The hunt ends early. Targets aren't lacking, but we gringos can't handle the heat. Cold cervezas await us. Like hunters at any camp, we swap stories about the day's hunt—of lizards falling and of the one trophy, bright orange and white, that survived our pneumatic barrage. Soon, a platter of stubby legs and thick tails, charred with grill marks, is placed before us, accompanied by a bowl of Puerto Rican arroz mamposteao. All of us sample the meat. The texture and flavor falls closer to gator than the chicken-of-the-trees I'd been expecting. The platter is passed around again, and while others hesitate, I reach for seconds.