Trip Reports: Vol. 2

Your mama has just tucked you in and given you a kiss goodnight. You hold the blanket over your head, knowing that as soon as she hits the light switch, your room will suddenly be crowded with a pack of starving gargoyles. Some nights you can ignore them and fall asleep quickly, but some nights you peek out and see a shadow move, or an unfamiliar reflection that you conclude must be the eyes of the biggest, slimiest monster you could possibly imagine, watching you in the dark.

You’re older now, and the dark isn’t so scary. Logic and reason have starved your childhood fears, and the shadows and glints in your bedroom can all be explained away. But I’m telling you, the glow-eyed gargoyles you thought you imagined are definitely real. And they live in Lake Seminole,.

It was darker outside than the farthest corner of my bedroom last Friday night. The night light hadn’t yet risen over the longleaf horizon so we motored out blind into the swampy lake. Three of us armed to the teeth, seeking vengeance against the gargoyles for all those sleepless childhood nights. Little did I know it would take all night, all day, and all night again to catch one.

Allen had scouted the area for weeks in advance of our trip. All season long he had been trying to fill his tag, first one he has had in years. This trip was all or nothing, so he called in the yanks.

Alex and I are novice hunters, but we are no strangers to boats, hooks, guns or hard work. Allen was relying on us to make the trip go smoothly and bring home the bacon.

We had a few opportunities on the first night. We lost count of eyeballs peering at us through the hyacinth blossoms. When the gap between a pair was wide enough, we’d shut off the trolling motor and coast up to them to make a cast with weighted treble hooks the size of a child’s hand. Despite our fairly precise casts, the hooks wouldn’t bite, and they glanced off the gargoyles’ scaly, scuted backs.

Just before dawn, we decided to go home and get some rest for the afternoon. As we unlocked the motel door, our neighbor came out and loaded his rods up in his bass boat.

“Good morning! Any luck?”

“Saw a few big ones, we’re gonna try again tomorrow. I mean later. Good luck fishing!”

“Good night!”

We got some winks and a burger and went back out around 11. We watched coots clumsily flop around the lily pads and gallinules hunt the hydrilla. Not much gargoyle activity besides one giant by an island we hadn’t hunted in the dark. We decided to go back and try for him that night.

At around 3, we drove back to base, turned on the Auburn game and took a quick nap. Taking a shower seemed futile, but the sleep was much needed. At dusk, we left again, this time determined to make it happen on the giant.

The coyotes were quiet on the second night, and the wind had laid down to give the hummingbird-sized mosquitos their chance at our rot-gut coffee-flavored blood. We swatted them away, begging the bats in our spotlights to work double time.

I missed a cast, and fumbled a hook set. Allen missed a cast. Alex missed a hook set. Then Allen found the giant. He made the right cast and heaved on him. In an instant the monster was under the boat, stuck in a cypress root ball. We didn’t stand a chance. He came off.

We were shocked at its power. I couldn’t believe how strong it was.. But we abandoned it to look for more opportunities. We missed some more, but never stopped hunting, never got discouraged. We had all night and no place to be.

Then the blood moon rose and the river came back to life.. We chased one towards the bank and missed the first cast. He popped back up 20 yards away. Cast again. Miss. Chase him away from the bank. Repeat. This one wanted to play the game. Alex and I each missed about 6 or 7 times. Accurately casting really heavy hooks in the dark as far as you can is hard! Get too close, and the predator slides away. Allen took the rod and made a perfect cast and came tight to it, the animal that could easily bankrupt every boat towing business in America if it could tie a knot: the American Alligator.

Allen fought it for 15 minutes, expertly avoiding entanglement with the trolling motor, steering us away from the bank the entire fight. I stood on the bow behind him to hold the spotlight and the harpoon, keeping the surface lit for my opportunity to stick it with the buoy line. Alex stood on the deck with his pistol and kept the buoy line from tangling around our ankles.

Allen tightened up to horse the giant, stiff body up off the bottom and the gator’s tail came to the surface. I quickly put down the spotlight so I could thrust with two hands. As soon as I slammed the point into its tail, all ten feet of that beast exploded in a wild fury. It snapped backwards and bit down hard on the harpoon handle. Crunch. The wood splintered and flew from my hands. I grabbed the rope and frantically held on as the gator dove back down and swam away, peeling drag on Allen’s line all the while.

I let it take some line but held on tight as we wrestled it back to the surface. Suddenly, Allen’s hook came loose and he dove for the other snagging line and threw it in. We both pulled as hard as we could, yelling for Alex to shoot him. As soon as his big head breached the water, I went deaf. Alex put two perfect shots in its head and suddenly it was all still. It was 1:30am.

I can’t imagine a more primal experience. Nothing else I’ve ever hunted could fight back. It was all a matter of finding it and shooting it. This game was completely different. To really experience the power of a game animal before you take its life is unique to alligator hunting. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to go again, but I know I’ll never forget our trip. Or the weird cajun-seasoned dreams I had sleeping at a gas station in Eufaula on the way home. But that’s a story for another time. All that’s left is gratitude. to Allen, Alex, Big Jim, and most of all, this precious alligator that gave us such a great harvest.