DH STEINOUR

We could smell the swamp from the parking lot.  It was 0700 and the sun well up and the smells of festering pond-water and greasy fast food mixed and churned and wafted into the cab of my truck.

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“I love being on time,” I said and my buddy, Ryan, nodded and yawned.

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Our expedition had started the day prior.  Ryan was stationed in South Carolina and I was stationed in Florida’s panhandle and after a day of driving we rendezvoused in Orlando, a place where the Devil would vacation if only he could afford it.  Amidst all the artificial razzle dazzle and clownish smiles was a place full of life lessons about believing in yourself and falling for marketing gimmicks and refinancing your mortgage.  Our families were psyched.

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The wives opted to take the kids to Disney World while us guys embarked on a bucket list gator hunt.  Unbeknownst to the ladies it was Gay Pride week and they spent most of the day accepting congratulations for being a pair of homosexual moms.

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Before the ladies’ trip to ‘The Happiest Place on Earth’, Ryan and I set off in the wee hours, chugging down the turnpike in my truck.  We made good time, watching the sun rise swiftly over Florida’s mad dash to drain its wetlands, slashing and channelizing the jungle to make way for fly-ridden cattle destined to be McBurgers.

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We pulled into the predetermined McParking lot two minutes early, and aside from a few obese geriatrics on Hoverounds, we were alone.  Since I have a complex about punctuality, I kept our guide on a short leash.  By 0705 I called the number I had for Clint, the guy my outfitter said would meet us.

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“Yeah?!” answered a less-than-serene woman’s voice.

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“Hi, is Clint there?”

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“Who dis?”

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“I’m Dave, I’m supposed to meet him for a gator hunt.”

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“He ain’t huntin’ today.”

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“Um, is he not there?”

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“He’s sleepin’.  He ain’t huntin’ today.”

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“Um, alright.  Thanks.”

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So I called the outfitter’s office number but it rang and went to voicemail...so I called the outfitter’s cell phone but it rang and went to voicemail.

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“Hey, Kevin.  We’re here in Okeechobee and Clint’s nowhere to be found.  Give me a call.”

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Within seconds I had expended the few bits of contact information available.  Clint was indisposed and Kevin was unreachable.  The trip had imploded before launch like a North Korean ICBM fizzing on the pad.

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“So, now what?” said Ryan.

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“Yeah...don’t know.”

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Some mosquitoes buzzed into the cab.  I thought I was prepared for this hunt.  I landed on this particular outfitter because his website looked halfway professional, he guaranteed a kill, and the Bible verses sprinkled around the site lulled me into thinking everything would be on the up-and-up (see: Life Lesson – Falling for Marketing Gimmicks).  When I checked in a few days prior over email, the outfitter informed me that he wouldn’t be accompanying us, but Clint was our man.

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“I don’t know what else to do besides trying to get hold of Clint again,” I said.  “He’s the only person around here we halfway know.  Even if he’s not coming out maybe he’ll have a clue.”

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Mercifully, a man answered when I called again.  “Yeah, she just woke me up over it.  I don’t know nothing ‘bout a hunt today, man...I barely even know Kevin, man.  This is a shame...I’d say your best bet is to head out west of town and get with Blake on his ranch.  Maybe he can help.”

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As he talked me through what landmarks to turn at (billboard for a Mexican restaurant, family of roadkill armadillos), I was more and more confused by the plan.  I didn’t know who this Blake was but I imagined some woeful farmer with a gator infestation who would welcome a few doughty hunters on his land.  But that couldn’t be right, could it? After hanging up I rang the ghosting outfitter a few more times just to make sure he was providing zero other options.  Heading back to Orlando with no blood on our hands was not a consideration.  We liked to believe our Spartan wives would think it dishonorable, but in actuality they wouldn’t give a rip.  We just really wanted a gator.

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Twenty minutes later we rumbled down a dirt road, over a cattle grid flanked by a high fence on both sides, and into a parking lot surrounded by dumpy outbuildings.  Standing in the parking lot were two figures dressed to kill.  They looked to be a grandfather/grandson combo decked out in Kryptek camo.  Their kit was several levels up from the crap I wore in Afghanistan.  They eyed us curiously as we parked and another man in torn up jeans and a dirty t-shirt stumped out of the office trailer.

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“What’s this?” he demanded.

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“Are you Blake?” I asked, already knowing.  Surely this repulsive person was the Blake that Clint fixed us up with.

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“Yeah, what’s going on?” He shooed the hunters away, pointing them to a scrubby stand of live oak.  Their compound bows bristled with accoutrements and I smiled and wished them luck.  Grandpa didn’t even look at me but the teenager nodded as he fondled the Glock on his hip and they marched to war against some corn-fed hogs in the trees.

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We explained our situation to Blake, who sneered and asked if we knew how to use a rifle.  We looked at one another and said, “Yeah,” and he went over to the trailer and hoisted up a black, greasy rifle that hadn’t seen service since the Boer Wars.

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“There’s a ten foot gator chained up in the back there.  You can shoot it for a thousand bucks.”

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He led us behind a steel building and sure enough, a great dinosaur with red eyes was wallowing in the eaves.  I wasn’t about to reenact the Battle of Majuba Hill with an ancient Mauser and this chained-up creature.  “No,” I said, “we’re not interested in that.  Are there any other guides around who could take us on a legitimate hunt?”

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Blake gave a sour look and pretended to think awhile, eyeing us like we had dollar-sign tattoos on our faces.  “Shit, I don’t know, man.  Maybe Bumpy’s available.  I don’t know what else I can do for you.”

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“Is...is Bumpy the gator right here?” asked Ryan, motioning to the sleeping lizard 15 feet away.

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Blake spat and rolled his eyes, “No, damn!  He’s a guide in town.  If he’s free, you’d pay here and meet him.”

 

I leapt at the opportunity to get out of there, “Ok, let’s give Bumpy a call.”

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On the phone, Bumpy instructed us to meet him in the same predetermined McParking lot.  I cringed as I paid Blake, he promising all the while he would settle up with Kevin, our AWOL outfitter who had our deposit.

We slung some gravel getting out of there and flew back to town.

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Parked in the same spot as before, we baked in anxious silence hoping to glimpse a person worthy of the name ‘Bumpy’.  It was nine-something when a 2500 pulled up towing a boat with a winch perched four feet above the stern like a gallows.  A compact old man jumped out and stared intently at the swamp past the asphalt.  We walked up and though I was reluctant to break his trance, called, “Hey sir, you’re not Bumpy, are you?” He turned, his tan face framed with a jumble of gray beard, camo hat and spectacles glinting in the sun.

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“I’m Bumpy,” he replied, somewhat warily.  We introduced ourselves and he warmed and pointed, “There’s a ten foot gator out there.” After a moment of scanning we picked up on the eyes and snout.  We were relieved to have found our guide.

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Soon we were in his truck, bouncing east out of town.  Bumpy sounded one part grandpa and two parts crazy uncle, bragging that he had killed well over a thousand gators in his day with four of them going north of 13 feet.  No one knew gators better than him.  No one knew catfish better than him neither, and when he wasn’t killing lizards he was running 400-hook trotlines on Lake Okeechobee for a couple thousand pounds of cats at a time.

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We pulled off the highway and he unlocked a gate and within the fence line was a sprawling pond and I could make out four lazing gator heads just from the road.  Bumpy drove up a rutted path and dumped his boat in the pond with a business-like air.  We climbed in the 18-footer and glassed the banks.  He cranked the Yamaha and idled about five seconds and then cut it and pointed, “That’ll do.  He’s over eight.”

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Ryan and I strained to find the shiny black head and before we did Bumpy picked up a battered baitcasting outfit and heaved a giant treble hook with a five ounce weight about 50 yards into the sun.  The hook splooshed just past a disturbance near the bank and Bumpy leaned forward like a coiled snake and reared back, driving the hooks home.  The far-off object erupted like a mini-geyser and Bumpy nonchalantly handed me the rod and reel and said, “Keep reelin’ cuz there ain’t no drag.”

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Within three minutes of leaving the highway I was fighting a gator on an old bass rod, the creature thrashing against braided line.  It ran a few times and big clouds of bubbles came up through the scummy water.  I failed to heed Bumpy’s directions and let the oversized reel handle club my forearm a few times and I heard a terse whisper of, “Reel, Dummy!”  Soon the gator was close and heavy on the bottom and Bumpy drew out a new weapon of war – an even bigger weighted treble hook on anchor line.  He whirled the mace like a medieval redneck and chunked it, feeling it go tight and jerking.

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Ryan grabbed the rod from me and I took the rope from Bumpy and we could feel the gator rolling under the boat, tangling itself.  “Hit ‘em when he comes up,” Bumpy said as he handed me a bang-stick, a five-foot aluminum pole with a .22 round on the tip.  I had read about them but never used one.  “Pay attention now.  That’s the end that bites,” he pointed.  Ryan braced against the gunwale and the gator’s black head came hauling out of the murk and I stabbed at the back of its skull with the bang-stick.  The lights went out.  We rolled the gator close, eyes shut and mouth agape, and Bumpy gingerly closed the snout and I spun a few wraps of duct tape around the maw and we dumped it into the boat.

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When its carcass hit the floor it reanimated; its eyes popped open and its tail thrashed wildly and we jumped on the decks as it smashed our gear.  I pulled out a knife – I read you have to sever the spinal cord in the back of the head – and lunged for the zombie gator but Bumpy yelled to not ruin the leather and to instead hit it with the reloaded bang-stick.  I held the pole and looked from the thumping gator to Bumpy.

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“What if I miss and put a hole in the boat?”

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“You won’t miss.”

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What confidence in a stranger.  I held my breath and trained on the head and struck and once again the gator died.  For thirty seconds.  The same routine ensued.

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“Put a third one in him,” said Bumpy.  I did.  We had two minutes peace this time.

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“Last one,” said Bumpy.  And that was it.

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Ryan and I looked at the very dead gator wrapped in anchor line and fishing braid.  It was slender like the earthworms my two year-old lays out on sunny rocks to dry.

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“It doesn’t seem all that big,” said Ryan.

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“Yeah, it’s a smidge under eight,” said Bumpy.

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Ever prepared, I pulled a tape measure out of my bag.  From tip to tip the lizard was barely seven feet.

“It looked a little bigger when I first threw at it.  But it’s a trophy.  Look at that leopard print on its side,” said Bumpy.  A bout of queasiness hit me when I thought about how much I spent on a back-assward, ten minute, seven-foot gator hunt.

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“Yeah, that leopard pattern sure is nice,” was all I could muster.

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Bumpy drove us to the next step in the Alligator Industrial Complex: the processing shop.  These kind folks tried to upsell me on a full body mount, oohing and aahing over the ‘rare’ leopard pattern.  Beforehand, I decided I’d get the head mounted and Ryan and I both wanted some leather for wallets, a belt, and a rifle sling.  I explained I didn’t have the requisite offshore bank account to get my beast fully mounted, so they sent me packing with ten pounds of gator meat (not my gator’s meat, of course) and a promise that my wares would be shipped within a year.

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We parted ways with Bumpy, who told us any time we wanted to get another gator, to give him a call.  We hit a grocery store and got some dry ice for the meat and pulled up to Lunkers Sports Grille just as a muffin-topped waitress was opening up.  Our brunch consisted of Coors and burgers at the bar as we started to unpack the whirlwind morning.

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“Can’t believe we’re down here and not bass fishing,” said Ryan.

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“Yeah, we should have just gone fishing,” I said and ordered another beer.

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After a while we were back on the turnpike headed north.  My flip phone rang.  It was Kevin the Outfitter, seven hours after we needed him.  He launched into his melancholy excuse and assured me over and over the gator hunting cabal of which he was a part was no fly-by-night operation.

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“Well, how are you gonna make this right?” I asked.

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He paused and I could hear the cogs winding in his skull, “Dave, I’m prepared to refund you $50 for your troubles today.”

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I laughed and hung up, swerving around a station wagon full of nuns.