This past week, I had the chance to explore some new waters in my Montana backyard. I had the joy of taking a float fishing trip down the Blackfoot River, one of the tributaries to the famous Clark Fork that runs through the western mountains. While I had my hopes set on practicing with dry flies, the unpredictable spring weather did her thing—bringing blistering cold wind and high-elevation frozen rain—nearly making me question my decision.
This is the time of year that fly fishing really gets going in our area. It begins with the Skwala hatch, a stonefly that lives underwater and then, not unlike a butterfly, “hatches” into a winged creature that flutters around, mates, and dies all within a few short weeks. (Mayflies do all that in about 24–48 hours.)
Many different types of bugs hatch in rivers, and there are specific fly patterns to replicate each stage of their life cycle. From a water bug to a hatching bug to a... umm… spent bug, this is what dry fly anglers live for.
From creepy water bug to dazzling winged creature—this is the drama that dry fly anglers dream of.
The problem with the wind is that it makes casting a dry fly difficult. Imagine throwing a crumpled piece of paper into a wind strong enough to blow your hat off and send it twenty feet into the river.
(Shoutout to my guide for recovering my hat.)
So, how exactly do we catch fish in these conditions?
We nymph.
There are thousands of different fly patterns that replicate underwater bugs, and choosing the right one takes knowledge, experience, and a bit of hopeful thinking. On this rig, we tied on a fake worm called a Squirmy Wormy with a bright orange bead.
Whenever I tie on a Squirmy Wormy, I’m brought back to my childhood.
My dad had a place on Lake Lindero in Agoura Hills, CA, for a while when I was growing up. Sometimes, we’d borrow a neighbor’s boat and fish around the lake. We’d drive up to Big Bear on special occasions, rent a boat, and fish there.
I don’t remember many of the fish I caught, but I do remember being grossed out by worm guts—and to be honest, I still am.
A Squirmy Wormy is made of synthetic materials but replicates something essential in a trout’s diet. As spring runoff swells the rivers, worms and shoreline bugs get swept into the water—easy meals for hungry trout.
That cold day left me with chapped lips and a wind-burnt face—but it also brought me two of the longest trout I’ve ever recorded: an 18” Brown and a 20” Rainbow.
(Okay, that part was the brag.)
I netted ten fish in total, with another two escaping. I caught four species: a Westslope Cutthroat, Brown, Rainbow, and several Native Whitefish, all of which were safely released.
Most were caught on the Squirmy Wormy, and a few on another nymph pattern. (Can’t give away all the secrets now, can I?)
And that’s when it hit me.
What is it about imitating a worm that feels so earthy, mundane, and the opposite of grandiose?
Among all the different bugs in the river, there are really two categories:
Those that go through dramatic metamorphosis and get wings.
And those that just stay a worm (or a scud/sow bug).
Why was it the worm, the one that never grows wings, that yielded my biggest fish?
Are there parts of us that don’t need transformation, but simply need to be seen as inherently valuable—and metaphorically hearty snacks?
This float trip had a special guest: Kevin, a five-year-old wiener dog who took his job seriously.
He provided perimeter security at the boat launch, companionship when I lost a fish, and alerted us to another dog as we packed up to go home. Kevin—his sweater, his hideout under the casting deck, and his quiet presence—reminded me that not everything has to be about chasing the next big thing.
There’s something to be said for steady, earthy, tried, and true.
One of the things I’m lamenting in this season is my former hunger for larger-than-life transformation.
I dreamed of making it “big” in higher education, the church, even denominational leadership. I believed that if I worked hard enough in the trenches, maybe I’d get my shot at soaring. And in a way, I did.
But the view from “the top” was short-lived. It left me spent, burned out, and falling back to the water—swallowed by an organizational culture that valued charisma and chemistry more than compassion and character.
After moving across the country, a year of therapy, and a lot of time outdoors, I’ve come to see: being a worm isn’t so bad.
I’ve discovered that the human person is much like a river’s ecosystem.
Yes, there are parts of us that require transformation—attributes that need to go from creepy river bug to dazzling winged creature.
But there are also parts that are already good.
Already whole.
These are the dignity centers of our humanity, but they are too often overshadowed by shame, guilt, and external pressure to evolve.
What if the part we’re trying to change is actually the very core of our goodness—not something to fix, but something to honor?
Maybe we all need a Kevin to secure the perimeters of our thinking, belonging, and becoming.