Technically, it’s a liability waiver, even if it reads more like an oath sworn between two pals in a treehouse:
“I ,________, do hereby admit that if I’m crazy enough to willingly put my hands on an alligator, I deserve to get bit,” the document begins. “Furthermore, I promise not to whine too much if I do get a few bumps and scrapes or even a flesh wound …”
“There’s a couple other herefores and wherefores and other things in there after that, but you get the idea,” said Noah Mather, who claims among various titles that of “Alligator Wrestler” at the remote oddity known as Colorado Gators near Alamosa (www.gatorfarm.com). “You have to respect the animals. If you don’t, then you can get hurt. That’s something that Steve always had, was respect.”
The reference to “Steve,” of course, is a nod to world-renowned Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin of Australia, killed last week when a stingray’s barb lodged almost ironically in his heart as he shifted his attention from filming his latest television eco-adventure – “The Ocean’s Deadliest” – to a more placid piece for the television program his 8-year-old daughter, Bindi, was hosting. Fewer than 20 deaths have been attributed to stingrays in recorded history, arguably qualifying the creature among the ocean’s most docile.
Irwin’s untimely death came as a shock less due to his young age, 44, than to the creature that ultimately took down the indisputable master of handling the world’s most dangerous animals, whether it was jumping on the backs of crocodiles, grabbing venomous snakes by the tails or playing pattycake with poisonous spiders. It’s sort of like Buffalo Bill being trampled by a flock of sheep.
Since bursting onto the scene in 1992 and assuming the throne as king of the wildlife shows worldwide, the ebullient Aussie has been admired by his adoring fans as something of a superhero, all but impervious to the Russian roulette odds of his do-or-die profession. Irwin’s exuberant style granted him larger-than-life status when collegiate pub-crawlers designed a drinking game requiring a tip of the glass for every use of his trademarked catchphrase, “Crikey!” or “Isn’t she a beauty!”
But that same style occasionally irked wildlife officials, earning Irwin a share of detractors who considered him little more than an animal agitator. Don’t include Mather, or his Colorado gator wrestling partner, Jim Young, among them.
These men, both 32, consider themselves kindred spirits to the Crocodile Hunter, often compared by outsiders who watch them grapple with a handful of the 400 gators, crocs and caiman on the family-owned reptile refuge daily during the summer months. They understand what Irwin was attempting to accomplish by bringing potentially dangerous animals into the spotlight and explaining their place in the world.
“(Irwin’s death) is a sad thing for the world of environmental education,” said Young, who has been handling reptiles since he was first bitten by his mother’s caiman at age 5. “Kids listened to him because he was so enthusiastic about what he was doing. He got a lot of people listening worldwide. Instead of fearing and killing snakes and things, now people are fascinated by them and want to protect them.”
Although Colorado is hardly a natural habitat for alligators, they serve a purpose as dead fish disposals on what began as a tilapia fish farm in 1977. The farm, not far from Great Sand Dunes National Park, makes use of geothermal pools to keep the reptiles comfortable, some of which were acquired as part of ensuing animal rescue and education programs.
There is also an undeniable entertainment attraction to seeing Young and Mather wrestling the snaggletoothed beasts, something they claim is necessary to examine the animals for injuries, sort of like cowboys roping steer. So much attraction, in fact, that the reptile ranch offers alligator wrestling classes to upward of 100 participants every summer. Thus, the liability release form.
“We do the camps partly because we found out there was a demand for it. Some of that is spurred on by the Crocodile Hunter and other guys on TV. People see it and they want to give it a try,” said Mather, who compares the rush of riding an alligator to jumping out of an airplane. “My mother asks me all the time why I do this, and I tell her because it’s like nothing else in the world. It sparks people’s interest, feeds their flames of knowledge and allows us to educate them about the animals. I feel like I’m doing a good thing.”
And the potential downside?
“There’s a spot on my arm I haven’t felt for four years. But that’s what helps keep us on our toes,” said Mather, who has a child about the same age as Irwin’s daughter. “I like to tell people that I’ve never been bitten by an alligator bigger than 11 feet. He was only 10 feet, 11 inches when he bit me.”
Staff writer Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-954-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
