The river flows as it always has. It’s a self-evident truth I find great comfort in. I dip my right oar blade into the water alongside my raft and take a patient breath. The current slows as the river widens, and I pause, looking up at the canyon walls, at my two pups perched on the raft tubes in front of me, at my own hands softly gripping the oars. This moment feels like the culmination of years of work and experience. I release a quiet giggle; if only my past self could see me now.
The river’s rhythm, both ancient and unhurried, carries me back to my childhood. I picture my younger self running along the bank of a stream I likely never knew the name of. Back then, family and friends had such lofty dreams for me. I could have been a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer… But life took its own course, meandering like the river I currently navigate. Unforeseen tributaries fed into my main channel, confluences with others shaped my path. Dams were built and broken, and still, the current carried me onward.
I didn’t become a lawyer or a doctor. To some, my life is nothing but a disappointment. But when I think back to that little girl, I see her so clearly. This was always her destiny. She was meant to be nothing more, and nothing less, than a humble yet devoted trout bum.
The river narrows, and up ahead, the water seems promising. Boulders scatter the current, forming eddies and shelter for trout seeking respite. I guide my raft into an eddy of my own and drop anchor. This feels like as good a spot as any to cast a line. I reach for my nine-foot, six-weight fly rod—the first one I ever owned, a birthday gift from years ago. This rod has accompanied me across continents, from the verdant landscapes of Patagonia to the spring creeks of New Zealand’s South Island, and here, to Big Sky country.
Montana is where I finally decided to settle, at least as much as someone with restless legs and a wanderlust heart ever will.
Stepping out of the raft, the cold water greets me through my waders, alive and insistent. On warmer days, I prefer the feel of water against bare skin, so I wear shorts or quick-dry pants rolled high. But today, the air is cold; frost still lingered on the ground when I woke. I find my footing and unhook my fly from its secure place on the rod.
In moments like this—standing in the river, letting my thoughts drift like the current—I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It’s a grounding force, one that has allowed me to experience hope and positivity even in a world that can often feel broken and bewildering.
The river doesn’t care who I am, the foolish mistakes I’ve made, or the hardships I’ve endured. It simply flows, steady and indifferent, reminding me that life, too, will always move forward.
Google “What is a trout bum?” and you’ll find this definition: “A trout bum is a term for a dedicated angler, especially one who fly fishes, who fishes whenever and wherever they want, without regard to time, schedule, or responsibilities.”
I have always been a bit of an odd man out. For better or worse, I was never any good at being anything but my quirky self. A big part of my story is curiosity— an unrelenting longing to witness and ponder the world and its phenomena, always with awe and wonder. It didn’t take long for my innate desire to explore, my love of nature, and my predilection for water to converge. I belonged on a river.
My first romance, my first heartbreak, my first real honest look at who I really was: So many defining moments in my life are tied to the river. The first time I felt a sense of community and, eventually, the first time I felt at home.
The trout bum life seemed to suit me well. I’ve spent summers hitchhiking to rivers with little more than a fly rod, bringing along a bar of biodegradable soap for the occasional shower, and eating hand-caught trout to save on groceries, so I could fish just a little bit longer. Even ended a perfectly nice romance or two, knowing they couldn’t share the same obsession with the river. I invested in secondhand snorkeling gear just to scout my favorite streams, diving headfirst into the world of fish to see where they’re hiding, yet alternated the same three pairs of underwear for the last few years because a new pair costs the equivalent of a dozen flies.
I measure my time in casts I could take or river miles I could travel and my currency in flies I could purchase or fuel for travel. I can’t cross a bridge without pausing to peer over the edge, searching for the water below, nor can I pass by a feather on the ground without imagining the fly it could become.
Simply put, I am at the mercy of fly fishing.
To this day, I am that gal who lives in a van down by the river. To some, that might be the very pinnacle example of failure, but for me, it optimizes the time I get to spend on the river. And, at the end of the day, isn’t that what any angler wants?
Over the years, fly fishing has worked a sort of subtle magic on me. I may not have clinical evidence, but I’m fairly certain it’s rewired my brain. It dulled my sharper edges, softened my nihilistic tendencies, and opened me up to believe in miracles, in magic, and—perhaps most remarkably—in the goodness of others.
The river, I’ve come to believe, is the most beautiful kind of common ground. I’ve floated and fished rivers across the world, many of which have blurred into a single memory of rushing water, bending willows and colorful trout.
What remains vivid are the humans I have crossed paths with along the way. The people the river has brought into my life. I have remained in contact with some, planning annual fishing adventures or multiday float trips. Others I have never spoken with again. Regardless, if one day, years from now, we were to bump into each other along some river’s edge, I know we’d share a cast or two and have ourselves a grand old time.
Thigh-deep in the cold water, my pups watching me from the raft, I strip a small streamer through the slower current. A few eagles glide upstream, and a layer of clouds slowly funnels into the distant mountains.
Suddenly, I feel a tug.
Instinct takes over as I set the hook, and soon the reel hums its familiar rhythm. The fight is brief but electric, and soon, I reach for my net, secured at my back. Cradling another beautiful trout, I marvel at its delicate colors, its strength, its sheer existence. This, right here, will always feel like a gift.
Gently, I release the trout, watching it swim powerfully into the depths. In that moment, I revel in this passion, or what some may call obsession, that has shaped me so profoundly. Or perhaps it simply revealed what was already there.
And as I stand here, watching the river carry on as it always has, I smile. Trout bum I may be, but I know it has never really been about the trout at all.
***
Guest contributor Gloria Goñi currently resides in Montana with her trusty pups, Berto and Shakira. In addition to fishing, Gloria is passionate about hunting, foraging, photography, writing and food. She finds deep satisfaction in exploring the natural world and documenting her adventures, one river or mountain at a time. Find more of her work at La Pescadora Studio.