Exploring the Archetypes and Symbolism of Snakes
- Nick Carlson
- Mar 21
- 9 min read
Of all creatures that inhabit this planet, arguably none draws such widespread fear and derision across many different religions and cultures as the snake. Christian denominations assert Satan appeared to Adam and Eve in the form of a snake to tempt them into defying God, bringing death and original sin into the world. Jörmungandr, the World Serpent of Norse mythology, encircles the globe in an ouroboros, and him letting go of his tail signals the beginning of Ragnarök. Hindu theology casts the snake as a symbol of Kala: consumption, destruction, and the ravages of time. And in Greek mythology, snakes were associated with the underworld, either as its ill-tempered guardians, or adorning the bodies of vile monsters, such as the gorgons, the chimera, Cerberus, and the apocalyptic Typhon.
While there also exist positive connotations across these belief systems, the relationship between snakes and mankind has always been contentious. From ancient prehistory, our small mammalian ancestors learned to recognize and avoid long, smooth shapes, as contact with said long smooth shapes often resulted in death and devouring. As humans evolved, it became ingrained in the cultural subconscious to fear snakes and their devastating venom, especially in tropical or arid regions with bare feet and limited access to medical attention. And even today, snakebite accounts for between 80,000 and 140,000 deaths per year, the majority occurring in India, which contains the four species responsible for the most human fatalities: the common cobra, the common krait, the saw-scaled viper, and the Russell’s viper.
Even in countries with more developed healthcare and higher standards of living, ophidiophobia is still one of the most widely-reported phobias; approximately one-third of the population presents with a fear of snakes. For most people in these places, the fear rarely if ever finds an opportunity to manifest. A chance encounter in the garden, a sighting along a hiking trail, a random incursion in the house…these experiences, if they ever occur, almost always result in panic and flighty reactions from both parties involved, yet almost never result in significant injury.
As any naturalist would insist until they’re blue in the face, the fear of snakes ought to be unfounded. They’re just as much a part of the ecosystem as the “nonhazardous” birds and squirrels that make up the menagerie of daily life. They keep the populations of “vermin” animals in check. And when they do move into our backyards and homes, it’s ultimately because we humans chose to settle in their territories, not the other way around. Simply put, they serve a purpose, and they were there first. Coexistence is ultimately the most mutually beneficial compromise we should manage with these creatures. That, and understanding.
In parts of Appalachia, some Christian sects practice the ritual of “snake handling”, or manhandling venomous snakes and ingesting poison to demonstrate their faith in God’s ability to protect them, and their mastery over evil. They cite Scripture to support their beliefs: Luke 10:19 proclaims that God would bestow the faithful with the “power to tread on serpents” unharmed, and Paul the Apostle was bitten on the hand by a viper and felt no ill effects, according to Acts. While the practice is certainly controversial (and not absolute, as noted by the number of casualties and fatalities within these parishes), I believe there is a certain power in the handling of serpents, albeit not in the sense of dominion over Satan.
As I am not a professional in any sense of the word, venomous snakes are on my no-go list. Rattlesnakes and copperheads, the two types I’m most likely to encounter in my state, are always observed from a respectable distance. But the vast majority of snakes I do encounter – rat snakes, water snakes, racers – are nonvenomous and only really dangerous if you’re a mouse or a fledgling. So in these moments of opportunity, bravery, and learned context, I find myself going after them just to pick up and hold one. There are many in the naturalist community who would chide me for disturbing wildlife, and I respect and understand their outlooks. But the way I see it, I’m not disturbing them just for kicks, the same way kids might go out of their way to chase or injure animals. There is a validation of my understanding and respect for snakes by getting up close and handling them, feeling their slick dry scales, smelling their putrid musk that for some reason reminds me of marijuana, and watching their ever-flicking tongues taste the air. Many snakes have made their disapproval of me quite clear in the form of crescent-shaped wounds to my arm or hand that pained little but bled like hell. But snakebites in a way also validate the impressions I’ve nursed over the years: they’re only doing it out of self-defense, and when worst comes to worst, it doesn’t even hurt that much - something equivalent to a hard thump and a small prick, more surprising than painful.
I like to think I’m emulating one of my earliest idols, the late Steve Irwin, who routinely chased down snakes and showed them off for the cameras. I’m well aware I’m no Steve Irwin, nor will I ever be, but his mission to bring these reptiles to the light and expose them to a wider audience was a noble one. Any effort to quell people’s fear of snakes, to show them up close in their natural environment, that they’re just animals and are unworthy of condemnation, is worthwhile. And while I don’t have an international TV show, there have been moments in my life involving snakes where I felt more like Steve than anyone else.
In one instance, some friends and I were hiking up a mountain in late November. It was just before Thanksgiving, so the trails were more crowded than normal, and a warm spell had sent the temperature the day before up into the 70s. However, things had cooled down by the day we embarked, which is why I was unsurprised to find a rat snake lying nearly motionless in a sunny patch right off the trail. Most likely the heat of the prior day had encouraged it to venture from its hide, but the sudden cold snap had rendered it sluggish. Several hikers were passing it up and staring, making the occasional comment, but I stepped aside to loop a hand under its coils. It put up little resistance, but soon it was gently coiling around my arm (maybe spurned by my body heat?) and I was attracting a crowd, mainly consisting of little kids who were mesmerized by the snake. I explained to them what species it was, that it was nonvenomous, and that they were very useful for the ecosystem, all the while as it flicked its tongue and slithered about, as if emphasizing the point. I set it back in its sun patch and we all went on our way. It was a good day all around.
In another instance, I saw some neighbors gathered around a small Dekay’s brown snake in their driveway, muttering in fearful tones. I introduced myself and picked up the snake, barely seven inches long and half the width of a finger. The neighbors were in shock that I had so willingly handled the snake, saying that it was “poisonous” and that it was a baby, implying there were multiple little killers-in-the-making infesting their yard, along with its highly productive mother. As the snake undulated in the air, I explained that the species was nonvenomous and only ate slugs and worms, and that Dekay’s brown snakes actually did not get much bigger than the one I was showing. I was also keen to explain that this made it a benefactor, keeping their gardens free of pests that might damage their plants. However, the neighbors also made it clear that they did not want the snake on their property, despite my best efforts, and I had to compromise by moving it to another neighbor’s yard. While I’m sure I was unsuccessful in passing my viewpoints onto them, I also like to think the opportunity and willingness to teach was not lost on them. Besides, who knows what could have happened if I hadn’t shown up? They might still be standing in their driveway rooted in uncertainty. Or worse, they might have killed it.
A few years ago I was fishing at a local pond, often frequented by neighborhood kids looking to get their lines wet too. One day I found myself on a bank opposite a gaggle of four or five boys, and a commotion rose up on their end. Their laughter echoed across the pond, and I noticed them stomping on the ground. But then I saw a familiar long, smooth shape writhing at their feet, and my stomach sank.
I ran over to them and surmised that they must have foul-hooked a plain-bellied water snake while fishing, and with it tangled in their lure and line, concluded that killing it was the only valid course of action. Sadly, by the time I’d arrived it was too late. Its jaw hung open, its neck was limp and twisted, and blood oozed from its nose and scales. Only a brief twitch of its tail signified a last vestige of life.
I told them off for killing the snake and picked up its body, still reeking of musk, and procured a pair of pliers to extract the hooks from its flank. They told me the snake was venomous and that was why they had stomped on it, but I assured them it was not venomous, showing them the identifying signs of the species. I was also sure to insist that even being venomous is no reason to kill a snake. The mood had plummeted among the boys, but I was not angry with them. I knew they had acted rashly and made a mistake and were probably feeling guilty over it. Many of us, boys especially I feel, have mistreated wildlife at one point in our young lives for our amusement, including myself. Sometimes it takes years of growth and learning to develop a sense of empathy for animals. A few times it never happens, and the inevitable consequences are often followed by tearful declarations of “red flags” present in the offender’s childhood. And sometimes it just takes one paradigm moment to shock them into seeing things a different way. I hope this experience was their paradigm moment.
With the dead snake freed and their tackle saved, I deposited its body in the brush, and a few minutes later I proceeded to catch and show them a five-pound bass. The moment had continued, and it had born fruit. We were all in a better place after that.
At least, I hope that was the case.
I think back on these brief experiences and wonder truly just how much of an impact I had made. Obviously I never met the people involved again, so I cannot get that confirmation. But sometimes it’s not about changing people’s attitudes and behaviors…it’s about doing the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. In my opinion, it is an act of absolute good to attempt to alleviate other people’s ingrained fear of snakes, and books and TV documentaries can only go so far. It takes a very real and solid experience to instill a new perspective. I’m not asking everyone to go out and wrangle snakes, or to even intentionally expose themselves to them. But it is my wish that these stories at least present a reason to pause and reconsider our placement in the world, our relationship with nature, and the reasons why we think the way we do. This sort of mentality manifests in the two novels I have published through Temple Dark Books: Hell’s Gulf (2022), featuring a set of twisted, monstrous dolphins as minor antagonists, but with the ultimate message of how human beings’ misconceptions had twisted them into murderous parodies of themselves; and The God Tide (2023), where the protagonist is a nature lover and uses birds as a metaphor for his own spiritual journey, and as an opportunity for personal growth and learning that sometimes the best thing one can do for oneself is help others.
In a world where we very often feel at the mercy of higher powers, or forces beyond our control, sometimes the most meaningful impacts start at the lowest possible level: the individual. Politicking and voting can be impactful, yes, but what makes long-lasting experiences is those little, raw moments of exposure that stick with you and make you think back on them, even years down the line. In other words, kindness and adversity invoked for a good cause, and with a good heart, radiates outward from a single source and affects others in a very personal way that broader aspects simply cannot. In the best of cases, the radiation spreads, and change occurs on a small scale…which eventually works its way up, with effects you might not immediately identify, but are known and appreciated nonetheless. For me, handling snakes and showing them to curious onlookers is one way I accomplish this. Writing, obviously, is another.
It’s the least I can do as a person, but I like to think it helps in its own way.
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