Guide Gavin Mann guided the swamp buggy to one side of the fire lane and turned it off. He propped his feet on the dashboard, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and relaxed in his seat.
"What are we going to do now?" I asked.
Gavin looked at me from under his hat brim. "Wait," he replied.
Two hundred yards up the fire lane, we could see a sow with her piglets. As we watched, several hog in various colors emerged from the woods to join her. I thought one black one looked awfully big.
Apparently, so did Gavin. He picked his binoculars up off the seat and studied the hog intently. Then he settled back down. He wasn't, I thought, as nearly asleep as he looked. Several times he raised the binoculars to look at a hog and then put them back down. Then he pushed his hat back and took his feet down.
"Come on," he said, and dropped off the side of the swamp buggy.
Two steps later I was glad I had on waterproof boots. A soaking rain earlier in the day had turned the fire lane into a mud field. We crossed to the other side and started splashing our way up the lane, keeping a clump of Melaleuca between us and the hogs. When we got to the Melaleuca, we stopped. Gavin turned to me and asked, "How far can you shoot?"
I thought about it. In bright light, I trust my .25-06--and my shooting--out to about 300 yards. But this wasn't bright light. The was a solid overcast of heavy clouds, and evening was close. I shrugged and said, "A hundred yards, whatever."
We were still quite a bit more than a hundred yards from the animals. But there was only one more bit of cover, perhaps 15 yards farther on. We crept up to it and peeked around.
"There he is," Gavin whispered. "See the big black one? That's a good boar. Can you shoot from here?"
"Yes," I whispered. I sat down in the mud, braced my elbows on my knees, and studied the boar through the scope. Between the dark hog and the poor light, I couldn't risk trying to hit him below the ear to break his neck. I'd have to go for a heart-lung shot. Gavin stared down at me in consternation. Finally he asked, "Have you practiced sitting down like this?"
I said, "I shot my antelope in Wyoming like this," and squeezed the trigger.
We were hunting on the Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation, halfway between Naples and Fort Lauderdale. After years of earning tribal revenue from bingo, Florida's Seminole Indians have branched out into other aspects of the tourist trade, including hunting. If what they've accomplished recently is any indication, they're going to have a world-class operation nestled right in the heart of the Big Cypress.
Start east from Naples or west from Fort Lauderdale on Alligator Alley, and you're headed into a lot--and I do mean a lot!--of swamp. For 80 miles, except for one Shell station all you'll see is what remains of the Everglades. But turn off at that Shell station and head north and you'll find yourself on the Snake Road, a winding, twisting highway that lives up to its name.
For the next 25 miles you'll see everything from 'gators to white ibis to the occasional caracara. During much of the year, butterflies of a dozen or more species dance over the Beggar's-ticks and elderberries along the ditches. After half an hour you be in the center of the Reservation, 40 miles from the nearest town, at the Billie Swamp Safari.
For years, the Seminoles have had some trademark commodities they've been selling to tourists: alligator wrestling, airboat rides, swamp buggy tours. Those things are all here. But the Safari is becoming much more than that. When I was there in February, workers were putting the finishing touches on a panther habitat with an elevated walkway. Work was beginning on a 3-D archery range and a shooting range. In short, the Seminoles have finally figured out how to show off their resources to the best advantage.
The man behind all this is Jimmie McDaniel, a longtime Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission biologist who retired from the Commission a little less than two years ago. He went to work for the Seminoles to develop a hog hunt area, and saw the possibilities of the Safari. By combining the best of the Seminoles' traditions with his Commission experience, McDaniel is developing an enterprise which will cater to everyone from bird watchers to hikers to hunters. It may have started out as just a hog hunting concession, but by the time he's done, McDaniel will have created a world-class operation that appeals to hunters and non-hunters alike.
Hunting on the Reservation is a little like hunting in another country, which, in a sense, it is. Most, if not all, Indian tribes in the United States are considered sovereign nations. Although some federal laws apply to Indian land, state laws for the most part do not.
That means the Seminoles have their own set of laws about almost everything, including hunting and wildlife. This doesn't affect the hog hunting, since on private land hogs are considered the property of the landowner and can be hunted all year. But it does mean that for other non-migratory species, the Big Cypress management sets the season dates and bag limits (federally mandated seasons and limits apply to doves and other migratory birds).
In February we had a chance to see some of the other species hunters can take on the Big Cypress. McDaniel has a terrific herd of axis deer, as well as some fallow deer. And of course he has whitetails and Osceola turkey. Somehow the Big Cypress seems an appropriate place for a first-class Osceola hunt.
When I shot at the boar, all the hogs scattered and disappeared. Gavin and I walked up the fire lane to where the boar and been and I followed Gavin into the swamp. He must have still had doubts about my shooting because he asked me twice how I felt about the shot.
"It was a good shot," I told him both times. Twenty yards into the woods, we found the boar. He was a terrific animal with two good tusks, a really nice animal for a first boar. And made some of the best sausage I've ever had.
Copyright (c) 1994 Carolee Boyles-Sprenkel. All rights reserved.
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