutes with Marty the week before he died. As usual, I asked about the snakes. “I’m not seeing any,” he grumbled. “It’s been too hot.”
Since it was nearly August, I offered feeble encouragement, “It’s coming up on mating season.” What followed was a brief seminar in timber rattler behavior. Marty described how females sketch a pheromone circumference around their rookery homes. “When it gets hot like this they stay in the den,” he said.
I never went snake hunting with Marty, in spite of a standing invitation. In one sense I now regret it, but in another, I knew I couldn’t contribute anything to his research and therefore felt I would be a liability, which wasn’t the way he saw it. Though he never phrased it this way, I knew what Marty thought, ‘as the snakes go, so go we humans.’
He was one tough, scrapy guy with a heart of gold. I always felt he was indestructible.
Marty “the snake guy”. A truly amazing man, who cherished and respected all of nature; who was respected & sought after for his immense knowledge, and who lived and died truly loving what he did.
A heart of gold; a fierce defender…
Rest In Peace, brother.🙏🏼
Thanks so much for this tribute to a wonderful man, naturalist and West Virginia character. May we all pursue our passions to their logical ends.
I never saw, met, nor knew of this special local hero — one of Nature’s Warriors. I’m wondering if Marty didn’t think this last bite that took him to the hereafter wasn’t just a fitting way to go? At the end, it became a true symbiotic relationship and I think that’s a beautiful thing. Thank you and all readers who paid gracious homage to this illustrious — and important — man. The Snake Guy — that’s perfect!
Thank you for this tribute to Marty. I’m sorry I missed his memorial. I thought it was today. Good thing it wasn’t because the sun is unlikely to show its face today. What a wonderful fanfare Mother Nature gave to start the memorial service. Another light has gone out of our great diadem of friends.
I read Ed’s article too. What a wonderful story, and a wonderful man! Nice to be reminded that life is not all about politics, after all!
Ah, Marty told me a couple months ago he’d had a snake bite that put him in the hospital. So I guess this was a more recent bite.I went out two days—two long days, if you knew Marty’s symbiosis with woodlands!—a few years ago, and wrote it up but can’t recall for what publication now. Ah, yes, it was online in Terrain, it was titled “Ambassador for Rattlesnakes” and maybe ran in the local Observer newspaper? Can’t recall.
Here’s a snippet. Hope it’s not too long for a blog post:
I first (and last) ate rattlesnake meat in 1976 just outside Shenandoah National Park, at the welcoming, rustic home of Darwin and Eileen Lambert. Darwin was the first employee of the national park, which was created from private lands—including cutover forests—in the 1930s. He knew the park’s plants and animals intimately. Our wild foods foraging group paid the Lamberts a visit. Darwin had found the road-killed rattlesnake near their house and cooked and shared it with us, celebrating the spirit of gatherers if not hunters.
Imagine a protein course consisting of hardy backbone with all white meat. We could have been spine surgeons. My faulty imagination pictured snake skeletal structure more like a trout’s, with many ribs curling off the backbone. On our plates sat clunky snake vertebrae far too like those on the chart at my doctor’s office. The meat tasted like a delicious cliché—like chicken, extreme white-meat chicken. Shredded and sweetened it might mimic crabmeat.
In the field now with Martin, I wonder: Did I help eat a snake from his study populations? He began his rattlesnake field studies in Shenandoah National Park in 1973 as a backcountry patrol ranger. —Ed Zahniser
Was talking with Marty about turtles just a couple of days before his untimely departure from this world. The reality still hasn’t sunk in. I thought he’d be here forever.