Arizona's alligator whisperer

On a warm night along a lonely highway, Russ Johnson believed himself to be lucky indeed.

Few would be as excited seeing a rattlesnake stretched across the asphalt, especially with three children in the car. While other motorists would press the gas and wait for the satisfying "thump-thump" of safety, Johnson pulled to the side of the road and asked everyone to sit tight.

A few weeks before this night in the late spring of 1995, Johnson had volunteered for a small, well-meaning reptile rescue dedicated to saving creatures most people consider abhorrent. He'd been training for a moment just like this.

Gathering his snake-getting tongs and a 5-gallon bucket from the trunk, Johnson approached the creature carefully.

Several minutes later, Johnson dumped the 4-foot Western Diamondback rattlesnake into the desert, his heart pounding with exhilaration, and slightly tempered by relief.

It was the first time he'd handled a deadly snake in the wild. It would hardly be the last.

Since then, Johnson has encountered — and more often sought out — hundreds of creatures that could do him a lot of damage with a single bite.

A handful have come close to killing him, like the rattler that sank a fang into his finger joint, pumping venom for several seconds before Johnson hurled the snake across the garage. A large dose of antivenin saved his life, though his hand remained red, swollen and painful for weeks. He's also staved off numerous alligators and crocodiles with his ever-present stick.

Yet Johnson returns for more, thankful to rescue creatures that would bite, or tear, or eat the hand feeding them.

Johnson, 62, is president of the Phoenix Herpetological Society, a non-profit run by three dedicated souls (with a handful of full-time employees and volunteers) dedicated to the rescue and preservation of scaly, and unnerving, creatures near the top of the food chain.

His life among predators began with a chance encounter with a harmless king snake with whom he'd share his boyhood. A preoccupation with snakes evolved into a passion and led to him volunteering in 1995 to remove venomous snakes when called by panicked homeowners. That passion became a mission when, in 2000, he co-founded the group committed to rescue and preservation of all kinds of reptiles.

Johnson now spends eight hours or more a day among some of the world's most intimidating animals that are just on the other side of a chain-link fence or a thin pane of glass. Although crocodiles, alligators and venomous snakes constitute a minority of the roughly 1,700 creatures on the 21/2-acre compound in north Scottsdale, they take up most of his attention.

Johnson and curator/compound owner Daniel Marchand spend most of their day caring for reptiles that are no longer fit for habitats natural (wetlands) or unnatural (swimming pools).

About half of the society's inhabitants were confiscated by Arizona Game and Fish, which has found deadly snakes and gators in the oddest places. The rest were rescued from zoos, museums and tourist attractions that were either shut down or had too many creatures to care for.

Most people couldn't care less what happens to these animals, Johnson said. "They're not lovable. Most people think they're aggressive and want to do us harm. We're trying to show that's the furthest thing from the truth."

Feeding time

Each morning, after checking on the two gators in the garage and the pair of pythons in the reptile room, Russ Johnson gets into his car for the 30-minute drive to PHS.

Once past the strip malls and subdivisions, he takes a right onto a two-lane road into the desert, the pavement falling and rising with the terrain. In a half mile, he turns right onto a narrow path with a street sign but no other evidence of routine maintenance.

He turns into the second house on the left, which stands out only for the pair of security gates blocking access.

The metal gate slides open after he punches in his security code, allowing him access to a kingdom filled with subjects happy to remind him who's boss.

This particular day happened to be a Friday, the best day of the week if you're an alligator or crocodile at the compound because it's time for the weekly feeding. Throughout the morning, Johnson and Marchand went pen to pen to pen, tossing in whole chickens (purchased), hunks of steak (donated) and liver from elk (shot).

Internal organs were a special treat.

"Entrails are vitamins and minerals," Johnson said. "It's a very important part of their diet."

With a bucket of meat in one hand and 18-inch-long tongs in the other, Johnson calmly entered each pen as if he were not considered potential prey.

The gators, Johnson said, are mostly teddy bears, save for Clem, a 500-pound, ill-tempered behemoth that Johnson and Marchand captured at a northwest Arizona ranch more than eight years ago. Even Clem lightened up on feeding day, moving just enough to snag a hunk or two of meat.

But among the much more unpredictable crocodiles, Johnson was on his toes, which is why he still has 10 of them. Feeding crocodiles is a two-man operation, and reasons were made clear shortly after Johnson stepped into a pen containing three crocs recently rescued from Florida.

One female turned on another, trying to snag the chicken the other gripped in its teeth. Amid a flurry of snapping jaws and splashing water, Johnson leaned forward and thrust his tongs between the two, screaming at them to stop.

The fight drew the attention of the much larger and more aggressive male, who surfaced from the rear pond and advanced.

"Russ, the male's noticed; time to get out," Marchand said, entering with his stick in attack position (point down and ready to poke).

The females separated, and the instigator turned to eye Johnson before stepping toward him.

As if choreographed, Marchand thrust himself into the narrowing space between Johnson and the croc. Marchand jabbed the stick into the croc's mouth, his precision aim honed over many years of reptile wrangling. He forcefully pushed on the croc's tongue, forcing the creature to stop. Johnson hustled out of the pen, Marchand right behind him.

The scene was so common, it wasn't even worth talking about as they headed to the next pen.

Johnson never thought he'd oversee dozens of alligators and crocodiles when, 14 years ago, he proposed a reptile sanctuary. At the time, his only goal was starting an educational outreach so students could see rattlers and other venomous snakes were fascinating and, while not friendly, had very little interest in mingling with humans.

But as he learned of the many alligators and crocodiles confiscated in Arizona — and their unfortunate fate — the mission evolved with each pond and pen built. Desert tortoises and Galapagos turtles also joined the mix and outnumber all other creatures nearly 10-1.

PHS has made a name for itself as an alligator and crocodile rescue. It is frequently called upon to rescue alligators and crocodiles as far away as Florida. It's also breeding its residents when zoos request a particular species.

But if you were to follow the tale back to its origins, you would find a curious child, a strange creature and a jumpy mother.

Smitten by snakes

It wriggled just a bit, capturing the young boy's attention and soon, his fascination.

A very excited 4-year-old Russ Johnson plucked the squirmy thing from the base of the apple tree behind his Southern California home, enjoying the way it wriggled in his hand.

He rushed inside to show his mom, never realizing until that moment she was capable of leaping onto the kitchen counter in a single bound.

Once his mom finished screaming at him to get rid of it, Johnson did what any 4-year-old would do. He waited until his father got home.

Soon, Dad built a cage, and for the next 12 years, Sammy the king snake was beloved by father and son, if barely tolerated by mom.

"I like to say Sammy got me through school," Johnson said. "My reports on reptiles and snakes always earned me my best grades. I put a lot of effort into them and not much effort into anything else."

After graduating from high school in 1970, Johnson moved to, and fell in love with, Flagstaff. With two years at Northern Arizona University under his belt and no money in his wallet, Johnson dropped out and worked in sales for various companies through the 1970s.

Jobs came and went, but the passion for snakes remained. He purchased a python and fed it mice he trapped in nearby fields; anyone opening his freezer found more frozen mice than frozen dinners.

A marriage, three kids and a divorce followed. In the meantime, Johnson started a trucking company and in 1985 moved to Phoenix to work at its busiest hub. He sold the successful business in 1994, retiring at the age of 42.

A year later, Rosie Johnson, his second wife, ordered him to find a hobby, having no idea what she'd just encouraged.

"I knew he liked snakes," she said. "I never thought I'd have a garage full of rattlesnakes at some point."

At the same time his wife urged him to find something to do, Johnson stumbled across a story about a reptile club that needed snake-removal volunteers.

Perfect.

A few months later, he got his first call. In midsummer 1995, he knocked on the door of a north Scottsdale home. The woman eyed him suspiciously and asked him if he had protection.

Johnson, wearing shorts and T-shirt, answered quickly. "What protection? We're not having sex."

The woman remained on the porch as she pointed to the spot she'd seen the snake. Johnson approached and noticed the coiled creature under a bush before it started to rattle. He also heard a door slam shut and a lock snap into place.

During his first year with the club, Johnson fetched about 400 snakes. The second year, he nabbed 475. He received the majority of calls as the club's only volunteer without a full-time job. Soon he persuaded Rosie to join him, and on weekends they'd field a dozen calls together.

"We called it date night," Johnson recalled. "Good times together."

As the removals piled up, so did Johnson's desire to do more. He knew for every call he received, another homeowner probably was solving the problem with a shovel or rake, if not a shotgun.

The reptile-club members resisted suggestions to expand operations into educational outreach, but in 2000, Johnson met two like-minded souls in Marchand and his significant other, Debbie Gibson, 56.

Gibson had been around animals all her life, though snakes occupied a low rung of her personal ladder of lovability. At least until she learned more about the various species.

"Snakes aren't cute," she said. "But it's not about what they look like. They're animals. They suffer pain. They don't deserve death for being in the wrong place."

Marchand was so enthusiastic about Johnson's idea to bring snakes to schools, he volunteered his home as a reptile sanctuary. Before 2000 was over, the two men built a Quonset hut to house rescued reptiles, many of them suitable for children (under strict supervision, of course, as hundreds of children soon would be visiting as part of educational tours).

The newly formed Phoenix Herpetological Society also worked with Arizona Game and Fish, taking venomous and otherwise exotic reptiles seized from owners.

Johnson, meanwhile, had built his own substantial collection of rattlesnakes, keeping one of each species he rescued. They lived the good life in Johnson's climate-controlled garage, where they feasted like kings on store-bought rats.

And one day, a member of Johnson's well-kept menagerie struck back, for snakes know nothing of gratitude.

Bitten by snakes

It wasn't so much the bite that bothered Johnson. He blamed himself for putting his hand within striking distance.

But he was pretty upset that one of the rattler's fangs pierced the middle joint of his middle finger and was stuck there, pumping in enough venom to kill a small mammal.

It was August 2001 and, after a lifetime around snakes, odds had finally caught up with him, as had a rattlesnake.

Johnson had already agitated the creature by snaking a metal probe up a very sensitive area. Johnson and his son Phil where checking for the snake's sex, an uncomfortable process for all involved.

"Snakes don't like to be sexed, trust me," Johnson said.

As Johnson was about to release the snake from a protective tube, he noticed a flap of skin covering one of its eyes. Allowing the snake to emerge just enough to remove the "eye cap," Johnson realized too late the hand holding the tube was within reach.

The snake pounced, clamping onto Johnson's middle finger. One of its fangs lodged in the middle joint, pumping venom as Johnson tried to pull it free. Eight to 10 seconds passed before a desperate Johnson tossed fate to the winds and the snake across the garage when he pitched his arm quickly forward.

Johnson spent the next five days in Scottsdale Healthcare Shea Medical Center, four of them in intensive care. A photo of the injury, showing a swollen hand with angry red welt along the middle finger, is prominently displayed at PHS as a reminder and a warning to all who visit.

Yet rattlesnakes remained residents of the Johnson's home until he was bitten again in 2008, resulting in another hospital stint. Rosie convinced her husband it was time to say goodbye to the potentially lethal occupants.

"I reminded him he had kids and grandkids, a family that counted on him," she said. "He was not happy at all and sulked for a while, but he got rid of them."

Johnson's home is venom-free, but his life is not. Several times a day, he uses his security card to be among some of the world's deadliest creatures.

At the end of the narrow aisle lined with glass cages holding snakes that could kill you with one bite, is a large red button on the wall at eye level. The red-lettered sign above says, "In case of emergency press red button."

In a room featuring eight of the world's 10 deadliest venomous snakes, the most likely emergency is that of a bite. One press of the button, Johnson said, alerts a 911 operator as well as the PHS front office.

"Help is on the way as soon as you hit it," Johnson said. There is just one hitch.

The nearest antivenin for most of the exotic snakes — including the small Inland Taipan, considered the most venomous snake in the world — is in San Diego, at least three hours away.

"But even if you're bitten by the Taipan, you've got 12 to 18 hours before you're dead," Johnson said. "Plenty of time. But as I've told everyone here, don't worry about surviving because if you're bitten, I'll kill you."

Each cage, which resembles an aquarium with doors, is secured with a combination lock. Employees who work alone must wear around their necks a life-alert button that performs the same task as the bright-red button on the wall. And only a few people have access to the snakes, a privilege earned though training and seniority.

Rarely, accidents do happen.

Less than two years ago, Johnson said, a cobra slithered out of its cage during feeding or cleaning. The snake had curled its tail around wire shelving. Johnson used tongs to grip the cobra a few inches below its head while he unwrapped its tail from the shelving.

"At any point, that cobra could have struck my hand," Johnson said. "The key was to remain calm and go slowly, making sure I didn't threaten it. It was the closest call I've ever had."

His ability to summon calm in the most stressful situations has been a key to Johnson's continued survival, and relative good health, amid venomous creatures.

And that ability was particularly handy when PHS agreed to house alligators and crocodiles.

Arizona Game and Fish often came across the non-native species, which were not allowed in the hands (or tubs) of private owners. Without a sanctuary, Johnson said, gators and crocs often faced euthanasia.

In 2003, Game and Fish asked PHS to consider taking a pair of recently confiscated gators. Within a few days, Johnson and Marchand had a pen and tiled pond ready for Charlie and Lucy, who still live there after 11 years.

PHS grew pen by pen, and soon was accepting other homeless reptiles, including lizards, desert tortoises and Galapagos turtles. In 2008, PHS received a zoo license and soon launched breeding programs for species in need at other zoos.

At one point, the compound was home to 74 alligators and crocodiles. Typically, there are 40 to 50 in residence.

Several times a year, Johnson and Marchand receive calls to rescue gators and crocs in need. In June, the two were in Florida traipsing through muddy ponds where, somewhere, three alligators lurked.

They first spotted the male, the aggressive gator quickly emerging to challenge the interlopers, who slipped a noose around his neck. It took hours to secure the 8-foot gator into a corrugated plastic tube used for transport.

The two females remained hidden, leaving just one option.

Provoke them.

Johnson prowled knee-deep in water so muddy it was impossible to see anything. He slapped at the surface with a 10-foot pole, yearning for an attack — and prepared to dodge in a split second.

After an 11-hour day, the three gators rested in plastic tubes in the back of a box truck for the two-day drive to Phoenix.

Summoned to save

Other rescues have been much easier. About three years ago, Phoenix police called Johnson and Marchand to contain two gators discovered during a drug bust. The "gator gitters," as officers greeted the two, also found a sickly crocodile that police had overlooked.

Another call summoned Johnson to Maryvale, where he and Marchand captured two gators from a muddy and overgrown backyard. Neighbors reported the gators, Johnson said, despite a tall fence the owner had installed to keep his exotic creatures concealed.

"People get these guys when they're small, as if they're pets," Johnson said. "As if they're not going to be 6 feet long someday and no longer fit in the tub."

But in the annals of gator-getting, Clem is king. In 2005, Johnson and Marchand arrived in Pakoon Springs to locate, trap and remove a beast many thought mythical. It took the pair two weeks to find and corral Clem, resulting in a story worthy of passing along to generations.

Clem remains one of the most popular residents among visitors. True to Johnson's vision, thousands of students tour PHS every year, more than 5,000 during the 2013-14 school year. PHS staff members also made 119 school visits, offering thousands more students hands-on experience with non-venemous snakes and lizards.

The educational outreach suffered a blow two years ago, when Tuesday, the friendly gator, passed away. Johnson often loaded Tuesday into the back of the van without bothering to tape her jaws shut, doing so only when he arrived at school.

"She was the sweetest thing," Johnson said. "You could pet her, swim with her. There were a lot of tears around here when she died."

Knowing he could never replace Tuesday, Johnson is grooming two gators to assume school-visit duties.

Savannah and Tupelo, each 3 years old, live with the Johnsons in the couple's large Scottsdale home. When the gators were younger, they would lie on blankets in the living room and watch TV with Russ and Rosie, who'd lean over and pet them every now and then.

Having outgrown indoor privileges, the two house gators are limited to the climate-controlled garage and the pool. Russ often swims with the pair, as does his 7-year-old grandson; their jaws are taped when he's around.

Johnson knows he is among the few Americans with alligator roommates, but there is a method to what some may perceive as madness. Johnson is grooming Savannah and Tupelo to become accustomed to people, so one or both will be suitable for school visits.

"This is all about socialization," he said. "They more they're around people, the better they'll behave. So far it's gone very well. They're pretty docile — for alligators."

That last part is important. Johnson never loses sight that they are wild animals, and you have to always be careful around them.

Few neighbors in his Scottsdale gated community know about Tupelo and Savannah, and those who know of them haven't complained.

Not that they could do anything about it anyway. Johnson said he has the necessary owner permits, and before moving in, he carefully read the HOA rules and regulations.

"They address dogs and cats, limiting how many you can own," he said with a smile. "But there's nothing about alligators or other reptiles."