True Story Of Flying Snakes While On A Call Fishing 😉

You spend 34 years as a firefighter, you think you’ve seen it all. Fires that scorch your eyebrows off, car wrecks that twist metal like tinfoil, medical calls that’ll test your stomach. And yeah, I’ve been the guy on the ladder coaxing a spooked cat from a tree. But what nobody ever talks about is the sheer volume of snake calls. Especially working up on Mulholland Drive.

I’d bet my pension I’ve been on a thousand snake calls in my career. I’ve had standoffs with six-foot diamondbacks that’d make your blood run cold (that stories next if you want to hear it). But the one that still has me gasping for air years later? That was a masterclass. See, at my old station, I had two reputations: I was the go-to snake wrangler with my partner Gib, and I was a master fisherman. And one night in July, I made the cast of a lifetime and hooked a couple of prize-winning suckers.

It was a classic L.A. evening. The Valley had been an oven all day, and a cool breeze was finally rolling in—prime time for a big, grumpy reptile to go looking for a drink. The bell rang long around 10 p.m.: snake in a yard.

Most of the crew groaned. I just smiled. Captain knew the drill. Instead of rolling the whole engine company, he’d let me and my partner (Gib was off this shift)—let’s call him Fern —take the "plug buggy," that old Hummer we used for hydrant checks and small brush fires. We grabbed the snake tongs and a red snake bag and headed out.

We cruised down a winding street that backed right up into the dry hills. Snake paradise. We hadn't even cut the engine before the homeowners—we’ll call them the Stevensons—came scrambling out of their front door like it was on fire.

They were a sight. Jumping up and down, waving their arms like they were swatting at an invisible hornet's nest. "Hurry! It's a monster! It's in the back!" the man yelped, his eyes wide as dinner plates.

I gave 'em my best calm-fireman smile. "We got this, folks. Just stay right here." I grabbed my gear, and with Fern following, I rounded the side of the house, eyes scanning the ground. You learn quick that where there's one, there's often a friend.

Then I saw it. Their backyard was this perfect, manicured rectangle of plush green grass, like a putting green. And right in the center, stretched out like he was paying the mortgage, was a dandy. A Pacific Western Rattler, thick as my wrist and just enjoying the cool grass.

Fern let out a low whistle. "Dang, Bill. That is a big one. Got some mileage on him." I glanced back. The Stevensons had pressed themselves against the stucco of their house so hard I figured we'd be coming back later to power-wash their silhouettes out of the wall.

This was routine. A slow, steady approach. The snake saw me, gave a half-hearted shake of its tail—a good ten buttons on that rattle—but was too comfortable to get truly nasty. In one smooth motion, I pinned its head, lifted it, and lowered the whole, writhing length of him into the red snake bag. I cinched the top. "Easy there, buddy. You're just getting a free ride."

The Stevensons, seeing the threat was contained, crept closer, a mixture of awe and residual terror on their faces.

"That's incredible!" Mrs. Stevenson breathed. "Thank you so much! We were so scared!"

"Just part of the job, ma'am," I said, playing it cool.

Then the husband piped up, his face twisting from relief into pure indignation. "Yeah, well, it's bullshit is what it is! We just spent thirty thousand dollars to snake-proof this entire backyard!"

My head snapped back like a Pez dispenser. I had to do a double-take. "Thirty thousand? On what?"

"Electric fencing!" he said, gesturing vaguely at the perimeter of his massive back yard. "Special underground stuff! Guaranteed to keep them out!"

My God. First off, people should never have that much money to throw away (snake fences can work if done right, think they missed something). Second, I was not about to let this slide. Remember, it's 10 o'clock at night. My brain, my partner Fern, and a bag containing a very annoyed rattlesnake were all present. The conditions were perfect.

I turned and looked right at them, my face the picture of grave seriousness. "Do you know how snakes really get into people's yards?"

Fern and the couple all looked at me, puzzled. "They... crawl?" Fern offered.

I shook my head slowly, solemnly. "Nope. They get Ubered in."

You could have heard a pin drop on that plush grass.

"Ubered?" the wife whispered.

"Yep," I said, my voice low and conspiratorial. "In the early morning and late evening, snakes come out and lay on the sidewalk or a dirt path. They wait for a bird to come down and pick them up. As the bird flies, the snake looks down, scoping out places it wants to go. When it spots a good one—like a nice, lush backyard—it bites the bird's leg. The bird yelps, drops the snake right where it wants to go. Just like an Uber."

I shit you not. Fern and both of the Stevensons instantly tilted their heads back and stared up into the pitch-black night sky. The wife let out a little gasp, threw her hands over her head, and made a bee-line for the back door. The husband looked up, then at me, his mouth agape.

Before he could form a word, I hit him with the finish. "I'd call those fence people first thing tomorrow. Get your money back." I glanced at Fern. Yep. He was still scanning the heavens for incoming serpentine air traffic.

I turned, bag in hand, and headed back to the Hummer. Fern followed, still occasionally glancing upward. We drove in near silence to our standard drop-off spot on dirt Mulholland. I let the big fella go, and he slithered off without so much as a thank-you.

The whole ride back to the station, Fern was quiet, pensive. I just kept my mouth shut. We got back, I put the engine in service, logged the run, and hit the rack. It had been a long, hot day, and I was out cold.

Around 1 a.m., I got the creepiest feeling. I literally opened my eyes, and Fern was standing over my bed, backlit by the hall light, just staring down at me. He scared the living crap out of me.

I jolted up. "What? Did I miss a run?"

He shook his head, his face etched with profound confusion. "Nah, man. Hey… is that true? What you said about the snake Uber? Do they… do they really catch rides with birds?"

I couldn't hold it anymore. I snorted, then a chuckle escaped, then I about laughed out loud. "No, you fucker! I was just fucking with all of you!"

The look on his face was a mixture of sheer relief and homicidal rage. I think he was ready to sock me in the throat. I spent the next two hours laughing myself to sleep, and let me tell you, it was the worst night's sleep that didn't involve getting up four times after midnight for another call.

To this day, I bet the Stevensons still look up at the sky, waiting for the rare sight of a snake getting a lift from a Bird Uber. As for Fern, I know for a fact he doesn't tell that story; people might think he's a few bricks short of a load for falling for it.

But for me? It goes down as the time I made one perfect cast and landed a whopper of a tale, hooking three suckers with one line I pulled straight out of my ass.

…Or did I? I mean, have you ever seen a bird flying with a snake? Makes you think, doesn't it?

The Retired Guy......