He was larger than life, hovering around six and a half feet, with shoulders that easily filled the doorway. The Stetson he wore on his head added another couple of inches to his already impressive height, and he didn't so much as walk through the door as explode through it like a grenade, rattling the door on its hinges. 

"I am here to do some fishin', son," he said, his southern drawl booming through the office.  

"I'll just bet you are," I replied, trying to suppress a grin. 

Who was this guy?  The big man removed his aviator sunglasses and tossed away the toothpick he'd been chewing on. As he ambled into the interior of the office, I was able to get a better look at his attire and was somewhat amused to see a large hunting knife in its sheath attached to his hip, along with a .357 magnum holstered there as well. His boots were Timberland, top-of-the-line, and he wore a Cabelas fishing vest over a Carhartt button-down long-sleeve shirt, though the temperature outside was in the low 80s. This joker obviously meant to kill some fish; by what method I had yet to ascertain. I had seen some big fish in my time, but I'd never had to shoot one.

My brother Ben followed closely behind, dragging with him two large suitcases that, judging from the look of exertion on his face, probably weighed about 100 pounds a piece.  As our new client wandered over to the far wall of the office to peruse the photographs of fishing and hunting trips of years past, I was able to pull my brother aside and find out the scoop.

According to Ben, this individual was a good old boy from southern Louisiana, in town to catch some salmon. My father was flying him out by float plane to Flat Horn Lake Lodge at the mouth of Alexander Creek the following morning. A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to me at that moment, and I knew the answer to my next question before it was even asked.

"Who's guiding him tomorrow?" I asked my brother.

Ben's face broke into a big, goofy grin, and he clapped me on the shoulder.  "You are," he said.

I picked up Big Dave, as he liked to be called, at 6 a.m. the next morning. To my relief, he was not wearing his six-shooter, though he assured me he had it with him. The rest of the truck ride out to Lake Hood was spent with Big Dave regaling me with stories of fishing in the bayou and the ever-present threat of alligators.  

"That's why you need protection, boy," he told me, as he lovingly caressed his firearm. "Never know when a nasty old 'gator is gonna creep up on you. They can be quieter than a house mouse when the want to be.  But don't you worry none, little buddy. If we run into any nasty critters out in the bush, I'll take care of you."

I told Big Dave that Alaska's alligator population had dwindled a bit in the last 30 years or so, but we might see a black bear or two.  He seemed pleased by this, and the rest of the ride was spent in silence. It was shaping up to be a long day.  Little did I know just how soon it would end.

The flight to the fishing lodge was quick and uneventful.  As I unloaded Big Dave's gear from the airplane, my father pulled me aside for a last-minute pep talk. "Been lots of bears running around here this summer," he told me. "You bring anything in case you stumble on to some?"

"I have a couple of canisters of bear repellant," I answered.  

"Well, make sure you give one to Wyatt Earp over there; I don't need him shooting up the river with that gun of his." Dad jerked his thumb toward Big Dave, who had strapped the gun to his hip once again. Dad and I said our good-byes, and I proceeded to ready the small boat that day. Once all the gear was loaded, I gave Big Dave an unmarked canister of bear repellant.

"Trust me, that is all you will need," I told him. "I need to go grab some gasoline for the boat motor, and then we'll shove off. Sound good?"  He nodded, and I started up the hill toward the main lodge. 

I was half way up the hill when I heard Big Dave scream.   

The sound of it turned my blood to ice, and for a moment, I couldn't move. The yelling was followed by the sound of violent splashing, and I was finally able to snap out of my shock and sprint back down the hill, afraid of what I would find when I got there, and cursing myself for leaving my client alone. I prepared for the worst, and was not disappointed, though not for the reason one might expect. I arrived at the beach to find Big Dave yelling and splashing in the river, along with two other guides employed by the lodge, both laughing so hard that they could barely speak.

"What happened?" I asked, still not sure what was going on. Where was the bear? 

The older guide informed me that Big Dave had been entertaining them with his alligator stories, when he suddenly popped the top on the canister of bear repellant and started spraying himself with it.  "Told us it would keep the bears off him," the younger guide said, and both men started laughing again. My jaw hit the ground in disbelief. 

Big Dave, famous alligator wrangler and legendary outdoorsman, had just pepper-sprayed himself. I watched the big man splashing about in the river and didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  My dad's plane landed in front of us at about that time; he later told me that he had just taken off and decided to circle back over the lodge when he saw Big Dave launch himself into the river. As I waited for my father to taxi the plane over to the beach, I began to collect our gear. 

Big Dave would survive his Alaskan adventure, more embarrassed than hurt, and it was a quiet flight back to Anchorage. I'm not sure how he related his experience to the folks back in Louisiana, but I'm sure it was an entertaining story. For his friends' sake, I hope he left out the part about the alligators.  

Author's Biography

I was born in St. Paul , Minnesota, and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. My father worked as a bush pilot, eventually making enough of a name for himself that he was able to buy his own guide business.   

My brother and I were fortunate enough to work as guides for him every summer. Currently I live in Alexandria, MN, where I am enrolled full time at Alexandria Technical College, majoring in Technical Writing.   

I enjoy the outdoors, sports, reading, and writing. I got married in October of last year.

E-mail Don at doncogger@hotmail.com

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