On December 21, a friend of mine died unexpectedly, and at age 63 (a few years younger than me) it was far too soon for Mark’s span of years to be up. I had just sent him what I apologetically called an “e-card” with a Christmas-y juniper tree and holiday caption, and he sent me one of the funny cards he always sent, showing a nose-less snowman sifting through the carrot bin in the grocery store with the caption, “Right in the middle of the produce aisle, Frosty gets caught picking his nose.” Inside, he wished us a great holiday, a better 2018, and he wrote, “Maybe we can coordinate our herping schedules!” That’s how our friendship worked, long distance messages and a perennial hope to get together again out in the Big Bend or maybe the Big Thicket. We spent too little time in the field together, but we enjoyed each other’s company and our membership in a particular “tribe” of naturalists.
We both shared the view that finding snakes was great, but being out in the Big Bend, or in a thousand other places where natural communities of plants and animals survived relatively undisturbed by humans, was enough. Neither of us were biologists by trade, but we trained ourselves as best we could with dozens of field guides, volumes of natural history essays and manuscripts, and by experiencing wildlife and wild places firsthand. For us, the classics of literature were written by Conant, Klauber, Greene, Kauffeld, and others like Aldo Leopold and Edward Abbey.
I can name any number of others who are brothers and sisters of that tribe. They are friends who share days and nights in the field together, breathing in the magic, wading through its waters, parting its grasses, and seeing a little of how it all works together. That is a bond as powerful in its own way as a family. It is our tribe; we have been to the Holy Land together. (I borrow that figure of speech from a quote attributed to John Muir. He was talking about how a good walk in nature should be unhurried, saying “Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently.”) It’s not that being in the field is a religion, but that wild places capture something that goes beyond the science of ecology or herpetology or other “-ologies,” and speaks to us in some spiritual way.
Mark Brown was a designer in the engineering field, and you can thank him for the safety of some of the bridges that you cross. Like many of us in our tribe, he spent much of a lifetime educating himself in natural history, herpetology, and ecology, and like many of us, being in the field was his vacation, his refuge, his pilgrimage. (He had other refuges, and they involved such things as muscle cars, racing, and music. The latter was another strong source of connection for us.) He also kept a variety of herps successfully, and learned a great deal about the husbandry and behavior of several favorite rattlesnake species. Losing Mark means losing a significant repository of information about herpetoculture, as well as field herpetology in Ohio where he spent some of his early years, and certainly in his beloved Big Bend.
Mark was a smart guy, a generous and kind man, and a good friend, even if you didn’t see him all the time. He provided a light in this world, one of many sources of light and goodness. We will miss him.