Gator Bait

I’m writing this story because it taught me a lesson I hope never to forget. It’s my story, but it’s also a stranger’s.

I don’t know his real name. He went by Gator Bait. How he got that name is part of his story.

I met him while backpacking the Arizona Trail. My first impression was guarded. I had heard about him from other hikers and how he made them uncomfortable, how they hoped to avoid him.

I first encountered him at a water source. It might not be hard to imagine that water in Arizona is hard to come by, so hikers tend to congregate in the same places to replenish water supplies. I had been there for a while, resting and enjoying the shade, when he made his presence known.

He was loud. I noticed how his voice was worn and harsh, matching his exterior — a long, messy gray beard, heavy eyes, deep wrinkles carved by weather and time. His demeanor was disheveled. He was worked up over a lost rubber O-ring from his water filter.

The man hiking with him quietly offered his spare O-ring. A small, kind gesture.

I stayed disengaged in the shade, not wanting to draw attention. It worked. They moved on with little more than a nod. I continued resting, thinking about their contrast. I imagined how irritating it must be to hike with someone so abrasive and loud. It made me grateful to be alone.

I was relieved to pass the two men setting camp sometime in the early evening. For me, that meant there was still time for me to put some miles between me and the strangers. Eventually, I  established camp in a discreet place in an elevated area overlooking a golden meadow. I ate dinner and observed the stillness of the meadow as dusk settled in. Ponderosa pines towered overhead, I was grateful for their presence. Their needles cushioned the ground, easing both my steps and my sleep, but more than that, they offered a kind of company.

I gazed out across the meadow and noticed how exposed it seemed — no trees to shield it from the elements, it appeared vulnerable. I came to appreciate trees like a watchful father — nature’s providers.  I felt grateful to be exactly where I was. This place felt good. This place felt safe.

I was a few days out from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Hiking rim to rim was a highlight of the trail for me — descending thousands of feet into the earth, watching history etched by hundreds of thousands of years of water. The canyon’s ancient scale thrilled me to my bones.

Over the next few days, I had brief encounters with the loud disheveled man. Other hikers were openly displeased by his presence. I was too. As I hiked one day I found myself rehearsing things I could say to deescalate his presence. He was abrasive, like the sand that worked its way into my shoes every day. His presence felt wrong — like he didn’t belong in the quiet of the wild. I imagined ways to make it right. 

It was during the descent into the canyon that my concern shifted from him to myself. For a few days I had been feeling intermittent sharp pain in my left Achilles. I hoped stretching and ibuprofen would help, but it didn’t. One moment I was walking on flat ground, picking up my pace — the next, I felt a snapping sensation, followed by warmth and sudden relief. I’d never felt anything like it.

I inspected the area.  A bit swollen but nothing looked wrong, the pain was gone but the sensation stayed with me. I knew it wasn’t something to ignore.That night, I camped in the canyon, icing my foot in the cold stream. The next morning, the fear of repeating that awful sensation followed me as I started my ascent. I began the 4,800’ ascent at 3am to beat the heat. This was an easy decision for me because I am quite thrilled to hike in the dark and sunrise summits are my favorite. It’s the slow reveal of sunrise on an unseen landscape that settles my soul.

I arrived at the South Rim by 10 am and was instantly transported to another world — crowded, loud, overflowing with excess. Emerging from the canyon after one hundred miles of wilderness, I felt foreign among my own kind. 

The trail had its own rules. Traveling by foot through desert heat taught me resilience — of both body and place. This place embodied grit. This land revealed itself as a constant, elemental process. I learned to listen for encouragement in the wind, rather than fight against it. I learned how to accept water with grace no matter the stagnant filthy state. The sweltering sun gave me my shadow, which helped me imagine I always had company. I was beginning to understand my place here.  Stepping back into society felt abrupt, ill-fitting, as if I were expected to resume a role I had just unlearned. 

I swallowed the contrast by indulging in some ice cream.

I stayed at the thru-hiker group camp in the South Rim for three days while waiting for an online physical therapy consultation. I was worried about the injury, but even more about what it meant. I wasn’t ready to leave the trail. I still had 400 miles to go.

As I rested in my tent, familiar faces came and went. One of them was the abrasive man and his quiet companion. Eventually, we got to talking and I learned their trail names, Gator Bait and Water Walker. The quiet man, Water Walker,  turned out to be a nurse. He listened carefully as I described my injury. Gator Bait listened for a bit then abruptly got up and left camp. Eventually, he returned and presented me with a cup of ice.

“They didn’t have bags” he said,

He quickly assured me that I should be resting, like his companion said, and that he would get me more ice when this melted. Completely unprovoked, this man walked at least a quarter mile to the nearest store to get me ice for my injury.  This human, who I had judged harshly,  showed me kindness and consideration that I did not earn.

I looked at his weathered face and, for the first time, noticed his eyes — brilliantly blue. Like my grandmother’s, I thought. Ashamed of my judgment of the man, I softened up. After hours of conversation, he shared his story.

He got the name Gator Bait while hiking the Florida Trail, which winds through hundreds of miles of swamp and Everglades. He didn’t like snakes or gators, but he confessed it was a trail he could hike in winter. One evening, just after dinner, a gator snatched his tent from behind him. He said he’d been minutes away from crawling inside.

He showed me the photo — a bright green tent trailing behind an alligator swimming away.

“You see how big dat fucker is?” he said proudly. “I coulda been gator bait. So that’s how I got my name.”

He smiled and despite his missing teeth, his smile carried warmth. He kept talking and I was glad to listen. Something about the interaction reminded me of my time as an EMT. Despite popular belief, Emergency Medicine is not all about saving lives and being a fucking hero. It’s about witnessing a person at their worst and providing compassionate professional care. Sometimes it felt as if I was a sounding board so trauma wouldn’t go unnoticed.

My instincts were right.

Gator Bait began hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2020, after his wife died. His wife had been sick during COVID — a bad cough.

One night, he woke to a bang in the other room. He found her on the ground, her face covered in blood. He picked her up and saw a deep gash. 

“Baby, I gotta call 911,” he pleaded.

She hated hospitals, but she gurgled out an agreement. That’s when he knew how bad it was. He held her in his arms, pouring all his hope and love into that moment, waiting for help.

She died there, in his arms.

Afterward, he was shattered. Newly retired. His wife gone. He said he almost went back to smoking meth. Instead, he watched thru-hikers on YouTube. If they could do it, he told himself, so could he.

One day he had enough, went to Walmart and spent two hundred dollars on a pack, a tent, a sleeping bag, and a stove. Then he found his way to Georgia and started walking.

He lives on a small Social Security check and food stamps. He can’t afford hotels. Lately, his quiet companion lets him trade food for a shared room. He has no money, no hearing, and barely any teeth.

But he told me he has everything he needs.

He has the trail…

Gator Bait left camp the next day. That morning outside my tent I found a fresh cup of ice.

Everyone knows the old saying about not judging a book by its cover. I thought I understood what it meant, but after that day I felt its lesson sink into my bones.  I judged Gator Bait harshly before I knew his story. 

As a solo female hiker, self-preservation often means judging men you encounter on the trail. I can go ahead and lean on the excuse and say my harsh judgment was for my own survival. However, I know I was wrong. Gator Bait deserves my humble apology. I am grateful to have met him and to have come to know his story, for it is one I never wish to forget. 

I encountered Gator Bait one more time on the trail but that's a story for another day.