28

Close Encounters of the Gator Kind

The photographer said, You might want to wipe the blood off its teeth.

Apparently, my less than collegial relationship with alligators had not ended. The reptile in hand was for a color photo closeup for a magazine article about my putative expertise with reptiles. I had been looking at the reporter as I was rattling on about how experienced I was in conducting research on alligators. As I reached into the bucket, I misjudged how far a three footer could jump up and bite me on the hand. Baby alligators are protected by their mothers, but this one was old enough to take care of itself.

I had the wherewithal to hold the gator with my uninjured hand for the photo but was not aware of my bright red blood dripping from the pointed white teeth of my attacker as it smiled for the camera. But then again, I was well accustomed to being on the receiving end of alligator back-atcha behavior, so I was no less dismayed than I had been in previous ignoble encounters with the country’s largest freshwater reptile.

My somewhat tumultuous experiences with alligators had started years earlier with the first one I ever caught. I wanted to take the captured gator to the University of Georgia’s Savannah River Ecology Laboratory (SREL) to measure it, excited about my first alligator data point. Transporting a 6-ft alligator by tethering it in a pickup truck bed with a rope around its neck had seemed like a reasonable plan. A graduate student and I had passed the rope through the rolled-down windows of the cab, making it impossible to open the doors. Unfortunately, as the gator shifted in the back of the truck, it moved slowly but inexorably toward the driver’s side window. To my further dismay, I realized that the rope was moving, and the monster began crawling, mouth open, through the window. I reached our lab’s parking lot, slammed on the brakes, and frantically followed the student out the passenger side window. I had some explaining to do to my colleagues who watched, also open mouthed.

As more alligators entered my life, ecological and behavioral research findings drifted away when scientific projects based on robust, quantitative data sets became overshadowed by a single data point—an encounter with America’s endemic crocodilian. These single observations continued, until I was eventually able to make a categorical statement: a determined alligator is a worthy opponent that can humble any herpetologist. Most of my research was on amphibians and reptiles other than alligators. But the latter holds the franchise in many southeastern wetlands I have had occasion to enter, leading to too many less-than-ideal encounters of the gator kind.

During one wildlife survey for a resort facility on a coastal island, our lodging was alongside a freshwater lake where a mother alligator lived with her babies. We saw her every day as she patrolled the shoreline. She saw us as we stood on our deck. A cordial relationship was brewing, or so it seemed. As added entertainment we occasionally saw the maternal instinct of the large reptile on display, leading to appreciation and understanding of the close evolutionary relationship between birds and crocodilians. Our house overlooked a golf course, and people routinely hit their dimpled white balls close to the lake that the mother and her babies called home. We smiled when we watched her emerge from the lake to chase a golfer away. I once saw her eat a golf ball. The golfer also observed her choice of snack when he looked back over his shoulder during his retreat. Alligators ingest rocks, pinecones, and apparently golf balls. They retain these in the gizzard, the way a bird does, for grinding their food, which is swallowed whole.

Our relationship with the gator family turned sour when we were asked to catch and remove the mother. Someone considered our reptilian neighbor a pest and had reported her to the resort’s management. Rather than viewing the request as an assault against the natural order of the world, I looked on it as an opportunity to assist with environmental preservation. The resort had contacted the state department of natural resources, which had given permission for the gator to be killed as a nuisance animal. However, they also approved the option that would allow us to remove her. We would transport the mother to SREL for our environmental education program. The babies were old enough to survive on their own as orphans.

American Alligators (Alligator mississippiensis) build aboveground nests, mounds of mud and vegetation, where they lay 30 or more large white eggs. The decomposing nesting material generates heat as the eggs incubate. The mother typically remains in the vicinity of the nest until late summer when the young hatch. Before then, any trespasser might suddenly find an angry, hissing reptile charging overland. Supposedly, if one backs away and does not molest the nest or dig up an egg, the mother will retreat. Supposedly. Fool’s errand describes that field experiment. The mother’s protective behavior continues after the babies hatch and enter the water.

American Alligators have some notorious people-eating kin in Africa and Australia and have never been completely above suspicion themselves. Thus, they are viewed warily by many visitors to southern swamps and lake margins. A 7-ft behemoth erupting from the water, toothy mouth agape, is a surefire attention getter for golfers, joggers, or investigating herpetologists. Any admiration people might have for a gator’s protective maternal behavior is tempered when she defends her offspring from a human. American Alligators, which are shy and peaceful if unmolested, thus become victims of public misunderstanding and undeserved mistrust.

Arrangements were made to capture the alligator we had been observing in the lake. I took three people with me—two of my SREL colleagues, Jeff Lovich and Tony Mills, and my 12-year-old son, Michael. A sure time to locate alligators is after dark. Their reflective red, orange, or yellow eyeshine is unmistakable in the beam of a flashlight.

Scattered ground fog and a slowly rising mist turned the early autumn evening into the setting for a gothic novel. Pine trees splintered the silver light of a full moon, washing the palmetto-lined fairways with shifting slivers of black, white, and gray. As we moved quietly through the gloom toward our quarry, we were serenaded by a chorus of Green Treefrogs, punctuated by the territorial declaration of a Barred Owl.

As we drew closer to the lake, my confidence morphed into smugness knowing Tony and Jeff were with me. Both were large men with experience handling bull gators up to 12 ft long. I anticipated no problem with a 7-ft female. I had brought Michael along to show him how professional alligator catchers such as ourselves accomplish the job.

When we got to the edge of the water, our flashlights picked up eyeshine. Circling the large, ruby red eyes were what appeared to be a swarm of lightning bugs rippling the water’s surface. The source was at least 30 pairs of little yellow eyes, babies staying close to their mother.

Our plan was a simple one, a yawner for experienced alligator catchers: we had a plastic-encased cable with a noose, the free end being attached to an 8-ft bamboo pole. When the mother approached shore, one of us would lunge forward and slip the noose over her head. Once the cable was pulled tight around her neck, the three of us would pull her from the water and subdue her enough to put big rubber bands around her snout. With her mouth securely closed, we would be able to carry her to our pickup truck.

Her plan was also a simple one: sit in the middle of the lake surrounded by her babies and pay no attention to the primates on shore.

Our revised plan: see if one of the babies was close enough to shore to catch. It would give a distress call to alert its mother. Upon hearing the distinctive grunting sound, the mother would come to the edge of the lake to investigate. We could then carry out our original plan.

We caught an adventurous hatchling in vegetation along the shore. All of us—four humans and one mother alligator—heard the yelping sound of a frightened baby. To my satisfaction, here came the mother. Two crimson eyes rapidly closed the distance between midlake and shore. I handed the baby to Michael, and the rest of us jumped behind two big pine trees. We were out of sight of the approaching mother. I told Michael to stand in plain view about 20 ft away from us.

I knew the plan was working when the mother was only a few feet from the shoreline, and Tony prepared to jump from behind the tree to noose her. I knew the plan was not working when she did not even slow down at the water’s edge. The snarling reptile emerged from the bottom sediments, scrambled onto shore, and headed straight toward Michael. The alligator’s tail thrashed sweet myrtle bushes along her path and the incongruously fragrant perfume mingled in the air with the musky smell of pond water. She passed between the pine trees as we stood immobile, having been caught completely off guard.

Michael also stood still, holding the baby, and said, Dad, Dad, what do I do now?

Coming out of our collective trance, the three of us offered professional guidance.

Climb a tree! yelled Jeff.

Throw the baby in the lake! Tony shouted.

Run! I roared.

Dutifully obeying his father, Michael ran. The last thing I saw as he disappeared into the darkness was the squeaky toy of an alligator he held above his head. An angry alligator is fast for a short distance, but fortunately a scared 12-year-old is a lot faster in a longer sprint.

As thought and mobility returned to the rest of us, Tony caught up with the mother and slipped the noose over her head. Jeff and I grabbed the bamboo pole, bracing ourselves as the cable tightened. Finally, the plan was working. Or was it?

With surprising agility, the alligator reversed direction, ran between Jeff and me, and headed back to the lake. By that time, all three of us had a good grip on the bamboo pole. With our backs to the lake and the pole parallel to the shoreline, we were yanked to the ground, dragged for 10 ft, and then pulled down the slippery slope into the lake.

Fortunately, the noose slipped off before the mother disappeared beneath the surface. Unfortunately, this meant an unrestrained alligator lurked unseen in the black lagoon. We scrambled out faster than we had gone in. If in my haste to reach shore I inadvertently stepped on Jeff and Tony’s back and shoulders, I feel certain I apologized to them when we reached dry land.

We put some distance between us and the lake, then stood dripping in silence until Michael emerged from the woods. We returned the baby to the water. If there had been a scoreboard, it would have read Mother Gator 3, Herpetologists 0.

On our way back to where we were staying, I suggested to Michael that the night’s events would be of little interest to his mother, so he need not mention them. After all, as that night illustrated, some mothers can be very protective of their young.