Editor's note: Growing older comes with many of its own challenges, but it doesn't mean we can't explore new experiences in the beautiful and tranquil settings of the National Park System. Sharon Kurtz discovered that while trying her hand at fly fishing on the Middle Fork of the Flathead River hard up against Glacier National Park in Montana.

As dawn painted the Montana sky in hues of gold and amber, I sat in a raft on the Middle Fork of the Flathead River, gripping a fly rod for the first time. This wasn't just a fishing adventure—it became a journey of self-discovery.

The Art of the Cast

When the chance came to join a guided adventure with Glacier Anglers and Outfitters, I said yes, even though I'd never held a fly rod. That first morning at the Paddle Ridge fly shop in West Glacier, we learned the basics: assembling rods, selecting flies, and practicing casts. Awkward at first, the camaraderie of our group turned the fumbling into fun. As we practiced the fluid motion of casting—a delicate dance mimicking the landing of an insect—anticipation grew for the river ahead.

Rewriting Old Stories

This experience unearthed childhood memories. My dad took my brothers fishing, but I was never invited. Back then, societal expectations dictated what girls could and couldn't do. Fishing wasn't for daughters—it was for sons. Sitting in that raft decades later, rod in hand, I felt a quiet triumph. At 69, I wasn't just learning to fish—I was rewriting my narrative.

Now, as a grandmother to two-year-old Violet, I dream of taking her fly fishing one day. I want her to grow up knowing there are no "boy things" or "girl things"—only adventures waiting to be had.

Lessons from the River

Morning broke crisp and cool, with the river on the edge of Glacier National Park sparkling in the early light. Its surface rippled now and then as a fish broke through, creating fleeting rings. Beneath the water's deep green and blue hues, multicolored stones shimmered like jewels. Snow-dusted peaks framed the horizon, completing the serene, postcard-worthy scene. Our guide, Stacie Rains, is one of Montana's few female fishing guides and a seasoned whitewater rafting expert. Her calm, collected demeanor immediately reassured us as we climbed into the rafts.

Stacie began with the basics: holding the rod, releasing the line, and—most importantly—reading the water. She quickly explained the casting mechanics, likening it to a flick of the wrist and a fluid rhythm. It sounded deceptively simple, but my initial attempts told a different story. My first casts were more slapstick than skillful, and I couldn't help but laugh at my tangled lines.

"You're overthinking it," Stacie said with a chuckle. "Women tend to pick this up faster because they listen to instructions." Her wry humor broke the tension, and I relaxed. Taking a deep breath, I slowed down and let the rhythm guide me. It wasn't about force but finding the balance between control and letting go.

Casting into the swift-moving river proved trickier than I'd expected. At one point, I managed to hook a tree on the bank instead of a fish. Stacie's encouragement kept me going. "Fly fishing is an art," she reminded us, demonstrating her cast's smooth, looping flow. "It's about patience and rhythm. Trust the process."

With practice, my frustration began to melt into focus. The fresh mountain air filled my lungs, the soothing gurgle of the river surrounded me, and the repetitive casting motion became meditative. It was as if the river demanded my full attention, pulling me into the present moment. Out here, simply showing up felt like an achievement.

The Catch

Learning to wait for the perfect cast became a reward for someone used to rushing through life's to-do lists. Slowing down felt like a revelation. Here, patience wasn't a limitation—it was a strength.

And then it happened. Stacie anchored the raft in a quiet pool and said, "This is a good spot." I cast my line. The fly dipped below the water, and I felt a tug. My heart leaped as I reeled in clumsily. A flash of color broke the surface—a cutthroat trout, small but fierce. I held it briefly, marveling at its speckled skin and fiery gills, before releasing it back into the river. The fish wasn't the prize; the moment was.

A Boomer Epiphany

Fly fishing reminded me that life unfolds in the now. As boomers, we often find ourselves between nostalgia for what's behind us and uncertainty about what lies ahead. But sitting in that raft, surrounded by the rush of the Flathead River, I realized it's never too late to try something new, challenge ourselves, or rewrite our stories. Like casting a fly, life is about being present, savoring small victories, and staying in motion, no matter where the current leads.

Approaching 70 has its contradictions. Some days, I feel 30 again, ready to take on the world; on others, my creaky knees remind me how far I've come. This trip wasn't just about trying something new—it was about proving to myself that learning and growth don't have an expiration date. Fly fishing offered more than just a challenge; it was a chance to reconnect with a sense of adventure and resilience, proving that the best stories are the ones we keep writing, one cast at a time.

Looking Forward

At the end of the day, the river gently brought us back to shore. I felt deeply grateful—not just for the fish I caught or the beauty of Glacier National Park but also for the lessons it had taught me. Like a good cast, the river reminded me that life requires patience, rhythm, and trust in the unknown. I dream of sharing this with Violet one day—sitting together on a riverbank, teaching her to tie a fly or read the water. I want her to know that life's adventures have no rules or limits. They belong to anyone willing to step forward, cast a line, and see what's waiting.

Life Lessons

I'm learning to face life's challenges and embrace aging with compassion for myself and my journey. Fly fishing didn't change my life, but it enriched it. It reminded me that growth is always possible, and the best adventures await beyond our comfort zones. I left the river that day with more than just memories. I carried a renewed perspective on living fully at any age: showing up, celebrating small wins, and sharing the lessons of resilience, patience, and possibility with Violet—and with anyone ready to cast their line into life's ever-changing current.