(~6 minutes to read)

In my constant search for ways to supplement my income, I recently discovered worm farming. I was in a conversation with a family member out on Vancouver Island, and we got around to talking about worm hunter-gatherers, farmers and so on, and surprise—they all exist!

So I used my favourite search engine to find a Dude Ranch nearby that caters to vermiphiles, packed my bags, and drove out to The Wormhole Ranch.

The Wormhole Ranch

I drove down the vermicular (that’s wormlike to you and me) entrance driveway and parked outside the office, a curved, tubular building fashioned to resemble an earthworm. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the windows, and the antennae-like twin chimneys gave the overall effect of a creature from a spoof alien movie, but perhaps that’s what they were going for, given the ranch’s name.

After checking in and settling down in my cabin (the floor of which was covered in dark-coloured chunks of foam to mimic a worm farm bed), I donned my freshly-purchased wormboy duds. On my head, a Stetson with a braided hatband. My shirt was a pinkish-brown sweatshirt with a cartoon on the front of a worm sporting arms with Popeye biceps. My jeans matched the colour of the shirt, and had ringed lines around the legs which made them look like worms. The ensemble was finished off with a pair of soft-soled flip-flops—after all, a good wormboy doesn’t want to tread on the livestock and kill them.

After a final check in the mirror I ventured outside and joined a group of horse riders who were being shown how to wrangle Red Wrigglers.

Out on the Range

The horses were about twenty inches high at the shoulders and made from fibreglass. The “head” held a small bucket and was hinged so that as I bent down to pick up a worm, the head moved and the bucket was nearer the ground.

In the centre of the group was a worm-grunter. His job was to make a wooden stake vibrate in the ground, an activity that was guaranteed to bring the worms to the surface. Apparently, worm hunters use this technique in the wild as well as in ranching operations.

As we wrangled, the foreman (actually a gal) gave us some insight to life as a worm wrangler.

“Ya have to git inside their heads,” she said. “If ya don’t, you’ll never work out which way they’ll run. You haff t’ larn to psych them out. And after you bin workin’ with ‘em for a decade or so, ye start thinkin’ like a worm, and ye intuitively reach down and grab the little dawgies first time.”

A video game developer named Dwayne from Saskatchewan put his hand up.

“Why does is take so long to learn to think like a worm? It’s not like they’ve got humungous brains. And why does it even matter? Like, they can’t outrun us. And when I say ‘outrun’, I guess I should say ‘out-slither’.”

Kenndrahh (she really did spell her name that way) chuckled knowingly. “You poor son-of-a-biscuit,” she said. “Y’re dealin’ with hundreds of the little beggars, and it looks like they’re all headed in random directions. But when y’re inside their heads, y’instinctively know where they’re all headed, so you guide y’r hoss accordingly.”

“Which end is the head at?” asked a matronly lady named Elspeth, who had flown in from Ireland.

“Depends,” said Kenndrahh. “If ye hear a beepin’ noise, that means it’s backin’ up, so the head’ll be at the back, otherwise it’s at the front.”

“Really?” enquired Elspeth.

“Nah,” returned Kenndrahh. “be honest with ya, I can’t tell their heads from their asses.”

A bespectacled octogenarian of indeterminate (and unimportant) gender spoke. “On mature worms, there’s a clitellum (several young men giggled here) towards the anterior end. The clitellum (cue giggles again) is a thicker and smoother segment. Some people think it’s where the worm has been chopped in half and re-generated, but it’s actually where the eggs and sperm (giggle) get wrapped into a cocoon so they can co-mingle and make baby worms.”

“Well, spit on m’spurs an’ pick ma wedgie!” declared Kenndrahh. “They say it’s a poor day if’n ya don’t larn summat, and I jest larned summat right there!”

“You’re welcome,” said the B.O., simpering a little.

The Arrogance of Worms

Eager to learn more about The Wormhole, I moseyed on down to the Worm Marketing Corral.

On the way, I passed the worm-roping pen, where dudes just like me were learning to catch wild worms with a lariat and tie them down with a piggin’ string. This activity was more for entertainment than education since the worm’s lack of legs made it impossible to incapacitate it using the piggin’ string.

The exercise wasn’t totally futile though, because worms are arrogant by nature, and a worm with an exaggerated sense of its own importance doesn’t make for good fishing bait, so the worm roping (including the full body slam—sshhh—don’t tell the animal welfare folk) has a somewhat humbling effect.

The Worm Market

In the marketing corral, salespeople were giving talks about the various outlets for worms. These include fishing bait and pet food for snakes, birds, fish, and other small animals. They also spoke about the value of worm poop—a soil conditioner and fertilizer much-valued by gardeners.

The bulk of The Wormhole’s product is shipped south of the border, where American anglers are falling over themselves to purchase large, juicy, Canadian worms. The speaker did point out though, that as part of the NAFTA renegotiations, Trump has his sights set on the worm market, and is considering punitive tariffs. If this happens, then ranches such as The Wormhole will be forced to rely more and more on tourism. They already have plans to cater to gastronomes in search of new and interesting eating experiences, and hinted that a new kind of vermicelli might form the foundation of their menus.

The Rest of the Trip

The rest of my stay was as interesting as my first day. We took part in worm-branding, and were treated to the chef’s specialty—wormery oysters. Rumour has it that the dish is made from the bits that turn bull worms into steer worms, but that seems a little far-fetched to me.

In the evenings, we played worm-patty bingo (where we bet on which square in a tray of worm dirt a worm would emerge), and slept on the foam-strewn floors of our cabins.

I never did see Kenndrahh again, although the chef looked just like her, but the French accent told me it couldn’t have been. (But as I write this, I wonder if it was her and she was faking one or both of the accents?)

Overall…

Would I recommend The Wormhole Ranch to anyone? Right now, yes, I would. But the post-NAFTA plans may spoil the rustic appeal of the place as it ramps up the number of guests it can accommodate.

And the mention of vermicelli on the menu just sets off alarm bells in my head. Why vermicelli? And what are they going to do with all the worms once they can’t sell south of the border so easily?

So… if you want to go, go now. And say “hi” to Kenndrahh from me.