The year was 1966. My Aunt Nancy Bivens, along with my grandma and grandpa, took a road trip from Todd County, Kentucky, to Oklahoma to visit my grandpa’s brother. One warm, sunny afternoon, they decided to enjoy a peaceful picnic down by the river. After driving for a couple of hours along a dusty, narrow two-track road, they found a quiet, shady spot and laid out all the fixings for a proper country meal.
Curious and carefree, Aunt Nancy wandered down the hill toward the riverbank to skip rocks. As she was making her way back up, she suddenly felt a sharp jab in her ankle—like a briar had pricked her. But when she looked down, her heart skipped a beat. Two small, distinct puncture marks stared back at her from her skin.
She calmly but quickly walked back to her mother and said, “I’m not sure, but I think I just got snake bit. I didn’t see the snake, though.” Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, a fiery pain began shooting up her leg.
The men raced down to the river, and sure enough—coiled near the edge—was a thick, mean-looking water moccasin. One of them grabbed a stick and killed it right then and there.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. They were out in the middle of nowhere. In a panic, they loaded her into the truck and tore down the bumpy road toward the nearest town. When they finally arrived, the small-town clinic didn’t have any antivenom for a cottonmouth bite. Without hesitation, they turned around and sped toward Tulsa. It was a desperate, white-knuckle drive, but the hospital there finally had what she needed.
Still, the bite took its toll. The doctors had the antivenom, but even then, things didn’t look good. Her leg swelled alarmingly—she later said it grew as big as her waist and turned a deep, sickening black.
For months, she battled through the pain, the swelling, and the sickness. It was a long, frightening recovery, but somehow, she pulled through. As a 5 year old kid I thought it was so cool to know someone bit by a poisonous snake never knowing I would have my turn one day
Fast forward 52 years to 2018
I had arrived early in the day at a ranch in Texas to scout out a spot for the opening of our fishing TV show. I was alone, so I drove over to the neighboring ranch to check out their beautiful lodge—it looked like the perfect backdrop.
While I was there, I struck up a conversation with the manager. I’d already heard the stories, but I asked him anyway, “Isn’t this the place where Chris Kyle, the Navy SEAL, was killed?” He nodded and said, “Yep. Hop in—I’ll take you down to the gun range and show you where it happened.”
After a five minute drive, I was standing there on that stretch of dirt where Chris Kyle, one of America’s most legendary warriors, drew his final breath—it was something else entirely. I’d seen it on the news, watched it in documentaries, and sat through the movie. But being there in person, feeling the stillness settle over that spot, gave me chills. The quiet held weight, it felt like the air itself was heavy with his memory.
Satisfied that the lodge’s front porch—framed by tall, weathered lodgepole pines—was the perfect spot to kick off our show with the hosts before hitting the lake at sunrise, I headed back down the dusty road to the ranch house where we were staying. Not long after I settled in, the crew started showing up—trucks rumbling in, doors swinging open, voices talking. One of the boys fired up the grill and tossed on some thick T-bones while we unpacked cases, laid out cameras, checked audio, cleaned lenses, checked out the drone propellers and made sure every battery was topped off.
Later that evening, we gathered up on that big ol’ porch—wide enough to park a truck on—telling stories, laughing loud, and sipping a few cold beers. The air was warm, the stars were just starting to show, and for a while, it felt like nothing else mattered. Just a bunch of guys enjoying the night, takin’ it easy under the Texas sky.
When it was time to turn in, I headed down the long hallway toward my bedroom. That’s when I saw it—right there on the floor, lit up by the hallway light—was a rattlesnake. I hollered down the hall, “Hey boys! There’s a rattlesnake in here!”
While they were making their way over, I figured I’d just catch it myself. I used to collect snakes as a kid, so I didn’t think twice. But this time, I made one crucial mistake—I grabbed him too far behind the head. That gave him just enough room to twist around and tag me with one fang, right on the finger.
I yanked open the door and flung him outside, then told the boys to tie some fishing line around my finger while I started sucking on the wound—just like I’d seen in the western movies.
One of the guys and I jumped in the pickup and headed straight for the hospital in Stephenville, Texas—about an hour away. By the time we got there, I already knew I was gonna be all right, and the whole thing was turning out to be more of a hassle than a tragedy—though my finger was swelling up pretty good.
I told the doc not to give me any antivenom because I had a show to produce the next day, and I couldn’t afford to be groggy or slowed down. I stayed in the hospital into the early morning hours, then left with a swollen finger the size of a sausage and instructions to come back if it got any worse.
Luckily, I got off easy. My finger hurt like heck for a few days, but the swelling finally went down and that was that.
My aunt, though—she wasn’t so lucky. Her snakebite kept her down for several miserable months. Compared to her, I was the lucky one.