BOB KORNEGAY: Oh, those big swamp lizards

We have plenty of them now. They’re a true conservation success story. Hard to believe alligators were once endangered.

Time was, I would have traveled many miles just to see an alligator. I was young and had a passion for herpetology. I loved reptiles and the reptile I loved most was the American alligator. The big, toothy critter remains my favorite today, despite the fact it is now found in teeming numbers throughout the Southeast. Show me a wetland and I’ll show you a gator.

Interesting thing about alligators and me. They always seem to wind up in my fishing holes. It’s like I can’t cast anywhere without throwing over, under, or around the leather-hided monsters.

Location doesn’t matter. Be it a major reservoir or a two-acre farm pond, gators just naturally like the same places I do.

Having already mentioned that I like alligators, this is not a complaint. They are supremely interesting creatures. One fascinating aspect of their existence is the effect they often have on our northern brethren. Seems like nothing scares a Yankee quite like his first up-close encounter with a big alligator.

There’s a story told about a New Yorker who came down South for a week of fishing and camping with an old army buddy. The two men pitched a tent in a remote area where the only water source was a large spring located a short distance from camp. Before supper one evening, it came the Northerner’s turn to fetch water. A large gator inhabiting the spring surprised him and motivated a fast, inglorious retreat.

Back in camp, the partner inquired about the empty water bucket and the man’s obvious fear. The water-fetcher excitedly explained the source of his terror.

“Aw, shoot,” said the Southerner. “Get back down there and get some water. That gator’s as scared of you as you are of him.”

“In that case,” stammered the Yankee, “we’d just as well do without. That water’s no longer fit to drink!”

Naturally, because of their destructive potential, alligators command a modicum of respect. Fear, however, seldom enters into the equation. I’ve experienced few truly frightening close encounter.

One of these occurred about 25 years ago. A used-to-be fishing buddy of mine and I were wading a creek backed up behind a sizable beaver dam. Moving upstream, we found our favorite fishing hole teeming with foot-long baby gators.

“We can fish here,” I instructed. “Just don’t let your plug stay on top too long. Start retrieving quickly so it will go under and not tempt those little guys to bite it.”

He didn’t listen. Casting into the horde of infant crocodilians, he gently twitched his rod tip. The lure stayed afloat and wriggled seductively. It was pounced upon by a pint-sized demon that became hopelessly impaled on the hooks. My partner grinned as he reeled in the catch.

“Just listen to the little scoundrel grunt,” the fool said.

“Idiot!” I yelled as I scrambled for shore. “Just see you don’t hang around long enough to hear HER grunt!”

The “her” was Mama, at that instant cruising rapidly through the water with one purpose in mind, to tear apart the perpetrator of her baby’s cries.

My companion threw the (unharmed) frightened baby aside and hurriedly scrambled up the bank. Out of harm’s way, we watched helplessly as the mother gator vented her wrath on the expensive spinning outfit I had hastily dropped at the water’s edge. After reducing the tackle to a tangled mass of metal and graphite, the 8-foot reptile made her way peacefully back to her offspring.

“Dang!” the gator-catcher said. “I’m mighty glad you dropped that rod. Otherwise she might have caught me.”

“Yeah, real lucky,” I sarcastically replied.

Oh, did I mention this guy is a used-to-be companion? He’s now a prime reason I’m usually seen nowadays fishing alone.

Wildlife deserves respect, folks. Anything less might earn you a well-deserved comeuppance.