I've long grown accustomed to browsing headlines that read "Gator Feeding Frenzy," but they are usually tagged with "Another Humiliating Defeat for the Georgia Bulldogs."
(I could have easily inserted FSU Seminoles, Tennessee Volunteers, or Auburn Tiger/War Eagles, but since this story takes place in the Peach State......and Dawgs fans are so much fun to mess with. Insecure group they are.)
So, OK, Gator Feeding Frenzy. Here's hoping gator hunting will be this easy in a couple weeks.
If you want to hear Fox News' take on it, click this link. SPOILER ALERT****It is Obama's fault.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
TWL Classics - Archery Aggravation
Originally Published September 2008
My first deer of the 2008-09 season I spied from the truck while bumping down a back ranch road in Sarasota County one early evening. She fed in a food plot, oblivious to the dual exhaust and hip-hop bass blaring from the Dodge. I parked the truck and slipped up a ditch bottom, using overgrown dog fennels and palmetto bushes to shield my approach. Broadside and 20 yards away when I drew back, this was the deadest deer I’d ever seen, and I’d started thinking of Venison Piccata when I got home.
Instead, the Grim Reaper-tipped Easton ST Epic skipped off a strand of barbed wire, up and out of the strike zone. Gone.
Would-be deer Number Two entered from the corner of a soy bean field in SW Georgia. An old, gray, nervous doe, she hung up in the tree line around the field watching her nearly full-grown, soon-to-be orphaned offspring eat the man’s crops. She finally paced into the field, broadside at maybe 15 yards and began feeding. She’d eat real nice, considering a summer’s diet of soy bean.
Instead, as I shifted my weight to draw down on the doe, the foot rest emitted an awful creak as any bolted metal would from being left ill-maintained in the elements for nine months. She whirled around back to cover, stopping suddenly and just long enough to sail an arrow over her back and into the Peach State clay. Gone.
My girlfriend, Carolyn, makes this guttural groaning noise whenever she’s frustrated, or I laugh at a fart joke. It goes like this (put your ear close to the computer and you can hear it!), “ugggggggghhhhhh." I hear it quite often, but quite often mimic it when discussing bowhunting.
So, my bow season is off to a poor start. Actually, I shouldn’t say that. I spent a week in Georgia hanging stands and seeing plenty of does and coyotes, and sandwiched that hunt between two trips to a private ranch in Sarasota County for an extended bachelor party for my good friend, Travis. And I popped a few pigs down south with my AR-15 on down times between stand hunting.
What’s kinda neat is how different each hunt was. In Georgia, the rut was still a few months away – late November, early December. The bucks are invisible this time of year to anything but trail cameras and headlights. I don’t even expect to see antlers until that time. Daylight shy, too much hunting pressure, who knows, but that’s the way it’s been since I took to leasing property there a few years back.
Now, down in Sarasota – in Florida’s South Zone – the bucks are nearly ready to Rock the Casbah. This last Friday morning I awoke from my pre-dawn stand snooze to see a beautiful chocolate-racked 6 point standing in the wide open of a sod field. After years of hunting the dense cover of the Southeast, catching this buck idly standing out for the world to see was a bit like when the scientists saw their first dinosaur in Jurassic Park – just something you don’t see every day.
He eased his nose to the ground and worked back to thick cover, never coming closer than 80 yards or so. Several minutes later, a small seven and a smaller five followed the same trail, noses desperately trying to sniff out some sign of early morning delight.
On this ranch, only mature deer may be harvested. This six seemed to fit the bill. His shoulders were broader than his followers; the rack had mass – for a South Florida buck – and was easily past the ears, with long G-2’s.
Dirty J, who’d also seen the bucks from a ground blind not too far from me, spent the remainder of the morning scheming with me on how to get the drop on that six. We could move the stand, set up another ground blind, use some doe urine and grunt calls and lure him in. It all sounded real good, but the weather got hotter, the wind began swirling, and everything quit cooperating. Been nice to get a shot. Hope someone does; he’s a nice deer.
I did have one last opportunity for some venison. That Friday evening I returned to where I’d seen that buck. As I parked my truck, two does stood, again, out in the open. Without spooking them, I’d hit the tree line and figured I could stalk through the dense cabbage palm island and out to a pine tree surrounded by tall palmettos, well within bow distance.
I worked my way through pig trails and banana spiders, popping out once in a while to check on their position. I got oh so close when I felt just the tiniest tickle of breeze on the back of my neck, and I knew it was over. The wind had shifted out of the East and blew my sweaty stink out into the field. Predictably, they high-white-tailed it.
With a rifle, in theory, I could have the venison piled high already. But that’s the challenge, and eventual satisfaction of bow hunting. I have several more bow hunts this season before I gladly set aside the PSE for a long gun. Maybe I’ll eventually connect tag a buck or a doe with the stick and string.
Almost certainly I’ll be making this noise again soon.
“Ugggggggghhhhhh!”
My first deer of the 2008-09 season I spied from the truck while bumping down a back ranch road in Sarasota County one early evening. She fed in a food plot, oblivious to the dual exhaust and hip-hop bass blaring from the Dodge. I parked the truck and slipped up a ditch bottom, using overgrown dog fennels and palmetto bushes to shield my approach. Broadside and 20 yards away when I drew back, this was the deadest deer I’d ever seen, and I’d started thinking of Venison Piccata when I got home.
Instead, the Grim Reaper-tipped Easton ST Epic skipped off a strand of barbed wire, up and out of the strike zone. Gone.
Would-be deer Number Two entered from the corner of a soy bean field in SW Georgia. An old, gray, nervous doe, she hung up in the tree line around the field watching her nearly full-grown, soon-to-be orphaned offspring eat the man’s crops. She finally paced into the field, broadside at maybe 15 yards and began feeding. She’d eat real nice, considering a summer’s diet of soy bean.
Instead, as I shifted my weight to draw down on the doe, the foot rest emitted an awful creak as any bolted metal would from being left ill-maintained in the elements for nine months. She whirled around back to cover, stopping suddenly and just long enough to sail an arrow over her back and into the Peach State clay. Gone.
My girlfriend, Carolyn, makes this guttural groaning noise whenever she’s frustrated, or I laugh at a fart joke. It goes like this (put your ear close to the computer and you can hear it!), “ugggggggghhhhhh." I hear it quite often, but quite often mimic it when discussing bowhunting.
So, my bow season is off to a poor start. Actually, I shouldn’t say that. I spent a week in Georgia hanging stands and seeing plenty of does and coyotes, and sandwiched that hunt between two trips to a private ranch in Sarasota County for an extended bachelor party for my good friend, Travis. And I popped a few pigs down south with my AR-15 on down times between stand hunting.
What’s kinda neat is how different each hunt was. In Georgia, the rut was still a few months away – late November, early December. The bucks are invisible this time of year to anything but trail cameras and headlights. I don’t even expect to see antlers until that time. Daylight shy, too much hunting pressure, who knows, but that’s the way it’s been since I took to leasing property there a few years back.
Now, down in Sarasota – in Florida’s South Zone – the bucks are nearly ready to Rock the Casbah. This last Friday morning I awoke from my pre-dawn stand snooze to see a beautiful chocolate-racked 6 point standing in the wide open of a sod field. After years of hunting the dense cover of the Southeast, catching this buck idly standing out for the world to see was a bit like when the scientists saw their first dinosaur in Jurassic Park – just something you don’t see every day.
He eased his nose to the ground and worked back to thick cover, never coming closer than 80 yards or so. Several minutes later, a small seven and a smaller five followed the same trail, noses desperately trying to sniff out some sign of early morning delight.
On this ranch, only mature deer may be harvested. This six seemed to fit the bill. His shoulders were broader than his followers; the rack had mass – for a South Florida buck – and was easily past the ears, with long G-2’s.
Dirty J, who’d also seen the bucks from a ground blind not too far from me, spent the remainder of the morning scheming with me on how to get the drop on that six. We could move the stand, set up another ground blind, use some doe urine and grunt calls and lure him in. It all sounded real good, but the weather got hotter, the wind began swirling, and everything quit cooperating. Been nice to get a shot. Hope someone does; he’s a nice deer.
I did have one last opportunity for some venison. That Friday evening I returned to where I’d seen that buck. As I parked my truck, two does stood, again, out in the open. Without spooking them, I’d hit the tree line and figured I could stalk through the dense cabbage palm island and out to a pine tree surrounded by tall palmettos, well within bow distance.
I worked my way through pig trails and banana spiders, popping out once in a while to check on their position. I got oh so close when I felt just the tiniest tickle of breeze on the back of my neck, and I knew it was over. The wind had shifted out of the East and blew my sweaty stink out into the field. Predictably, they high-white-tailed it.
With a rifle, in theory, I could have the venison piled high already. But that’s the challenge, and eventual satisfaction of bow hunting. I have several more bow hunts this season before I gladly set aside the PSE for a long gun. Maybe I’ll eventually connect tag a buck or a doe with the stick and string.
Almost certainly I’ll be making this noise again soon.
“Ugggggggghhhhhh!”
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Dove Farming
I wouldn’t have made it as a farmer. Every food plot I’ve ever sowed withered and died from factors other than deer. The few times anyone has let me operate a tractor ended with the owner running up waving as I frantically pumped the clutch and Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Banged the disc through ditches, oaks, and stone. And I despise eating vegetables and can only assume they are conceived through evil design.
But I know mourning dove are big fans of farming, and if you love dove hunting, by extension, you love farming.
Mourning dove are probably this hemisphere’s favorite gamebird. They are hunted throughout the United States and down through Central and South America. Millions each year realize their destiny wrapped in bacon and slow-cooked over a wood fire. They flock and feed in agriculture fields throughout this great land, with hunters of all ages anticipating the Season Opener, usually the first hunt of the fall.
Florida is a little different. While our neighboring Southern Brethren kick off dove season Labor Day weekend, Sunshine Staters are forced to wait until the first weekend of October. By the time the northern birds cut their way through the peanut patches of Georgia, they’ve run the gauntlet through enough 7 ½ shot salvos to render them rather spooky. No bother, a dove field is a fun place once the work to get it growing is completed.
By federal law, if one plans to hunt dove over agricultural product, they must do so in a couple of ways. One, have access to property that is regularly farmed and harvested. Two, plan your own landscape of dove-friendly foods. Three, scatter corn and seed three days before season and way-lay them.
Ha! Gotcha on the last one – OK, probably not. Game officers and those running their budgets probably get as excited about dove season as hunters. Nary a season passes when I don’t hear of one group of hunters or another getting busted busting dove over scratch feed. It’s really not worth it, in my opinion.
Generally speaking, Florida is a little lax in the agricultural fields department than states north of our border. You can have a right good hunt around orange groves, for sure. The FWC plants fields throughout the state that offer lucky hunters a chance at the birds, but we just don't have as many open areas rife with corn, soybean, peanuts, and other crops. As popular as this gamebird is, hunting them here presents accessibility issues.
Ten years ago I was involved with planting dove fields for the first time. We had access to mining property in Manatee County and planted three or four locations of 4-5 acre plots. The work was hot and long and never paid off. That summer the state experienced a pretty severe drought, crippling the millet early. This was followed by a July and August deluge that flooded the fields and rotted the sensitive browntop millet. We ended up having a phenomenal shoot over ragweed that fall, though, which saved our spirits.
Over the next couple of years I was invited to a friend’s field, and we made the most of it – the whole dove hunting experience, in fact. Barbecues, a lot of shooting, and suds afterwards. It was a grand experience that I highly recommend, if you get the invite.
Then for some reason over the following few years, the birds just quit. The millet looked good and the hunters were willing, but the shoot just never amounted to much. One more year of that, and the enthusiasm of planting fields went with the dove. I heard reports of decent shoots here and there on other lands, but for me that October Opener was quickly replaced with bowhunting and livelier game.
And it’s a shame, because I truly enjoy a dove hunt. When we secured our Polk County lease this winter, dove hunting was one of the first things discussed. There was certainly room, but where to get a tractor and fencing and time to do so? As the summer advanced, PJ grabbed the reigns of these issues.
Before we get much farther, I’ll be honest. About the most I contributed to this project was money for seed and beer for the workers. Non-Leasemember, but Soon-To-Be-Dove-Hunting-This-Fall Harris brought his tractor and spent the better part of two days mowing and discing. By the time I arrived on Saturday, most of the fencing had be finished, with only a gap left to get the Kubota in and out. Don’t let me fool you, I sweated plenty, but only because it was about 120 degrees outside.
The plan was to plow about three acres and plant browntop and Japanese millet, with a couple rows apiece of sunflowers and corn. There was trouble with the borrowed disc not being heavy enough to sufficiently chew up the thick sod of the cow pasture. Several railroad ties strapped to the disc resolved this issue. In a couple of days, the area will be re-plowed and the seed distributed. Once this is done, the land will be leveled out, and we will pray for rain.
Doing the research later – why not before, I can’t tell you – I learned about the critical issues in planting a field (check the links after my rambling is concluded). One, it is suggested that planting days be staggered out to ensure hunts throughout the three phases of dove season. The browntop should be in high spots so water does not rot it (Japanese millet is more durable). The field needs to be fertilized then sprayed to prevent infestation from soldier or army worms, which, let me tell you the thought of creeps me out. I think that’s what they called those beasts in Tremors.
And, we’ll see how it shakes out. According to the literature, we are a little late in the game putting seed in the dirt, but it was still exciting admiring the freshly churned soil of Harris’ work. We envisioned decoys and Mojo dove doing their thing. A few Expert Voices cogitated on from where the dove will fly in to chow down. I’m enthused, but will sadly miss that Opening Day shoot. I’m sure I’ll get a chance in the following days and phases.
Hopefully the seed matures and dove will cover the field. If not, we’ll just spread some cracked corn around and be done with it.
Just joking.
Links from those more in the know than I.
FWC Dove Field Preparation
Dove Sportman's Society
South Carolina DNR - Attracting Dove Legally Excellent chart on what to plant and when
But I know mourning dove are big fans of farming, and if you love dove hunting, by extension, you love farming.
Mourning dove are probably this hemisphere’s favorite gamebird. They are hunted throughout the United States and down through Central and South America. Millions each year realize their destiny wrapped in bacon and slow-cooked over a wood fire. They flock and feed in agriculture fields throughout this great land, with hunters of all ages anticipating the Season Opener, usually the first hunt of the fall.
Florida is a little different. While our neighboring Southern Brethren kick off dove season Labor Day weekend, Sunshine Staters are forced to wait until the first weekend of October. By the time the northern birds cut their way through the peanut patches of Georgia, they’ve run the gauntlet through enough 7 ½ shot salvos to render them rather spooky. No bother, a dove field is a fun place once the work to get it growing is completed.
By federal law, if one plans to hunt dove over agricultural product, they must do so in a couple of ways. One, have access to property that is regularly farmed and harvested. Two, plan your own landscape of dove-friendly foods. Three, scatter corn and seed three days before season and way-lay them.
Ha! Gotcha on the last one – OK, probably not. Game officers and those running their budgets probably get as excited about dove season as hunters. Nary a season passes when I don’t hear of one group of hunters or another getting busted busting dove over scratch feed. It’s really not worth it, in my opinion.
Generally speaking, Florida is a little lax in the agricultural fields department than states north of our border. You can have a right good hunt around orange groves, for sure. The FWC plants fields throughout the state that offer lucky hunters a chance at the birds, but we just don't have as many open areas rife with corn, soybean, peanuts, and other crops. As popular as this gamebird is, hunting them here presents accessibility issues.
Ten years ago I was involved with planting dove fields for the first time. We had access to mining property in Manatee County and planted three or four locations of 4-5 acre plots. The work was hot and long and never paid off. That summer the state experienced a pretty severe drought, crippling the millet early. This was followed by a July and August deluge that flooded the fields and rotted the sensitive browntop millet. We ended up having a phenomenal shoot over ragweed that fall, though, which saved our spirits.
Over the next couple of years I was invited to a friend’s field, and we made the most of it – the whole dove hunting experience, in fact. Barbecues, a lot of shooting, and suds afterwards. It was a grand experience that I highly recommend, if you get the invite.
Then for some reason over the following few years, the birds just quit. The millet looked good and the hunters were willing, but the shoot just never amounted to much. One more year of that, and the enthusiasm of planting fields went with the dove. I heard reports of decent shoots here and there on other lands, but for me that October Opener was quickly replaced with bowhunting and livelier game.
And it’s a shame, because I truly enjoy a dove hunt. When we secured our Polk County lease this winter, dove hunting was one of the first things discussed. There was certainly room, but where to get a tractor and fencing and time to do so? As the summer advanced, PJ grabbed the reigns of these issues.
Before we get much farther, I’ll be honest. About the most I contributed to this project was money for seed and beer for the workers. Non-Leasemember, but Soon-To-Be-Dove-Hunting-This-Fall Harris brought his tractor and spent the better part of two days mowing and discing. By the time I arrived on Saturday, most of the fencing had be finished, with only a gap left to get the Kubota in and out. Don’t let me fool you, I sweated plenty, but only because it was about 120 degrees outside.
The plan was to plow about three acres and plant browntop and Japanese millet, with a couple rows apiece of sunflowers and corn. There was trouble with the borrowed disc not being heavy enough to sufficiently chew up the thick sod of the cow pasture. Several railroad ties strapped to the disc resolved this issue. In a couple of days, the area will be re-plowed and the seed distributed. Once this is done, the land will be leveled out, and we will pray for rain.
Doing the research later – why not before, I can’t tell you – I learned about the critical issues in planting a field (check the links after my rambling is concluded). One, it is suggested that planting days be staggered out to ensure hunts throughout the three phases of dove season. The browntop should be in high spots so water does not rot it (Japanese millet is more durable). The field needs to be fertilized then sprayed to prevent infestation from soldier or army worms, which, let me tell you the thought of creeps me out. I think that’s what they called those beasts in Tremors.
And, we’ll see how it shakes out. According to the literature, we are a little late in the game putting seed in the dirt, but it was still exciting admiring the freshly churned soil of Harris’ work. We envisioned decoys and Mojo dove doing their thing. A few Expert Voices cogitated on from where the dove will fly in to chow down. I’m enthused, but will sadly miss that Opening Day shoot. I’m sure I’ll get a chance in the following days and phases.
Hopefully the seed matures and dove will cover the field. If not, we’ll just spread some cracked corn around and be done with it.
Just joking.
Links from those more in the know than I.
FWC Dove Field Preparation
Dove Sportman's Society
South Carolina DNR - Attracting Dove Legally Excellent chart on what to plant and when
Thursday, July 22, 2010
TWL Classics - My Gator Hunting Journal IV
Originally Posted August 2009
Most folks with basic cable and even a passing interest in crocodiles and alligators have probably surfed onto the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet and learned what the “Death Roll” is. The lizard grabs its prey and spins furiously trying to tear apart the creature trapped in those jaws. The result is a thrashing, roiling dance of limbs, tails, and blood until the croc or gator submerges into the muck with its meal and the water calms to bubbles as the startled shore birds return to the water’s edge like nothing had happened.
FYI: They also perform this savage stroke when hooked to two snatch lines and a harpoon; it’s much more furious in person.
By Wednesday we’d spent three long nights pursuing these reptiles with very little to show for it besides frustration. We’d gone from a night of a dead battery and rain, to a couple evenings of failing to get within casting distance of some nice gators with the snatch hooks. I was openly wishing we’d done things different - scouted more, maybe rig up some rotten chicken to bait them in range, or something to improve our luck. I figured we could iron out these wrinkles during the down time between the 1st phase and when the general season resumes. Still, I thought, it’d be nice to knock out my tags before this opening week expired; deer season is coming too fast to worry about gators in the next few months.
The first gator we hooked came an hour or so after sundown. We’d been cat-and-mousing two gators near the boat ramp for forever. The first, a 7-8 footer dock gator that we’d spied while launching the boat, wouldn’t move very far, putting just enough distance between us each time he submerged. And despite our best efforts to pole and then anchor within range of where he’d sounded, the sharp winds from the remnants of Tropical Storm Ana that passed over retarded these plans. Every time we thought we’d be in position, he’d pop up too far away, or at an angle where throwing the snatch hook against the wind would limit the range. A few times the hooks plopped just shy of his head, adding to the tension on the boat.
After a while, the gator quit playing. Darkness had arrived early thanks to Ana and her clouds. By now, though, all thoughts of calling it an early night had been snuffed out by the rush of the hunt. We’d been keeping an eye on a slightly smaller gator in the distance making a run for it across the lake. We pursued at paddle or pole speed until he disappeared, and we were left shaking our heads. We had, however, wandered to a portion of the lake with a little back bay shielded, in large part, from the wind – and a half-dozen sets of red eyes staring back at the Q-Beam.
I’d like to tell you we snagged the largest one, but I’m not sure. By this point, legal was as important as size. The gator buzzed out across the lake bottom, not unlike hooking into a big red on some West Coast flat, difference being, of course, redfish aren’t equipped with claws and teeth or horny tails that will fray the line. We needed to put another hook in him, and then maybe the harpoon.
I think the first time I really appreciated the temper of any alligator was when this angry sucker snapped down on the side of the boat, unclenching it after a few moments. It didn’t harm the boat, but you would have lost a toe. He wasn’t any leviathan, but there’s no mistaking the hostility in that face: eyes red in the light, jaws half agape, flashing those sharp pearly whites at anything that got close. Though he was what one would call a “meat gator," this guy was nothing to be trifled with.
Tough as he was or acted, the harpoon and a knife behind the skull snuffed out his flame. We taped his jaws and hauled him aboard amid some high-fiving and handshaking. As the saying goes around hunting camps, putting that first deer or turkey of the season on the ground, “takes the pressure off." Though no trophy, we were in a celebratory mood as I affixed the white CITES tag and the boat pointed home.
Back at the ramp, we were preparing to unload and call it an evening. We had one tag left and could use it in any number of places to find a trophy. We also had a couple nights left before 1st phase ended. But we couldn’t help ourselves. Had to take one last flash back with the Q-Beam – and there was our nemesis from before, the dock gator, not having moved fifty yards from the last place we saw him. The boat was shoved back off. I’m certainly not going to be one to let opportunity slip by.
By now, the wind had died and few small ripples crossed the lake. Our confidence had been restored, win or lose this match. This time the gator played by the rules, staying surfaced in the glow of Harris’ headlamp as he flung the snatch hook perfectly across the reptile’s back, gripping in the side. Immediately we knew a different beast pulled on the other end. Again I stood by to insert the second hook and Cole maneuvered the boat around to keep us from being cut off.
It was after the second hook was impaled when the Death Roll started. Hovering vertical in the water, the gator spun with fury beside the boat. Someone stuck him with the harpoon and all three lines wrapped around the gator, creating a gigantic mess, one that would probably end with all the lines breaking. He had to be dispatched in a hurry; however, at this angle and with the enraged action, Harris had no shot with the bangstick. I held both rods hoping to keep him surfaced. Finally, Cole reached out with the paddle.
With a sharp report, the gator chomped down on it as Cole lifted him horizontal and Harris touched off the first shot, instantly calming down the creature. A second insurance shot was added, the mouth was taped, and he was hauled aboard. A hair over 7, he wasn’t much longer than the first, but definitely sported more girth and a stink that few municipal dumpsters would match. My 2009 gator season was over, just like that.
Back at Cole’s, we celebrated with late evening drinks, took pictures, cleaned the suckers and the boat, and bagged up all that wonderful meat, a fitting end to this style of hunt. It’s a team sport, much like offshore tournament fishing. Gotta be able to communicate, know your role, and get out of the way when necessary.
As a game animal, alligators are worthy adversaries, something I very much doubted when this whole process began. One day, I’m looking forward to bagging an old scaly beast that’ll give you nightmares. They are out there. Would love to have a mounted head for my trophy room – nice to have goals!
A few of the guys assisting with my tags just got word to me they tagged an 11-footer Sunday night on a second phase tag. The bar has been raised, I have a season under my belt, and I’m ready to apply next spring. Hopefully I will be drawn again - may approach things a little different if I do. One way or another I’ll be back out there. Chasing gators will get that hunting instinct and passion alive in any sportsman.
Wish it hadn’t taken me so long to learn this!
Most folks with basic cable and even a passing interest in crocodiles and alligators have probably surfed onto the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet and learned what the “Death Roll” is. The lizard grabs its prey and spins furiously trying to tear apart the creature trapped in those jaws. The result is a thrashing, roiling dance of limbs, tails, and blood until the croc or gator submerges into the muck with its meal and the water calms to bubbles as the startled shore birds return to the water’s edge like nothing had happened.
FYI: They also perform this savage stroke when hooked to two snatch lines and a harpoon; it’s much more furious in person.
By Wednesday we’d spent three long nights pursuing these reptiles with very little to show for it besides frustration. We’d gone from a night of a dead battery and rain, to a couple evenings of failing to get within casting distance of some nice gators with the snatch hooks. I was openly wishing we’d done things different - scouted more, maybe rig up some rotten chicken to bait them in range, or something to improve our luck. I figured we could iron out these wrinkles during the down time between the 1st phase and when the general season resumes. Still, I thought, it’d be nice to knock out my tags before this opening week expired; deer season is coming too fast to worry about gators in the next few months.
The first gator we hooked came an hour or so after sundown. We’d been cat-and-mousing two gators near the boat ramp for forever. The first, a 7-8 footer dock gator that we’d spied while launching the boat, wouldn’t move very far, putting just enough distance between us each time he submerged. And despite our best efforts to pole and then anchor within range of where he’d sounded, the sharp winds from the remnants of Tropical Storm Ana that passed over retarded these plans. Every time we thought we’d be in position, he’d pop up too far away, or at an angle where throwing the snatch hook against the wind would limit the range. A few times the hooks plopped just shy of his head, adding to the tension on the boat.
After a while, the gator quit playing. Darkness had arrived early thanks to Ana and her clouds. By now, though, all thoughts of calling it an early night had been snuffed out by the rush of the hunt. We’d been keeping an eye on a slightly smaller gator in the distance making a run for it across the lake. We pursued at paddle or pole speed until he disappeared, and we were left shaking our heads. We had, however, wandered to a portion of the lake with a little back bay shielded, in large part, from the wind – and a half-dozen sets of red eyes staring back at the Q-Beam.
I’d like to tell you we snagged the largest one, but I’m not sure. By this point, legal was as important as size. The gator buzzed out across the lake bottom, not unlike hooking into a big red on some West Coast flat, difference being, of course, redfish aren’t equipped with claws and teeth or horny tails that will fray the line. We needed to put another hook in him, and then maybe the harpoon.
I think the first time I really appreciated the temper of any alligator was when this angry sucker snapped down on the side of the boat, unclenching it after a few moments. It didn’t harm the boat, but you would have lost a toe. He wasn’t any leviathan, but there’s no mistaking the hostility in that face: eyes red in the light, jaws half agape, flashing those sharp pearly whites at anything that got close. Though he was what one would call a “meat gator," this guy was nothing to be trifled with.
Tough as he was or acted, the harpoon and a knife behind the skull snuffed out his flame. We taped his jaws and hauled him aboard amid some high-fiving and handshaking. As the saying goes around hunting camps, putting that first deer or turkey of the season on the ground, “takes the pressure off." Though no trophy, we were in a celebratory mood as I affixed the white CITES tag and the boat pointed home.
Back at the ramp, we were preparing to unload and call it an evening. We had one tag left and could use it in any number of places to find a trophy. We also had a couple nights left before 1st phase ended. But we couldn’t help ourselves. Had to take one last flash back with the Q-Beam – and there was our nemesis from before, the dock gator, not having moved fifty yards from the last place we saw him. The boat was shoved back off. I’m certainly not going to be one to let opportunity slip by.
By now, the wind had died and few small ripples crossed the lake. Our confidence had been restored, win or lose this match. This time the gator played by the rules, staying surfaced in the glow of Harris’ headlamp as he flung the snatch hook perfectly across the reptile’s back, gripping in the side. Immediately we knew a different beast pulled on the other end. Again I stood by to insert the second hook and Cole maneuvered the boat around to keep us from being cut off.
It was after the second hook was impaled when the Death Roll started. Hovering vertical in the water, the gator spun with fury beside the boat. Someone stuck him with the harpoon and all three lines wrapped around the gator, creating a gigantic mess, one that would probably end with all the lines breaking. He had to be dispatched in a hurry; however, at this angle and with the enraged action, Harris had no shot with the bangstick. I held both rods hoping to keep him surfaced. Finally, Cole reached out with the paddle.
With a sharp report, the gator chomped down on it as Cole lifted him horizontal and Harris touched off the first shot, instantly calming down the creature. A second insurance shot was added, the mouth was taped, and he was hauled aboard. A hair over 7, he wasn’t much longer than the first, but definitely sported more girth and a stink that few municipal dumpsters would match. My 2009 gator season was over, just like that.
Back at Cole’s, we celebrated with late evening drinks, took pictures, cleaned the suckers and the boat, and bagged up all that wonderful meat, a fitting end to this style of hunt. It’s a team sport, much like offshore tournament fishing. Gotta be able to communicate, know your role, and get out of the way when necessary.
As a game animal, alligators are worthy adversaries, something I very much doubted when this whole process began. One day, I’m looking forward to bagging an old scaly beast that’ll give you nightmares. They are out there. Would love to have a mounted head for my trophy room – nice to have goals!
A few of the guys assisting with my tags just got word to me they tagged an 11-footer Sunday night on a second phase tag. The bar has been raised, I have a season under my belt, and I’m ready to apply next spring. Hopefully I will be drawn again - may approach things a little different if I do. One way or another I’ll be back out there. Chasing gators will get that hunting instinct and passion alive in any sportsman.
Wish it hadn’t taken me so long to learn this!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
This Summer's Scallops
Sure, they are barely-sentient creatures that probably possess as much awareness of danger as a tall pine does in a wicked lightning storm, but I nevertheless contemplate if they can grasp the peril that is about to strike when I hover above them. With those dozens of blue eyes and that last one frantic swish to safety, you can’t help but believe they know something terrible is amiss.
Scallops. I love scalloping. Over the last two weekends I’ve been to Homosassa in snorkeled pursuit of these bivalves, and I have experienced the ying and yang of this sport.
Let’s begin two weekends ago. A strong incoming tide silted the water compromising visibility. The scallops were there, but you couldn’t see them. So we picked our way through the water column fighting the tide – it was exhausting. We still collected several gallons, but it was work.
Last weekend was the lunar opposite. The tide slowly trickled out, leaving the water clear as gin. In five feet of water, we hammered them, limiting out in about an hour.
Both weekends we hunted in the same spot. Just goes to show that certain variables dictate success. Sure, we could have hit our quota that first weekend, but that tide was too much and Publix too accessible if we really felt like making up the difference.
I did notice a large armada of boats settled off Chazzahowitzka, farther south than I typically run. The mouth of the Homosassa was largely vacant. We ran North to Ozello, and there we rejoined the fleet. The closer to Crystal River we got, the larger the clams seemed to be. I’ve not spoken to anyone who has dove off Chazz, but I’d be curious to see what their bag has been up that way.
And now some random thoughts.
- If you don’t know how to navigate your vessel on the correct side of the channel, you probably need to be beaten severely - nothing more frustrating in these narrow waterways than some clown clogging up the works by cruising down the middle at several knots slower than everyone crowded behind him. I see it every trip, and it is infuriating. The rocks and oyster bars of Homosassa are challenging enough without this interference.
- The first weekend we kept our catch in a five-gallon bucket then iced them down at the house. Well, the water in the bucket heated up and killed them before icing. This made the meat loosen from the shells, and we lost quite a few gorgeous white nuggets to the Shop-Vac before finally resorting to the tedious spoon treatment. The following weekend we kept them in a cooler with salt water that, well, kept them cooler. We transferred them to ice and lost very few. Moral of the story, bring an extra cooler on board to store your scallops.
- Whoever came up with the Shop-Vac method of cleaning scallops need some kind of Nobel prize. Makes the work so much easier. For the first-timers, purchase a small Shop-Vac. Cut the muscle away from one side of the shell and place the hose over the white meat. The goop is sucked away leaving the sweet meat ready to be scooped into ice water - that is if you followed my tip above.
- Speaking of working easier, when you’re back on the dock contemplating a libation as you clean the clams, consider a rum such as Mount Gay. Bourbon is too much in the heat.
Scallop season will run through September. This is a silver medal year off the Nature Coast, in my opinion. I’m hearing Steinhatchee doesn’t have the numbers it did last year, but surely some are there. Get on out and enjoy yourself.
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