Bowfishing Investigation: Thousands of Fish Impaled and Tortured for 'Fun'

Bowfishing Undercover Investigation

Investigator's Log From Texas

On May 6, I traveled to Toledo Bend Lake, Huxley Bay Marina, on the border of Texas and Louisiana to attend the Bowfishing Tournament that took place on May 7.

When I arrived at the marina, there was only one bowfishing team (two men) at the marina hotel. I introduced myself to them and told them that I wanted to get some footage of bowfishing, and I asked them if I could ride in their boat during the tournament. One of the men replied, "You're welcome to ride with us, but you really should talk to Alan. He's the world champion of bowfishing, and he can really show you the ropes and get you great footage." He then pointed at a trailer house and said that Alan would arrive within the hour and that he would be staying in the trailer. I made small talk with the men for a bit longer and then returned to my hotel room.

Around 7:30 p.m. I left my room to look for more bowfishing contestants. I noticed that some people had gathered in front of Alan's trailer so I walked over and asked if Alan was there. He stood up, and I introduced myself, explained that I was trying to get some bowfishing footage, and asked him if I could ride with him. After asking me a few questions and thinking it over, he agreed to take me out at 8:30 that night. Filled with nervousness, I went back to my hotel room to gather my video and digital cameras.

At 8:30 p.m., Alan knocked at my door. Once we got in the truck, we drove for about an hour to a place that he and his fishing partner referred to as "the secret spot." During the drive, I asked questions about bowfishing and his World Championship bowfishing victory. We finally arrived at the dock, and we loaded our gear onto the boat and set out for a long night of bowfishing. It was pitch black out, and the only light was from the spotlights that shined into the water. The boat was a typical airboat. We rode around for 15 minutes, and then they killed the engine and the lights. In the darkness, I could hardly see my own hands in front of my face and everything was silent.

I started to feel uneasy, and right then Alan turned to me and barked, "If you tell anyone_anyone at all_we will kill you!" If it had not been so dark out, he would have seen my face turn pale as fear gripped my body. I tried to play it cool, saying, "That's why I have the camera-so I don't have to tell anyone." Alan replied, "Seriously, you can't tell any of the other fishermen," and then I realized he was talking about not telling anyone where the best bowfishing spots are. I laughed nervously and said, "There's no way I am going to tell them-I want to come out with you again." Alan and his team partner chuckled, and Alan said, "I'm just f***ing with you. Now let's go get some fish."

When we arrived five minutes later, they took their positions in the front of the boat. They controlled the boat from there, and as we slowly crept through the shallow waters they both began shooting. I turned on my camera and started filming the fish as the arrows impaled them. The fish fought with every ounce of energy that they could muster, and as they struggled their blood and innards spattered the inside of the boat. I was sitting at the back of the boat filming, and I was constantly wiping the blood and guts from the lens of the camera and my face. The terrified fish gasped as they suffocated in the open air, and blood poured from the gaping wounds on their bellies.

The men clearly enjoyed hurting and killing these unsuspecting animals. They would not allow me to film or take photos of them throwing the suffering fish back into the water. I asked them why, and they would not give me an answer. I did not want to mess up the relationship so I didn't press the issue, but I did get some footage of it.

When the "throw back" fish did not make it off the boat, the men would punt them like footballs. During their rampage, they targeted other animals as well-they shot at turtles and snakes, and they were going to shoot a beaver, but then they noticed that I had the camera on them so they relaxed the pull they had on the bow. This bloodbath lasted until roughly 6 o'clock the next morning.

On our drive back to the hotel, I asked them if I could ride on their boat during the tournament. Alan said that it was fine with him if I tagged along but that he would have to talk with the judges to see if they would allow me to be on the boat, because the rules state that only the registered team can be on the boat.

Later that morning, I walked outside and Alan and the judges were sitting under a tree. Alan called me over to them and said, "Get your gear together. They said it's OK for you to be on the boat, so we're going out tonight." I thanked them and Alan said to meet him at 7 p.m.

I returned at 7 p.m., and we loaded up the truck and headed toward the same spot we went to the night before. They told me that if I'd thought that the previous night was fun, I hadn't seen anything yet. Once we arrived at the "spot," we went out on the boat and they started shooting as they had the night before, except this time instead of throwing the injured animals into back into the lake to die, they tossed them into trash cans in the boat. They did not have time to slowly remove the fish from the arrows as they had the night before-instead, they whipped the arrows to send the dying fish into the trashcan, where they would slowly suffocate or bleed to death.

During the first hour, they got 30 fish. Alan told me that they usually get between 100 and 120 fish each hour, and he began complaining about the scarcity of fish this year, blaming the wind and the weather conditions.

Earlier in the day, Alan had told me that most bowfishing tournaments are judged not by the weight of the fish, but by how many fish the bowfisher impales. I asked him what his goal was for this tournament, and he replied, "To win!" Then he added, "Three hundred plus. We have to get at least 300."

As the night wore on, more and more fish, blood, and innards filled the boat and trashcans. Blood and fish parts covered everything, including the three of us and all of the gear. Pools of blood had formed on the floor, and the boat resembled a slaughterhouse on the water. When the fish were thrown into the trashcan, their intestines were usually pulled out through the hole created by the arrow. They lay shivering, covered in their own blood and the blood of others, and it was clear that they were suffering just as much as dogs or cats would if their bellies were ripped open and they were left to die.

Alan and Harold went through at least three dozen arrows. I estimated that roughly 10 percent of the fish that were shot got away with arrows still stuck in them. Alan and Harold did not care, even though it would have been easy for them to circle around to pick up the fish and the arrow. Instead, they'd simply pick up another bow and begin shooting again. The suffering fish who were left behind with arrows in their stomachs would continue to thrash in the water until they died, and Alan and Harold would just keep motoring forward, searching for more animals to kill.

In a few instances, the arrows impaled the fish and pinned them to the ground in the shallow waters. They fought to free themselves, and I all I could do was film the cloud of blood that formed around them. At other times, the arrows would penetrate the fish with such force that they would go completely through their bodies, leaving the fish hanging on the fishing line. Harold would run the arrow back through the open puncture wound to avoid cutting the fishing line. This task took several agonizing minutes, as Harold twisted the arrow and the fish to free the line from her bloody, thrashing body.

I almost lost it a couple of times during the night as I watched hundreds of fish suffer and die right in front of me. I clearly saw the confusion and panic in their faces as they slowly suffocated and bled to death. The fish fought so hard and would actually work with each other: I saw three fish reposition themselves so that they were lying stacked on top of each other, and then the two bottom fish thrashed at the same moment, launching the top fish completely out of the trashcan and back into the water. The fish continued to fight to escape until they were completely exhausted-it was clear that they valued their own lives and didn't want to die anymore than I do. Tears threatened to flood my eyes as I sat watching the fish struggle and gasp, and in order to stay focused I had to constantly remind myself that the footage and photos I was getting would help save other fish from a similar fate.

I have been told that the reason it is easy for people to eat fish and not care about them is because fish can't show emotion in their faces and we can't hear them scream. I accepted that argument until this weekend. I watched more than 300 fish slowly and helplessly die right in front of me. I don't think I can ever really describe what I saw and what those individual fish went through. Every time a "new" fish was about to be thrown into the trashcan, you could see the other fish react as if they knew what was happening. These fish fought so hard and would work with each other—you could see them thrash around, and it seemed as if they were thrashing in a pattern. They continued to do this until they were completely out of energy.

At the end of the tournament, "my" team came in second place with more than 300 fish. Nine boats participated in the tournament, including our own. All the boats killed more than 200 fish each, and after the contest was over they loaded the trashcans full of dead fish on a boat, took them out to the middle of the lake, and dumped them overboard.

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