It’s alligator season in Mississippi and I have a “large” problem with that.
It’s not that I am opposed to alligator hunting on principle because I recognize its value. Harvesting gators, which procreate with an enthusiasm mere humans can scarcely imagine, is a wise and reasonable approach to controlling the population. It is good for the ecosystems in which alligators exist and is ultimately good for the broader gator population itself.
My “large” problem is not that alligators are being harvested, but which alligators are being taken.
Each year, the race is on to see who can break the record for the largest alligator killed, which in my view is simply wrong, even disrespectful.
While I am certainly no expert on alligator hunting, I do have a frame of reference that informs my opinion on this subject.
Over Labor Day weekend in 1982, I traveled to St. Tammany Parish in Louisiana to write a feature story on a pair of long-time alligator hunters. I spent the day with them in the swamps near Covington and witnessed the whole operation. The day yielded a pair eight-foot gators, the perfect size, according the hunters.
I remember asking my hunting companions if they had ever encountered larger gators. Oh yeah, the said. They saw them all the time, although neither expressed much interest in them.
The hides of those monster gators — in the 12-to-14-foot range, are tough and unpliable and the meat has the texture of shoe leather. These were practical men, for whom gators were evaluated exclusively on their commercial value.
Besides, they said, any gator who manages to grow that big, is worthy of some respect. The hunters spoke of them with genuine affection.
It takes a lot of years for a gator to grow to those impressive dimensions. A 12-foot gator is the senior citizen of the swamp and is no longer much of a threat, the hunters said.
Now, more than three decades later, the character of alligator hunting has changed dramatically. In Mississippi, at least, it is a sport rather than a commercial enterprise
So naturally, everybody is out there looking for a gator big enough to plop on a front-end loader and use for selfies. There is also the distinction of holding the state record.
I hate that idea and wish there was something I could do to change it.
Gators, we know, are not discerning when it comes to diet. They are not picky eaters. They’ll eat pretty much anything they come across. This includes pets and, on some tragic occasions, even small children.
But much as it is with people, my Louisiana gator-hunters said, these enormous, aged gators sort of lose their appetite. Mostly, they sleep, and their general demeanor is, “Hey, I’m just going to lay here on the cool of the riverbed under this stump and if something edible comes by, I might have a bite. Otherwise, leave me alone. I’m tired. All I want to do is to watch Walker, Texas Ranger.”
So this idea that there is something heroic about killing these great gators is pretty much a delusion, and the argument that harvesting them is a service to public safety is a fallacy.
In my mind, it’s like going to a nursing home to pick a fight. We’re supposed to be impressed by that?
I rather like the idea that somewhere out there in Mississippi waters, maybe even in our own Tombigbee River, there is an enormous old William Howard Taft of a gator, sleeping under his stump, not bothering anybody, enjoying his well-earned rest and the respect that should come with it.
Records are made to be broken, it is said.
But some records aren’t worth having.
Maybe someday our “sportsmen” will reach that same conclusion.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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