As a light rain began to fall, we began putting together a new plan - one that would involve fishing equipment that everyone who has ever worked the banks for catfish has used - limb lines.

Hanging baited hooks on short pieces of twine from a limb, just over where the creature had been seen lounging earlier, Smith began preparing the lines, as I continued to make more pictures.

With the rain now becoming heavier, we decided to quickly bait the two lines with some pieces of marinaded chicken, which was actually going to be supper that night, and retreat across the lake, under the shelter of a large overhanging tree.

Within minutes of finding our sheltered spot, and spending some time talking about where we had been so far on our adventure, we spotted him again - on the log, in the rain, eating chicken.

With the engine fired up and ready to go, Freddie began trying to untie the knot that was holding the boat to a tree, and just second later, realizing he wasn't having any luck at all with the knot Smith had tied, out came a knife and with the rope now in two pieces, we were on our way back across the cove and ready to claim our prize.

"We need a net" I said again for at least the 15th time, and as we moved within a few feet of our prize, he calmly looked up at us, shook his head violently a couple of times and again slid down off the log and into the water - back into the weeds. Out of reach but not out of sight.

What was in sight however was our two, new, shiny hooks, hanging from the limb lines, and without the two large pieces of chicken that had been on them just moments before.

Not to be discouraged, or at least not to be terribly discouraged, we calmly went through the baiting moves again, realizing that this was as close as we had come yet to being successful.

Once again, we left to go across the cove, and once again, this time before we ever reached the cove, our target, who we now were considering to be our friend, crawled up the log, gulped our chicken, and as we returned to scoop him up with the piece of rotten net, he shook his head, stripped the chicken from the hook, and retreated back into the water. - again just out of reach but still in sight, and again, with an ever growing smile on his face.

After at least one summer of chasing turtles and frogs and baby ducks, the small gator had made some new friends who were feeding him pieces of chicken - fresh marinaded chicken no less.

A revised plan - the one that would have worked - except we didn't have a net

More discussion followed and suddenly, the plan began to come together. Smith grabbed a fishing rod and baited a large hook with - what else - a piece of chicken. Then, we carefully placed the line over a tree limb, allowing the chicken bait to dangle just over the log.

As an added attraction to this plan, we placed a piece of the net over the log as well, in the hopes that while scurrying over it to reach the chicken, he would become entangled immediately and make getting him into the boat even easier.

As we prepared the trap, we looked just a few feet away at our still hungry but quickly filling friend, and briefly talked about how easy it would be to shoot him and be done with it.

The discussion quickly turned to how an eight foot long shot really didn't pose any sport to the situation and that solution would simply be too easy. We needed to catch him, ride him around awhile and show all of our friends, then contact an area zoo or refuge where he could be released and would likely be in a better environment - especially during the winter months.

"Then we can go feed him chicken anytime we want," I noted and with that, our latest plan continued.

There we sat, our fishing line drooped over a tree limb, the radio playing, and Smith manning the fishing rod. I worked the radio and the binoculars and Fred kept the boat in place.

For over an hour, we watched the gator sitting in the water with his chin resting on a small stick. We watched the gator, and the gator watched us. Suddenly, Fred hunkered down, as if to try and get a view of the bait that would be more akin to the view the gator had, when he blurted out "I don't think he can see the chicken, raise it up a little."

With that, Smith pulled on the line and the chicken moved up - just a couple of inches - and just as suddenly, the creature raised his own head and began moving in for another snack.

With a gobble or two, Smith was sure the hook was deep enough and with the force normally used to set a hook on a large striper, he stood up, gave the rod a yank and off the log he came with Smith reeling him in and Fred and I scrambling for pieces of rotten net to throw over him.

Fred's net hit the mark first, and then came our first look at the famous "gator roll" as he twisted around, shed the net and went underwater.

With the rod nearly bent double, Smith was able once again to bring our catch back to the surface of the water as I hurled my piece of rotten net over him - now just inches away from the edge of the boat.

Another roll and another twist away from the net, and our friend the gator made a brief stop to open his mouth wide, exposing the white meat inside his throat as well as giving Fred and I an inches away view of two rows of teeth that must have numbered into the hundreds.

"Grab him boys," Smith yelled just a second or two after Fred and I had taken an up close look into his mouth. Fred and I both turned to Smith in disbelief of the instructions that had just come from the man holding the rod.

It was about then that the now familiar phrase came out of my mouth again - "We need a net," as I looked around for something else to drape over its mouth and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gator's final roll, this one with enough strength to break the hook, and off he went.

Inches - we had been inches, and a good dip net, from having this creature in the boat and on our way back to what would surely been a night-long bragging session.

We need a net!

"Let's go get a net," Smith said after catching his breath just seconds after losing the gator from the hook.

"What an idea" I blurted right back and with that, the three of us were off to the closest dock, which happened Eagle's Cove, where we restocked with heavier fishing equipment and borrowed a large dip net.

"This is it I exclaimed, holding the net in front of me, "this is what we needed all along."

It was on the return trip to the log that I seriously began pondering the size of the mouth and the number of teeth I had just examined from just a few inches away, and I then pointed out to my two friends that my earlier statement about it being such a small gator that even a bite wouldn't produce much damage should be a statement that was disregarded.

Also, at about the same time, I mentioned that perhaps the manuever I had made earlier in the day, getting into the water with the boat paddle, perhaps wasn't the smartest thing I had ever done.

They both quickly agreed.

Arriving back at the scene, with the net in hand, we re-baited and re-stretched the line, backed off and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.

Finally deciding that what we had on our hands now was a tired, mad and probably appetite quenched gator, we decided to retreat back to home base, and come back early in the morning to feed our friend breakfast - and bring him in.

Morning trip - something's not right

During the late afternoon hours, as we sat on the houseboat, tossing the stories of the day back and forth, the marine band radio began reporting news of a shooting incident in the Cope Hollow area, with the callers requesting that authorities come in to help with the situation.

"Someone's gone up there and shot our gator" I exclaimed, reminding everyone just how easy we could have done the same thing several times before during the day.

After what seemed like a short night's sleep, Smith and myself, along with my son, Joe Gibson, headed back to the log and brushes, without Fred, who couldn't make the Sunday morning return trip.

Nothing looked right as we approached. Before we had left, Smith had thrown the limb lines up into the tree so the gator wouldn't get snagged in the night, and we had gone ahead and put the plastic gator to the tree, as we had originally planned on doing when this entire episode began.

The limb lines were gone - completely, and so was the plastic gator on the end of the tree - screw and all.

We sat and waited and watched. No sign. We noticed there were more signs of other wildlife in the area than had been the day before. More frogs, more turtles, more fish.

"Somebody's killed the gator," I noted as we began packing up the gear some two hours later - it would have been just too easy.

Smith doesn't think so, saying he thinks the gator was still there, and we'll get him on another day.

Regardless, we came home, twice, without our prize, but with the memories of a grand expedition of gator hunting on Dale Hollow Lake, and perhaps the best ever "one that got away" story to tell for some time to come.