Remembering Dr. Joe Collins

“Cheers.”

That was the last words I heard from Dr. Joe Collins, his familiar greeting or signature sign-off.

He had stopped by while his lovely wife, Suzanne, and mother-in-law, simply “Mom,” were shopping for groceries and other supplies.

Dr. Collins wasn’t big on shopping, so he would sidle over to the newspaper office and set a spell. It was one of the signature joys of every winter.

When he walked through that door, with that smile lighting the room, the gleam of eye that seemed a portal to his soul, somehow things were simply better.

And whether I was on deadline or not I would sit down with Dr. Collins – could never bring me to any other greeting but Dr. Collins – and we would chat.

About most anything, be it the events of the past year, our families, and, of course, about his creatures, his critters, his herps, which always brought the light to his face, talking about his critters.

One would never know it by talking to Dr. Collins, but he was one of the most renowned experts in the field of herpetology – the study of all things ick, snakes, lizards, frogs – not only in the country, but the world.

He was simply, a Shaman of snakes, a Pied Piper, an inspiration as many on message boards Monday attested.

He was at the top of the mountain, a lengthy list of publications and discoveries bearing his name, including a Pocket Guide to the Snakes of St. Vincent Island, one of his recent work products, and a slew of academic papers and textbooks, he was the man, the Snake Man.

Without pretention; he wore an easy grace and ready wit like a suit of clothes. There was a certain charisma, though he would surely dismiss such characterization.

But just ask his merry band of herpsters. They are the walking, living testament to this man.

Each year, when Dr. Collins, his wife and “Mom” traveled from Kansas – where he was professor emeritus at the University of Kansas and founded the Center for North American Herpetology – to survey the world of herps in Northwest Florida, that band would descend on the area.

Students, fellow professors, friends, family, they were all welcomed within the orbit of Dr. Collins as he set off to count the snakes, lizards, frogs and things that crawl in the night and the recesses of the landscape.

From St. Vincent to Little St. George to St. George Island to Ochlocknee State Park, Crooked River, St. Marks, the St. Joseph Bay Buffer Preserve, Dr. Collins and his band would hike, look under the plywood and sheet metal he had carefully laid about as shelter for his creatures, and assess the biodiversity of the area.

Those critters, he would say, were a barometer for the health of the land. And all signs pointed to good health.

The ripple of his influence was stunning.

Frog researchers from Florida State University, a child prodigy from Mexico Beach, researchers and herpetologists from around the country, some of them partners with Dr. Collins on academic papers or books, others simply lured into the planetary force that was Joe Collins.

They were all his family, the sons and daughters of this man who had no children of his own. They were his never ending joy.

He would sit in my office and talk about his book on the snakes of Ohio, about a colleague working with him to identify of a new species of snake, about the effort he and another colleague half a world away were undertaking to complete a college textbook that was Bible for herpetologists – and he’d be grinning and talking as if he’d won the lottery.

That was Dr. Collins – constantly in motion and having a blast, exuberantly inhaling and exhaling life.

Here was a man of 70-plus years who had the energy of someone a third his age. There were always projects and not sufficient time.

He loved his work, his passion, his creatures and loved passing on that knowledge, whether to a meeting of the Friends of St. Vincent Island or just a curious reporter wishing to tag along on a survey hunt.

The passion was infectious.

And I was privileged to be infected. Years ago, I met and had the chance to spend a morning on Little St. George Island with Dr. Collins.

As anybody who knows me would attest, this was an unlikely pairing. When I see a snake my first instinct is to sprint away; for Dr. Collins and gang it was a call for giddy study.

One time we were traveling by truck along a road on St. Vincent when a huge Sambar deer dashed out of the woods and across the road, nearly crashing into the hood of the truck. I paused to consider a change of underwear – Dr. Collins just turned, grinned and said, “Cool.”

Since that first meeting we became friends, he invited me into the circle. He made me feel like one of the herpsters.

He became a confidant. He turned me on to the depth and breadth of the natural beauty of this paradise we call home – there was a reason he kept coming back for surveys long after his contract with the federal government expired – and taught me about the importance of a task done right, whether counting snakes or writing newspaper articles.

I was scheduled to join him on a survey of St. Vincent this past Monday.

But on Saturday, on St. George Island, doing what he loved, counting herps, Dr. Collins suffered a massive heart attack and died.

This area has lost a passionate advocate for the natural beauty and teeming life that defines this paradise and I have lost a dear friend.

Cheers, Dr. Collins. Rest in peace.