ALLIGATORS AND LOST PILOTS WITH JEFF TATE

#11rp - Jeff, leaning well over the bow of the canoe, would reach down and grab it. Ideally, on the neck just behind the head with one hand, and the tail with the other.

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ALLIGATORS AND LOST PILOTS WITH JEFF TATE

I was the rowing and canoeing instructor at Camp Edgewood Boy Scout Camp. Jeff was the archery instructor. He was an excellent archer. I was pretty good, and we hit it off.

Jeff used to work as a roughneck on the oil rigs in southern Louisiana. One day, a fire, and a following explosion, blew him off the rig into the marsh. I don’t know if he had any broken bones, but the fire burned him bad, scarring much of his back, head, and face.

Unable or unwilling to deal with his scarring, and civilization, he moved deep into the swamp, living off what he could fish and trap. He honed his skills with the bow and arrow.

He did eventually find his way back into society, and later, his being at Camp Edgewood.

We went through the Order of the Arrow initiation together. Each year, a member is selected by the other members of his troop to be in this special group. Participants go through a 24-hour “ordeal” to enter the Order. An overnighter in the woods with the bare essentials is a part of the initiation. Along with the OA, two other occasions stay with me.

ALLIGATOR ALLEY

There were a few nights hunting alligators with Jeff Tate.

The lake at Camp Edgewood is just over a quarter mile long and an eight of a mile wide. It has a couple feeder creeks leading into it at the north end where the Camp headquarters and outbuildings are located. The scout troop camping areas flank the lake on the east and west.

The southern, narrow, swampy end of the lake was home to the gators. They had to travel overland a few miles from the nearest bayous to get there. Not many, mind you, or big, for that matter. Just big enough to leave a nasty bite.

They tended to stay in the quieter part of the lake, away from the activities in the wider north end. Until they got larger.

As they approached three and four feet in length and expanded their range, it was time to remove them.

Jeff recruited me to help him catch them. Nighttime is the best time. I paddled the canoe while Jeff scanned the water with a flashlight trying to catch the reflection of the gator’s red eyes glowing in the dark. It might take a while to find the one we were looking for. Sometimes it would be in open water, sometimes up against the bank.

Upon sighting it, I would maneuver us, if possible, to approach from the rear, slow, quiet, and smooth, hoping to not spook it into a dive. If it did dive, we would have to start all over.

If we could get close enough, Jeff, leaning well over the bow of the canoe, would reach down and grab it. Ideally, on the neck just behind the head with one hand, and the tail with the other. An explosion of water and action would ensue and if Jeff had a good hold on it, he’d swing it into the canoe and pin it down by kneeling on it. With a quick jaw tie down and looping another rope several times around it to secure its legs, he’d then wrap the gator in a burlap sack.

If all went well, our task was accomplished, and we’d call it a night.

We never had one get loose in the canoe, but we did carry a couple of frog gig poles just in case.

When we got back to camp, we’d skin it, cook it up, and eat it. HA! LOL! Just kidding. The gator would be released the following morning, perhaps into the same bayou from whence it came.

LOST PILOT SEARCH

After six weeks of Boy Scouts summertime camping, the Explorer Scouts, an older group, of which I was a member, held their own camp week.

One of the activities we would conduct was a mock search for a lost pilot. The pilot was supposedly down and injured, and unable to walk out.

With the Scouts gathered at the lake and dark approaching, Jeff and I would set out through the fields and piney woods in a direction of our choosing. We wanted to be at our hiding place within the thirty-minute timeframe we had to “get lost.”

At that point, we would shoot up a flare that arced high in the sky. Shortly after we shot off the flare, we would hear the roar from back at the camp as our direction had been discovered. It was now “Game On.” We then hunkered down to await our rescue.

We made it difficult for the Scouts to find us. Normally, a downed pilot in this situation would want to be found as easily as possible. For us, it was more like Hide and Seek.

Soon enough, the scouts would be canvassing the area in which we hid, sometimes within feet of us, passing near enough for us to reach out and touch them. Eventually, we would be found.

I learned how to drive the camp’s old beat-up stick-shift Jeep. Off-road in the backwoods. You had to double-clutch that thing. It was a beast. Chasing range cattle was involved.

I had a great time in the Scouts and at Camp Edgewood.

This story was first posted on Dec. 19, 2022.

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