The Reptile Man of Gold Bar
The Reptile Man of Gold Bar
“This is an alligator snapping turtle—a snapper,” the man says. “Her name is Roxanne. She’s scared of you. That’s why she holds her mouth open, so you’ll be scared of her and leave her alone.”
Suddenly, the turtle relieves itself on the lunchroom floor. Pandemonium erupts. Kids scream. Teachers hush them. But the Reptile Man, with a gentle “Hey, guys,” calms the room and continues his lesson.
“I saved Roxanne from becoming soup,” he says. “Soup and sandwiches are a turtle’s biggest problems. We need to be careful not to take too much from nature.”
The Reptile Man—Scott Petersen—is on a one-man mission to save some of the world’s most misunderstood creatures and, by extension, to keep the world’s ecosystem in balance. He runs the Washington Serpentarium in Gold Bar, Wash., (pop. 2,000) and travels all over the West with his scaly companions.
The Serpentarium—or Reptile Zoo, as the sign outside proclaims—provides safe haven for dozens of snakes, iguanas, turtles, lizards, and alligators, some quite rare. It’s home to one of only a handful of albino alligators in captivity. Located on Route 2, one of the few roads that crosses the Cascade mountain range in Washington state, it attracts thousands of visitors every year.
Petersen’s journey to becoming the Reptile Man began as a boy, when he was first attracted to snakes. While growing up, he started breeding them. Eventually, he became a high school science teacher in California, where he would occasionally thrill his students with an impromptu visit from a member of his menagerie.
Then, one night when he was driving through the California desert, he had an epiphany: He would open a zoo, travel to school assemblies and corporate meetings, preaching the reptilian gospel. He recalls, “I turned in my resignation at school and started a month later.”
Wherever Petersen goes, his program is similar. He trots out a series of remarkable creatures—a beautifully colored iguana, a small alligator that does tricks, a huge python named “Baby”—and talks about their characteristics, their habitats, and their importance to the ecosystem.
One point he repeatedly emphasizes is that snakes are not the “aggressive, nasty creatures” people think they are. “They’re very shy and afraid of humans,” he says. “Even the world’s deadliest snakes are afraid of you.”
Once, during a junior high assembly, a snake was so desperate to escape that it crawled down Petersen’s pants.
“By the time I noticed it,” he recounts, “it was pretty hard to get it out with all those students laughing their heads off at me. I wear my belt a little tighter now.”
The Serpentarium is open 365 days a year, but Petersen’s schedule has him traveling a lot. He rarely turns in before midnight, but doesn’t mind the long hours.
“I’ve always loved nature,” he says. “It’s been a great source of happiness for me. To be able to convey that to children, to give them something to hold onto and see their reactions when I pull the animals out of the box—it’s very rewarding to me.”
And very educational for the kids.
“We have a newsletter that gets read by 50,000 people,” Petersen says, “so we can talk about environmental topics. People need to understand more about global warming and habitat destruction.”
But there’s another message the Reptile Man leaves with kids, and it’s no less important. At the conclusion of his presentation, when the students have stopped screaming and the animals are all safely back in their boxes, Petersen looks around the room and says softly:
“As you grow up, a lot of people are going to tell you that having a lot of money is the way to be happy. I don’t think that’s true,” he says.
“If you make the world a better place, that is the way to be happy.”
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