What happens when a New Mexican steps into the swamp and stares down Florida’s oldest predator
The Invitation
When my husband first asked, “Want to go gator hunting?” I thought he was joking. We’re from New Mexico, land of chile, coyotes, and dust devils, not prehistoric reptiles with jaws that could rearrange a person’s priorities. But as it turns out, he and his best friend had drawn tags to hunt alligators in Lake George, Florida. “Dad’s coming too,” he said, as if adding my father-in-law to the mix somehow made the idea less insane.
I’d never been hunting before, despite having married into a die-hard hunting family and having worked for a federal land management agency for 14 years. Each year, I thought about putting in for tags for your usual stuff: deer, elk, etc., but I never did. As my husband waited for an answer, I thought, how many opportunities does a person from the arid southwest get to hunt alligators.
I’m in!
Landing in a Different Kind of Wilderness
Florida is a whole different beast. Where New Mexico has desert that ascends to mountains and a clear monsoon season, Florida has humidity so thick it feels like nature is trying to hug you to death.
Our guide let’s call him Garrett, because that is in fact his name, was accommodating, generous, and knowledgeable. His partner, Dawson, is every bit the “Florida Man” stereotype, but in the most lovable, National Geographic meets reality TV way.
The two have been friends since high school, and their long friendship is obvious in the ease they have around each other and in their subtle communication: A hand flick to turn the boat, a glance to grab the fishing pole. Together, they are yin and yang in flip-flops.
Into the Lake
The air was thick with humidity when we arrived at the dock before sunrise.
Dawson grinned at me when we arrived. “So, first time killing a dinosaur?” he asked.
“First time hunting ever,” I replied. He chuckled.
The boat skimmed across the dark water. Our path was lit by a flashlight held overhead by Dawson while Garratt expertly navigated the boat across the lake. As the sun rose, we slowly caught sight of the Spanish moss dangling over the banks, filtering the sunrise into strips of gold. Lightning flickered across the horizon, illuminating the cypress trees and rippling water. If we were hunting in New Mexico, we would be dressed in warm camo and waterproof boots, but instead, I’m in cut-off shorts and a linen shirt. Everyone wears sandals, and 90s country music is blasting. It’s surreal. My husband said that watching the sunrise was his favorite part of the hunt.
The Art of Spotting a Gator
Alligator hunting is equal parts patience and adrenaline. You spend hours scanning the water for what looks like a floating log, except that log might blink. We all had binoculars, but we took turns with the Sig Zulu 6 stabilizing pro binoculars, which helped immensely as the boat bobbed up and down.
Florida-man Dawson was the best gator spotter you could imagine. He easily picked them out from clear across the lake, a skill he honed through a childhood of hunting. I spotted a few myself, as did the rest of the group, which made me wonder how many alligators were lurking in these unsuspecting waters.
The Chase
If you’ve never chased a gator, it’s a little like playing tag with a submarine. The guides maneuvered the boat quickly across the lake to not lose the animal, and then just as quickly slowed the boat to sneak up on it. It reminded me of the childhood game Red Light, Green Light.
Before we’d even gotten close, Garrett could tell the size. “This one’s about eight feet,” Garrett murmured, calm as ever. “Decent size, but we could do better.”
We try again, and eventually he estimates we’ve spotted a 10-footer. Before I even know what’s happening, Dawson has thrown us a fish pole and is casting a line with a treble hook into the water, trying to snag the gator. The gator sinks, disappearing under the water, hoping to sneak away from us. A typical dive for an alligator might last 10-30 minutes, and while a large adult can hold its breath for up to an hour, their ability to stay submerged is influenced by its size, activity level, and water temperature. As they dive, they release oxygen, which forms small bubbles on the surface. We follow the bubbles.
“Got it!” Dawson yells as he kicks off his flip-flops so he can better grip the bow of the boat with his toes. Another line is cast and hooked into the gator, and he is pissed! This alligator could snap these fishing poles like twigs. He death rolls and we release the line, allowing him to roll himself up in it while we keep a certain level of tension, slowly reeling him in. Once the alligator is close enough to the boat, we need to get a sturdier line into it so we have a chance of properly harvesting it. We use a harpoon attached to a rope to stab him in a soft spot. It’s all hands-on deck now with the two fishing poles and a harpoon in him.
The state of Florida, understandably so, doesn’t want bullets flying across the lake, which is lined with private residents, so instead, we use a bang stick, which is an atypical firearm designed for direct contact firing. The trick to using a bang stick is to make sure the animal is underwater when you fire it, or else you’ll get bone shards and brain matter splashed back. Thankfully, we did not find this out the hard way. As the bang stick went off, I shrieked. Dawson whooped. My father-in-law cackled as if it were Christmas morning. It was state-approved chaos.
We eventually tagged the alligator and hauled it into the boat. Seeing it up close was surreal. Its hide was like armor, ancient and beautiful. I couldn’t help but feel a strange respect for this animal that has survived millennia on an ever-changing planet.
Lessons from the Swamp
Over the next couple of days, we hunted again. I learned how to tell the difference between a floating log and a gator tail. My father-in-law took to the lake like a man born for it, despite living his 70 years in New Mexico. At one point, he asked Garrett if he could buy a boat like his. I secretly called my mother-in-law to warn her that she might need to remind her husband, upon his return, that there is no water in New Mexico like there is in Florida.
The Departure
I had come to Florida expecting a bizarre, once-in-a-lifetime story to tell back home. And I got it. On the flight home, I watched the patchwork of wetlands fade into clouds and thought about how different this world was from mine. Back in New Mexico, our wild is dry and open; even our forests seem open compared to Florida’s. Florida’s wild is close and humid, full of life that breathes down your neck.
A few weeks later, a box arrived from Florida filled with gator meat. We plan to serve it as part of our Thanksgiving meal this year.
Hunting may not have been my thing before, but now, I get it. It’s not just about the chase, but about being out there.