Hal Coleman is a "turtle extraction expert," but you won't believe the methods he employs to yank angry snappers from local ponds.
May 8, 2006
"You know, i've always been interested in anything i could pick up that would make everybody around me haul ass."
-Hal Coleman, Turtle Extraction Specialist
"Nah, there aren't any cottonmouths in this part of the country," says Hal Coleman as he shoves his right arm deep under the bank of a sewage-colored retention pond. "We do have copperheads,"-with his free hand, he points to the snakeskin that encircles the crown of his soft, wide-brimmed hat-"but they don't like water. Of course, there are some nasty water snakes here." He grins a big, toothy grin. "And they will bite the crap out of you."
Coleman is playing to the crowd, and five of the six members of the media clustered around him-the cameraman from the outdoor television show, the director, the two magazine photographers and me-smile politely. The sixth person, host of the television show, is standing hip-deep in the pond next to Coleman, hamming it up for the camera. It's a classic deer-in-headlights routine: wide eyes, frozen
grimace, lips curled back to expose gritted teeth.
The director pushes a microphone closer to Coleman. This is probably the first time the varmint exterminator from just north of the Chattahoochee River has ever found himself in the center ring of a mini media circus, and he's clearly enjoying it. Coleman drawls apocryphal stories about his granddad as his right arm explores an unseen pocket beneath the edge of the pond. "That's kind of a deep hole right there. Throw me that hook," he says. The TV host hands him a steel rod with a curved tip, and Coleman-now on his knees, most of his coveralls swallowed by the pond's brown waters-uses the implement to probe the nether regions of the bank.
We all grow quiet, a reverent congregation gathered around Coleman's half-submerged figure. Only this is no baptism. It's a turtle hunt.
"Whoa," he says in a husky whisper. "Whooooaaa." We brace ourselves, anticipating the appearance of a reptile
as big around as a manhole cover. The cameraman scrambles closer to get a better angle for the shot. In an instant, Coleman's hand breaks the surface and...nothing. He shakes his head and returns the rod to his TV-host sidekick, who holds an empty duffle bag waiting to be filled with turtles.
"That's a slicked-out hole," says Coleman, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the pads of his fingers. "There's been a turtle swimming in and out of there. You can feel where the smooth part of his belly has worn it slick."
Coleman moves up the bank a little ways, and the media clump follows. As he goes, he fingers every hidden nook and cranny, reading its unseen surfaces like Braille. Shutters click. Video rolls. A boom mike lurks just outside the frame. All to document a guy catching a snapping turtle with his bare hands. Or so we hope.
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