Crocodile hunter out to save Kakadu's resident 'salty' population

By KATHY MARKS in Kakadu National Park

Garry Lindner knows a thing or two about crocodiles. When he was growing up, his father was a ranger at Kakadu National Park in Australia's Northern Territory.

"He was always bringing home crocs that he'd shot," says Lindner. "We had a big chest freezer, and sometimes you'd get up in the morning and find a 6ft [1.83m] salty in there."

"Salties" are the man-eating saltwater crocodiles that roam the Territory's beaches and waterways, and Lindner, a heavy, thick-set man with forearms like Popeye, is at the sharp end of a debate about controlling the population. He is Kakadu's chief crocodile-hunter, the man responsible for visitor safety in a park with 5000 resident salties.

Across the Territory, there are 70,000 crocodiles, and casual encounters have become almost commonplace. Diners at a smart harbourside restaurant in Darwin watched open-mouthed recently as a croc swam past their table. A man on a jet-ski was chased near a nudist beach, and a barmaid was savaged while fishing by a boat ramp. Crocs have snatched dogs off leads and barramundi off fishing-lines. Sleeping campers have been attacked in their tents.

But while locals are keenly aware of the perils of living in close proximity with these formidable creatures, a proposal to allow a limited quota to be hunted by wealthy tourists has touched a raw nerve.

Salties were hunted almost to extinction last century, and their recovery since 1971 - when they became a protected species - is a source of pride. The idea of shooting them for sport is anathema to many Territorians, as well as to animal-welfare groups.

Despite their name, salties - which grow to more than 5m - are also found in fresh water areas hundreds of kilometres inland. In Kakadu, one of the country's principal tourist destinations, they are visible everywhere. Every croc more than 2m long is a hazard to humans, and warning signs are everywhere.

Lindner's aim is to leave the salties to thrive in their natural environment, as far as possible, while protecting the park's 170,000 annual visitors. A fatal attack on a German woman, who went for a moonlight swim in 2002, was a grim reminder of the threat from these prehistoric predators, virtually unchanged over 200 million years.

This is a critical time for Lindner and his staff. The dry season - the peak tourism period - is about to begin. He is on the tracks of an errant crocodile that has been hanging around a popular swimming-hole in Jim Jim district. As he leaves his office at ranger headquarters in the township of Jabiru, he picks up a large black nylon bag. "Just some firearms for personal protection."

The rifles are out even before Lindner's mud-spattered Land Cruiser reaches the area where the croc was first spotted a week ago.

As we bump along a narrow track, he and fellow rangers Buck Salau and Pat Shaughnessy notice a wild buffalo in a clearing. It's a danger to hikers; Lindner takes aim and fires an ear-splitting shot. The wounded animal flees into the forest. The three men pursue it and finish it off.

Soon we reach a creek just downstream from the swimming-hole. A small aluminium boat awaits us.

We push off through the swampy shallows, fringed with paperbark and pandanus trees. It's a tranquil spot. I almost trail my fingers in the beautiful, clear water, then quickly think better of it.

Lindner's team carries out regular night surveys, using spotlights that pick up the shine of crocodiles' eyes. Floating traps - cylindrical cages that snap shut when the bait is taken - are set throughout the visitor season. Occasionally problem crocs are harpooned from a boat, then hauled ashore, their jaws secured.

In an effort to detect salties, polystyrene floats are tied to rocks, sometimes smeared with tuna oil to make them more tempting. The float in our creek has acquired fresh bite marks, and pieces of meat stuffed inside it have been removed. But the trap is empty, and the bait - a pig's haunch - is untouched. "We'll get it eventually," says Lindner. "We might put a road-kill wallaby in."

Lindner, 39, admits he is fascinated by crocs. His chaotic office at Jabiru is plastered with photographs of salties, and a large croc skull is prominently displayed.

Since the seventies, when the population in the Territory dwindled to 3000, salties have staged a phenomenal recovery. That means, though, that increasing numbers of them are straying into far-flung territory. And that means more work and more worry for Kakadu's rangers.


Six hundred salties are legally culled by landowners in the Territory every year. The Government's proposal is for 25 of the largest to be shot by "trophy hunters" who would pay at least A$6000 ($6700). The Parks and Wildlife Commission says safari hunting would inject funds into Aboriginal communities, which own much of the land.

The plan, which has yet to be approved, has angered animal-welfare groups, which say crocs are unlikely to be killed humanely.

But many crocodile experts have endorsed the idea. Max Davidson, a respected Aboriginal tour operator, says: "It will give the crocodile a value, which means people will respect it more and probably protect it more. The safaris would be strictly regulated. People won't be going off and shooting crocs willy-nilly."

Back in Kakadu, Lindner declines to discuss the subject. But he notes that the big crocs are an integral part of the population. He says the management techniques used in Kakadu replicate the way that Aborigines used to control crocodiles through hunting.

"The population is at its peak now, and the crocs are just doing their stuff. We're allowing that to happen. We're living in very privileged times, if you've got an affinity with crocodiles."

- INDEPENDENT