Origin

Follow along with Deputy Editor Kayleigh Greig in her journey of inspiration, and find out if she catches the venomous snake or not. 

2010

It seemed like the entire facility had ceased work. Men in hi-vis vests paced in the foyer, burly arms folded over their chests. Their furrowed brows hid under a thin layer of grease, their stubbled mouths downturned. 

My mom, blonde curls cascading down her back, seemed as starkly contrasted as a daffodil in a graveyard. She grinned broadly, tongue sticking out slightly between her array of pearl white teeth as she tossed some joke to the director, visibly softening his tight shoulders. You'd never guess that she was nervous, heart hammering in her ribcage. 

I tiptoed in behind, enveloped by the sewerage stench that permeated the building and wafted over the headland on which it sat. 

A clipboard was shoved under our noses. 

"Sign here." We did, catching glimpses of words such as not liable and hazardous. Hard hats were plopped on our heads, mine comically too large for a seven-year-old. 

Then, we stepped into the elevator. It only went down. Scrawled beside the lowest number in thick black marker read, "HELL". Just above was "The Bat Cave". Mom and I shared a glance as the director hit that one, and we began our descent. His pen tapped at his clipboard. Perhaps he'd only brought it for moral support. Or as a shield.

We lurched to a stop and the doors groaned open, revealing a cavernous concrete tunnel, sides slicked with green algae. It seemed bored into the earth as if by a giant worm, each drip echoing from our end into the void that stretched before us. We were swallowed by fluorescent lighting; the colour drained from our complexion. 

Walking forward into the dimness, we soon passed offshoots. Faces looked up and stared at us, each filled with a cocktail of dread and hope. Could we save them? Behind the workers loomed monstrous machines, filtering the waters of the city, or so I assumed, given the facility’s name, Sydney Water. Personally, if I were them, I would have been far more afraid of those crunching cogs and groaning levers than what Mom and I were here to deal with.

The director was shuffling his feet now, glancing between each patch of shadow before taking another step. Finally, we reached an open doorway where the concrete path became an open grate. What was below must have been Hell, barely visible besides a reddish glow and a long drop down. But something else grabbed my attention.

“It’s there,” the director whispered, jabbing a finger in the direction of a desk. Beneath was a writhing mess of cables—blue, green, black, red. No, those last two weren’t cables. Coiled in the wires, its shimmering scales could have almost gone unnoticed, if not for the raised head and flickering tongue. The director backed away.

Wordlessly, I handed the hook and bag to my Mom. She stepped toward the red belly. 

This was nothing like the training day she had described, where the snake was plopped in an open field. This one was cornered, tangled and warm. Hot drafts billowed up from below, giving the reptile the body heat it needed to be active—and very quick. 

Mom tried to approach slowly, teasing its tail out with the hook, getting it tangled and then giving up to just use her fingers instead. Her head was down, focused on the task, unaware of what was happening.

“Mom, watch out!” I called, nervous to disturb her when she had warned me to keep clear, but unable to stop myself. “Its face is coming around the other way!”

She gasped, clearly appreciating the warning as she snatched her hand back. My fists unclenched. I had helped. 

The snake, distressed, made a break for it. Finally, Mom could use the tailing technique. Holding the hoop bag by her feet as a shield, she reached her hand over and grabbed its lower body. In one swift motion, she stepped forward, lifted the bag and dropped the snake in. Twist, twist, twist—she rotated the hoop handle to tightly close it, grabbed a clamp and snapped it shut over the coil. 

It was as if the room itself exhaled a sigh of relief. As we walked out, snake bag now safely in a locked box, the workers clapped. Their applause echoed through The Bat Cave, almost like the flapping of wings. It felt like my Mom was the pied piper, charming the danger away. 

We had done python rescues before, but this was something entirely different, where the consequences of getting it wrong couldn’t be solved by a Band-Aid, but by a trip to the hospital and a prayer. It was thrilling.

It may have been my Mom’s first venomous snake rescue, but the snake wasn’t the only one who got caught. I was hooked. If there was one thing I knew in that moment, it was that one day, I was going to be a venomous snake catcher. 

2021

This is it. I thought, checking my phone for the fifth time, making sure it really was today. Venomous Snake Catch & Release Course, read the event in my calendar, highlighted in red. I’d spent hours last night practicing with my Mom and some fake plastic snakes, getting used to the flow of the movements. 

“Keep your shield down when you step forward,” her voice still rang in my head. “Grab a third of the way down the body, not just the tip of the tail, or you’ll hurt them. And walk forward so they don’t swing back at you.” 

Dream-like, the moment arrived. We were standing in a circle, a trainer in the middle, bag in hand. He unclasped the clamp, unravelled the twist, and tipped out the snake. I walked forward, hoop in my left hand, hook in my right. The entire world narrowed to the two-metre patch of grass and the red belly curled up on it. My heartbeat was so loud it felt like I was underwater. I couldn’t hesitate. I was moving. My hand was on the snake. Its scales were warm beneath my palm. My limbs moved in a rhythm while I floated above my body. 

And then, I snapped back into myself. The bag lay before me, clamped shut, a bulge in the bottom, evidence of a venomous snake. 

Caught by me.