Bowhunting for fish? It works!

Recently I was invited to take photos on the boat with an Orlando fishing guide named Ed McCormick, who uses only a bow and arrow on his fish. His jonboat is rigged up with floodlights on the bow, because shooting at fish is night is presumably easier than during the daytime. So, we met at a place I suggested, Salt Springs, which flows to Lake George and then the St. John’s River in Northeast Florida. We would hopefully load up on tasty mullet and tilapia, the latter thick in the springs as recently as March. This is primitive fishing; judging by arrowheads found on this very patch of shore and water, the ancients fired their arrows at these fish for thousands of years.

We met up at the boat ramp and headed out, watching mullet all around us in the afternoon light. I volunteered to drive the boat and we idled slowly along, Ed and his girlfriend Crystal Ruland firing away. She’s been shooting a bow for about six months, and Ed certainly longer than that. Ed takes clients out for alligator, gar and a variety of saltwater fish that aren’t protected with gamefish status, such as sheepshead, drum and stingray, which they clean and save for clients.

Ed coaxed me into picking up the bow, so I climbed to the bow of the jonboat and nocked an arrow. Ahead of me, mullet raced back and forth, some of them actually zig-zagging. Ye Gods! How are you supposed to hit these fish? Ed said to lead them about a foot…A few minutes went by, but so far, we’d had no luck. Ed estimates that for every hundred shots fired, his clients get about six fish. The water defracts each image, and the fish is actually a little lower than it appears. So, you have to aim low. Combine that with a moving target, and it isn’t easy. I hadn’t picked up a bow in at least 15 years, though once I won an archery contest competing against a bunch of Texas outdoor writers. Shooting at stationary targets in an indoor shooting range…

But then I noticed there seemed to be, sometimes, just the right moment for letting the arrow fly at these fish. That one perfect moment in time. Pass up the medium-sized mullet that flit around and make very narrow targets, and wait for a big one. After missing my first two shots, I was amazed when I fired at two converging fish running along beside each other, really a double-wide target. Whap! The arrow thumped into the side of the bigger fishes chest, and we soon had a big mullet on board. Golden-fried mullet on the table suddenly became a viable option on the menu. Crystal didn’t mind posing with our trophy-sized mullet. 

We toured the spring run, past floating clumps of algae that only grow worse each year, feeding off nutrients. The mullet often ducked beneath the algae for cover, and didn’t reappear. Twilight fell, and we cranked up the two portable generators, lighting up the water.

Then the action started. Using the electric motor, we cruised along a stretch of algae that must have been 100 yards long. It was nock the arrow, pull, aim, loose. Over and over, fire at this one, now that one. We reeled each arrow frantically back to the boat for another shot, as mullet fled in every direction.

 Our fingers became tired, we fired so many arrows. At one point, Crystal and I scored a double-header, both of us hitting mullet in the head at the same instant. I had pulled down on a big one cruising straight ahead of the boat, and it didn’t matter if I was high or low, the arrow had 14 inches of target, as long I was lined up on him.  

 Regrettably we found no fat, tasty tilapia waddling around in the shallows, where they would have made very broad targets. We had missed their spawning season, where they dig up huge nests in the shallows, impossible to miss.

The generators buzzed loudly and we prowled up and down the spring run until 10 p.m. and to our surprise, found fewer and fewer targets. I think the mullet were rafting up in mid-creek under the floating mats of algae, well-protected from night herons, egrets and perhaps otters. And our flying arrows. So, we called it a night. Ed and his Diana the huntress girlfriend had to drive back to Orlando, almost two hours. We will meet again soon for a night on Tampa Bay, where Ed has many places where saltwater fish prowl the shallows. Stay tuned.  That trip and story is in the October issue of Florida Sportsman magazine and I will post pics of the fine stingrays we shot some time in October. 

Florida Springs in Distress

Florida has many freshwater springs, gushing water at a steady 72 degrees in the eastern part of the state, and a chilly 68 in the Panhandle. However, many of these springs are now ailing. Some have been loved to death by the swimming public, converted into sand pits by too many feet, the vegetation and fish simply gone. Other springs, located near cities, have run dry when their aquifer (groundwater) dropped too low. Near the coast, saltwater intrusion increases as the aquifer runs lower and the Atlantic or Gulf pushed back. One can only hope for lots of rainfall, to restore power to these springs. Florida springs were amazing to witness 200 years ago; the explorer William Bartram witnessed one of them blasting water four feet in the air, hosting a kaleidoscope of fish.

Invasive plants have moved in, such as hydrilla. Worst of all and nearly impossible to control, nutrients from lawn fertilizer and cattle (among other sources) leaches into the aquifer and is pumped out through the springs. This feeds a noxious algae called lyngbya, which chokes out native vegetation, coats the rocks, and carries irritating neurotoxins many people are allergic to.

In the past two weeks I dove two springs, one connected to the Gulf of Mexico, the other to the Atlantic. At Crystal River on King’s Bay, there were more divers and snorklers, hundreds of them, than fish. Up to 700 manatees, cooped up there in warmer spring water to survive last winter’s cruel weather, and likely tired of entertaining thousands of swimmers, have fled down-river towards the Gulf, looking for food and privacy. A volunteer told me that at least 200 pregnant manatees across Florida didn’t survive last winter. So, the springs at least still protect local wildlife during frigid weather. Ye Gods, but the number of pontoon dive boats on King’s Bay that prowl around, looking for them…it’s quite an industry.

The week before, we dove in Silver Glen Recreation Area in the Ocala National Forest, connected to the Atlantic through the long St. John’s River. Talk about an ailing spring…everywhere grew toxic lyngbya algae, choking out native eelgrass called Vallisneria, the tall, graceful aquatic plant that’s been here for millennia. Even though Silver Glen is far from any town, the nutrient levels must be very high to support unbridled algae growth. Aquifer water from deep underground should be fairly sterile—-almost ready for bottling—-the fate of some springs purchased by giant water bottling companies such as Coca-Cola. 

The park rangers at Silver Glenn are gone now; instead a private concessionaire hires locals for about $8 an hour. Their job is to charge admission, drive around in golf carts, clean the grounds, sell food and drink. ‘Round the picnic tables lurk buzzards, who have become expert at rifling through swimmer’s bags until they find something edible. We chased them away repeatedly…one had chewed a hole through a nearby family’s bag of bread, burying his head in the loaf itself, before I chased him off. There’s no telling what roadkill that buzzard’s head had visited that very morning…Enough to flavor any sandwich.

Underwater was worse, apparently ignored by “management,” such as it is. Thick brown algae coated everything, except where the current was strong or swimmer’s feet kicked it loose. Around the periphery grew a dark terrain that no animal could eat. The few stalks of native vallisneria were mostly coated with this neruotoxic mess, which causes rashes. And this before the summer growing season has even begun. One wonders why this algae isn’t at least vacuumed ashore, compressed and hauled away. We did see mullet sucking up the algae, but they spit out the white cotton after filtering the darker matter. Whether this flavors the mullet isn’t known. 

The only fish present were native ladyfish from the Atlantic. And one other—-the invasive blue tilapia, numbering several thousand. Tropical tilapia are not a native fish, so there are no harvest restrictions. Tilapia in the lakes died in their thousands during the cold winter, but the springs offered refuge, and many found it there. These fish crater the ground like no-mans’ land in a World War I battlefield, each one requiring a nest as big as a car tire. Though these tasty fish in the springs are plainly vulnerable to harvest, they’re protected in park boundaries. Which leaves them free to spawn, the young heading down-river to spread throughout the St. John’s River drainage, stretching more than 100 miles. One castnetter and a diver with a pole spear could limit their spreading by harvesting most for fish markets.

But there’s no park management underwater here. Either biologists in Tallahassee don’t care, or (more likely) there have been extreme budget cutbacks. Less state government, with politicians using ideology as management. 

Florida springs now a haven for fish

Jumping out of a boat into frigid water requires serious purpose, including if your boat is sinking fast. Mine wasn’t, in fact it was perfectly dry. But I wanted to see first-hand what species of fish might be using one of Florida’s numerous springs for shelter from last week’s harsh winter weather. These springs pour (or sometimes more weakly, ooze 72 degree water all year. This makes them a haven when an Arctic cold front slams into Florida, killing coastal fish when bay temperatures drop.

So I jumped overboard, sinking though murky green water, fairly gasping as the cold gripped tight, creeping into the thin wetsuit. Down, down…tarpon and snook shapes swirled around me, soon lost in the gloom. No use taking photos of them, the silt would only ruin pictures. Deeper still the water cleared, and there below swam thousands of gray snappers, called mangrove snapper in Florida. They were schooling tightly where warm water seeped up from the bottom; I could feel it (with relief) as I landed with a thump on a massive rock. I was wearing enough lead weights to pin me down, without floating away.

Read More