by Kelly Reeves
If you grew up anywhere in the rural South, you’ve driven past an old farmhouse with a tall, spreading tree out front with big, broad leaves fluttering in the summer breeze. Long green pods dangle from the foliage like Christmas ornaments. That, my friend, was likely a Southern Catalpa tree. They were once as much a part of Southern yards as porch swings and and old dogs. But for some folks, those trees weren’t planted just for shade or beauty. They had a deeper, wriggling purpose… fish bait. The kind of bait that catfish can’t resist, and bream swarm to like kids around a watermelon on the Fourth of July.
That bait, of course, is the legendary catalpa worm. Folks ‘round here pronounce it ‘Catawba’. If you want to get technical, it’s the caterpillar stage of the catalpa sphinx moth, but down here, no one calls them that. They’re catalpa worms, plain and simple, and they’ve been filling stringers and skillets for generations.
The relationship between Southerners, the catalpa tree, and those worms is more than an accident of nature. It’s more like a love triangle that stretches back hundreds of years. And while modern-day anglers can stroll into any bait shop for nightcrawlers or chicken liver, there’s something about plucking a fat, squirming catalpa worm straight from your own backyard tree that feels like you are winning the fishing lottery.
Old-timers will tell you the catalpa’s story the same way they talk about heirloom tomatoes or cast iron skillets—it’s part history, part personal memory, and part tall tale. The Southern Catalpa is native to the Southeast, from the Gulf Coast up through the Carolinas and into parts of the Mississippi Valley. Early settlers valued it for its fast growth, dense summer shade, and beautiful clusters of white, frilly flowers that bloom in late spring. Those blooms give way to the long, bean-like pods that often stay on the tree well into winter, rattling in the wind like wind chimes directly from the Lord.
It didn’t take folks long to notice that certain years, their catalpas were crawling with thick, black-and-yellow caterpillars. These worms could strip a tree bare of leaves in a week if they were in the mood, but the tree didn’t seem to mind. Come the next spring, it would leaf right out again. And while gardeners might curse a pest that eats every leaf in sight, fishermen saw something else entirely… the finest catfish bait ever to wiggle on a hook.
Nobody knows exactly who threaded the first catalpa worm onto a hook and dropped it into the water, but I like to imagine it was a barefooted boy wearing overalls, fishing with a cane pole somewhere in a river bottom in the 1800s. Maybe he was supposed to be helping his father hoe corn or pick cotton, but he spotted those worms and decided to skip a little work in favor of a quick fishing trip. That first fish—probably a hungry channel cat—sealed the deal. Word spread, as it always does in small towns, and before long, planting a catalpa tree wasn’t just about shade; it was about keeping a personal bait shop right outside your window.
In many rural communities, planting a catalpa was almost a rite of passage for a young couple setting up house. The tree went in the front yard for shade, the vegetable garden went in the back, and if all went well, by the time the kids were big enough to fish, the tree would be hosting its first worm hatch. “My daddy planted those trees the year I was born,” said 88 year old Luke Pardie. “By the time I was six, that tree had worms every summer, and we never lacked bait again.”
Catalpa worms are not just effective—they’re legendary among catfish anglers. The caterpillars have a tough skin and a bright green innard that oozes when you hook them, releasing a scent that fish seem to find irresistible. Perch and bream will hammer them, too, but the real prize is the way catfish will swim across the river for one. “I swear a catalpa worm will catch a catfish when nothing else will,” said James Harlan, a long-time Texas fisherman who’s been using them for over fifty years. “I’ve caught ‘em on liver, shrimp, even hot dogs, but a catalpa worm… that’s like giving a kid a piece of chocolate pie.”
The tradition of gathering catalpa worms is almost as much fun as fishing with them. On a good year, you’ll know the worms are ready when you walk outside and hear a soft rain of caterpillar droppings hitting the grass under the tree. That’s your signal to grab a bucket, because the leaves will be crawling. Kids in the South grew up thinking of this as a summertime treasure hunt. You’d reach up, pluck them off by hand, and drop them in a coffee can or a mason jar. Sometimes you’d have to shake a branch and watch them tumble down into your container. By the end of an afternoon, you might have enough worms to keep you in fish for weeks.
Of course, not every year is a bumper crop. Catalpa worms tend to appear in cycles, and weather, predators, and timing all play a role. In the lean years, folks guarded their trees like gold. “I’ve seen neighbors sneak over at night to poach a few worms,” Mr. Harlan told me with a grin. “You’d wake up and half your worms would be gone. We called it ‘worm rustling’, and the price to pay if you got caught was usually a good hide tanning.”
Once you’ve gathered your worms, the question is how to keep them fresh until you can get to the water. Catalpa worms can be used fresh, right off the tree, and that’s when they’re at their liveliest on the hook. But plenty of fishermen like to store them for later use, especially if they have a short worm season. The most common preservation method is freezing. You simply drop the worms into a freezer bag with a handful of catalpa leaves—so they have a little “comfort food” for the trip—and pop them in the freezer. They’ll turn dark, almost black, but they still work like a charm when thawed.
Some old-timers prefer to parboil the worms for a few seconds before freezing, claiming it toughens them up so they stay on the hook better. Others swear by storing them in cornmeal in the refrigerator, where they’ll live for a week or more. The late Jimmy Carter (Smith County rancher, not the President) salted his worms down in mason jars, layering them like pickles. “They last all year like that,” he said proudly, “and I don’t have to fight Pat (his wife) for freezer space.” He also would bag them in corn meal and freeze them if Pat allowed.
Fishing with catalpa worms is a bit of an art. They’re not as simple to thread onto a hook as a nightcrawler, thanks to their tougher skin, but once you get the hang of it, you can catch multiple fish on the same worm. Most folks like to hook them just behind the head and thread them onto the shank so they dangle and wriggle. Others split them in half, believing the scent draws fish from farther away. Either way, the results are usually the same: bites come fast and often.
Beyond their usefulness, catalpa worms have a way of weaving themselves into a family’s memories. Many people who grew up with a catalpa in the yard can tell you stories of summer afternoons spent under its shade, the air smelling of its sweet blossoms, a cane pole leaning against the porch, and a bait bucket full of squirming, black-striped gold. The worms were part of the pattern of the seasons—when the trees bloomed, summer was near; when the worms came, fishing was about to get good.
Even today, when you can buy just about any kind of bait imaginable, there’s a certain romance in the idea of walking out to your own yard to gather what you need. It’s fishing the way it’s been done for many generations; simple, sustainable, and connects you to the land and its early folks. The catalpa tree doesn’t just provide shade; it provides memories, traditions, and a direct link to some of the best fishing you’ll ever have. Some folks plant magnolias for beauty, others plant pecans for pies, but in the South, a catalpa tree in the yard meant you were serious about three things: shade, fishing, and keeping traditions alive. As long as there are catalpa trees and a few folks who are still willing to get up early with a bucket in hand, that legacy will survive for a few more generations.
Catalpa Worm Gathering Tips from Old-Timers
“If you ain’t getting green guts on your shirt, you’re not doing it right.” That’s the general consensus among folks who’ve been harvesting catalpa worms all of their lives. Don’t wear your Sunday clothes. Worm guts stain worse than tobacco juice on white T-shirt.
Go early. Worms are like fishermen, they’re more active before the sun gets too hot. Plus, you’ll beat your sneaky neighbor who “just happens to be out walking” with a bucket at dawn.
Listen for the rain. If you’re under a catalpa tree and hear a soft patter hitting the ground on a sunny day, that’s not rain—it’s worm droppings. Look up. You’re in the right spot.
Shake ‘em out. Don’t be shy. A good shake of a low branch can make a dozen worms drop faster than a minnow can swim a dipper. Just make sure you’re not standing directly under them unless you enjoy worm-to-the-face encounters.
A cane pole is also good for ‘tickling’ out those high ones. Ease the tip of the pole up through the canopy of limbs and leaves to reach those worms near the top. It doesn’t take much effort to knock them off the leaf. Let the kids try to catch the worms in a coffee can as they fall from above, This is more fun than any game they’ve ever played.
Leave a few. The wise worm gatherer never strips a tree bare. Leave a handful of worms so they can keep the cycle going. Nothing’s worse than a wormless catalpa come next summer. Treat any fireants in the area. Fireants are blamed for the Catalpa worm shortages when there are few to be found.
Myth #1: Catalpa worms bite.
They’ve got no teeth worth worrying about. The worst you’ll get is a little green goo on your fingers, which most fishermen consider a badge of honor.
Myth #2: You can only use them fresh.
Not true—freeze ‘em, salt ‘em, or refrigerate them in cornmeal. Catfish don’t seem to mind if their dinner’s been on ice for six months.
Myth #3: Catalpa worms will kill a tree.
They’ll strip it bare in a week, sure, but the tree bounces right back next year like nothing happened. Think of it as an all-you-can-eat buffet that never closes.
Myth #4: Only catfish eat them.
Bream, perch, and the occasional bass have been known to fall for a catalpa worm. Basically, if it swims, there’s a good chance it’ll bite.
Myth #5: Catalpa worms are hard to find.
If you’ve got a catalpa tree and it’s a good worm year, they’re not just easy to find—they’ll be raining down on you. Literally.
Truth That’s No Myth:
Catalpa worms are one of the best fishing baits the South has ever known. And if you’re lucky enough to have a catalpa tree in your yard, you’ve basically got a built-in bait shop and a reason to go fishing every summer.
