A River Runs Through It and Other Stories

\ A River Runs Through It\ \ \ \ By Norman Maclean\ \ \ University of Chicago Press\ \ \ \ Copyright © 2003\ \ \ University of Chicago\ All right reserved.\ \ ISBN: 0-226-50066-7\ \ \ \ \ \ Chapter One\ \ \ In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.\ We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our\ father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own\ flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being\ fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all\ first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that\ John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.\ It is true that one day a week was given over wholly to religion. On\ Sunday mornings my brother, Paul, and I went to Sunday school and then to\ "morning services" to hear our father preach and in the evenings to\ Christian Endeavor and afterwards to "evening services" to hear our father\ preach again. In between on Sunday afternoons we had to study The\ Westminster Shorter Catechism for an hour and then recite before we could\ walk the hills with him while he unwound between services. But he never\ asked us more than the first question in the catechism, "What is the chief\ end of man?" And we answered together so one of us could carry on if the\ other forgot, "Man's chief end is to glorify God, andto enjoy Him\ forever." This always seemed to satisfy him, as indeed such a beautiful\ answer should have, and besides he was anxious to be on the hills where he\ could restore his soul and be filled again to overflowing for the evening\ sermon. His chief way of recharging himself was to recite to us from the\ sermon that was coming, enriched here and there with selections from the\ most successful passages of his morning sermon.\ Even so, in a typical week of our childhood Paul and I probably received\ as many hours of instruction in fly fishing as we did in all other\ spiritual matters.\ After my brother and I became good fishermen, we realized that our father\ was not a great fly caster, but he was accurate and stylish and wore a\ glove on his casting hand. As he buttoned his glove in preparation to\ giving us a lesson, he would say, "It is an art that is performed on a\ four-count rhythm between ten and two o'clock."\ As a Scot and a Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a\ mess and had fallen from an original state of grace. Somehow, I early\ developed the notion that he had done this by falling from a tree. As for\ my father, I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he\ certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God's\ rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty. Unlike many\ Presbyterians, he often used the word "beautiful."\ After he buttoned his glove, he would hold his rod straight out in front\ of him, where it trembled with the beating of his heart. Although it was\ eight and a half feet long, it weighed only four and a half ounces. It was\ made of split bamboo cane from the far-off Bay of Tonkin. It was wrapped\ with red and blue silk thread, and the wrappings were carefully spaced to\ make the delicate rod powerful but not so stiff it could not tremble.\ Always it was to be called a rod. If someone called it a pole, my father\ looked at him as a sergeant in the United States Marines would look at a\ recruit who had just called a rifle a gun.\ My brother and I would have preferred to start learning how to fish by\ going out and catching a few, omitting entirely anything difficult or\ technical in the way of preparation that would take away from the fun. But\ it wasn't by way of fun that we were introduced to our father's art. If\ our father had had his say, nobody who did not know how to fish would be\ allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him. So you too will have to\ approach the art Marine and Presbyterian-style, and, if you have never\ picked up a fly rod before, you will soon find it factually and\ theologically true that man by nature is a damn mess. The\ four-and-a-half-ounce thing in silk wrappings that trembles with the\ underskin motions of the flesh becomes a stick without brains, refusing\ anything simple that is wanted of it. All that a rod has to do is lift the\ line, the leader, and the fly off the water, give them a good toss over\ the head, and then shoot them forward so they will land in the water\ without a splash in the following order: fly, transparent leader, and then\ the line-otherwise the fish will see the fly is a fake and be gone. Of\ course, there are special casts that anyone could predict would be\ difficult, and they require artistry-casts where the line can't go over\ the fisherman's head because cliffs or trees are immediately behind,\ sideways casts to get the fly under overhanging willows, and so on. But\ what's remarkable about just a straight cast-just picking up a rod with a\ line on it and tossing the line across the river?\ Well, until man is redeemed he will always take a fly rod too far back,\ just as natural man always overswings with an ax or golf club and loses\ all his power somewhere in the air: only with a rod it's worse, because\ the fly often comes so far back it gets caught behind in a bush or rock.\ When my father said it was an art that ended at two o'clock, he often\ added, "closer to ten than to two," meaning that the rod should be taken\ back only slightly farther than overhead (straight overhead being twelve\ o'clock).\ Then, since it is natural for man to try to attain power without\ recovering grace, he whips the line back and forth making it whistle each\ way, and sometimes even snapping off the fly from the leader, but the\ power that was going to transport the little fly across the river somehow\ gets diverted into building a bird's nest of line, leader, and fly that\ falls out of the air into the water about ten feet in front of the\ fisherman. If, though, he pictures the round trip of the line, transparent\ leader, and fly from the time they leave the water until their return,\ they are easier to cast. They naturally come off the water heavy line\ first and in front, and light transparent leader and fly trailing behind.\ But, as they pass overhead, they have to have a little beat of time so the\ light, transparent leader and fly can catch up to the heavy line now\ starting forward and again fall behind it; otherwise, the line starting on\ its return trip will collide with the leader and fly still on their way\ up, and the mess will be the bird's nest that splashes into the water ten\ feet in front of the fisherman.\ Almost the moment, however, that the forward order of line, leader, and\ fly is reestablished, it has to be reversed, because the fly and\ transparent leader must be ahead of the heavy line when they settle on the\ water. If what the fish sees is highly visible line, what the fisherman\ will see are departing black darts, and he might as well start for the\ next hole. High overhead, then, on the forward cast (at about ten o'clock)\ the fisherman checks again.\ The four-count rhythm, of course, is functional. The one count takes the\ line, leader, and fly off the water; the two count tosses them seemingly\ straight into the sky; the three count was my father's way of saying that\ at the top the leader and fly have to be given a little beat of time to\ get behind the line as it is starting forward; the four count means put on\ the power and throw the line into the rod until you reach ten o'clock-then\ check-cast, let the fly and leader get ahead of the line, and coast to a\ soft and perfect landing. Power comes not from power everywhere, but from\ knowing where to put it on. "Remember," as my father kept saying, "it is\ an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two\ o'clock."\ My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe.\ To him, all good things-trout as well as eternal salvation-come by grace\ and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.\ So my brother and I learned to cast Presbyterian-style, on a metronome. It\ was mother's metronome, which father had taken from the top of the piano\ in town. She would occasionally peer down to the dock from the front porch\ of the cabin, wondering nervously whether her metronome could float if it\ had to. When she became so overwrought that she thumped down the dock to\ reclaim it, my father would clap out the four-count rhythm with his cupped\ hands.\ Eventually, he introduced us to literature on the subject. He tried always\ to say something stylish as he buttoned the glove on his casting hand.\ "Izaak Walton," he told us when my brother was thirteen or fourteen, "is\ not a respectable writer. He was an Episcopalian and a bait fisherman."\ Although Paul was three years younger than I was, he was already far ahead\ of me in anything relating to fishing and it was he who first found a copy\ of The Compleat Angler and reported back to me, "The bastard doesn't even\ know how to spell 'complete.' Besides, he has songs to sing to\ dairymaids." I borrowed his copy, and reported back to him, "Some of those\ songs are pretty good." He said, "Whoever saw a dairymaid on the Big\ Blackfoot River?\ "I would like," he said, "to get him for a day's fishing on the Big\ Blackfoot-with a bet on the side."\ The boy was very angry, and there has never been a doubt in my mind that\ the boy would have taken the Episcopalian money.\ When you are in your teens-maybe throughout your life-being three years\ older than your brother often makes you feel he is a boy. However, I knew\ already that he was going to be a master with a rod. He had those extra\ things besides fine training-genius, luck, and plenty of self-confidence.\ Even at this age he liked to bet on himself against anybody who would fish\ with him, including me, his older brother. It was sometimes funny and\ sometimes not so funny, to see a boy always wanting to bet on himself and\ almost sure to win. Although I was three years older, I did not yet feel\ old enough to bet. Betting, I assumed, was for men who wore straw hats on\ the backs of their heads. So I was confused and embarrassed the first\ couple of times he asked me if I didn't want "a small bet on the side just\ to make things interesting." The third time he asked me must have made me\ angry because he never again spoke to me about money, not even about\ borrowing a few dollars when he was having real money problems.\ We had to be very careful in dealing with each other. I often thought of\ him as a boy, but I never could treat him that way. He was never "my kid\ brother." He was a master of an art. He did not want any big brother\ advice or money or help, and, in the end, I could not help him.\ (Continues...)\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ Excerpted from A River Runs Through It\ by Norman Maclean\ Copyright © 2003\ by University of Chicago.\ Excerpted by permission.\ All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.\ Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.\ \ \

ForewordAcknowledgmentsA River Runs through It1Logging and Pimping and "Your Pal, Jim"105USFS 1919: The Ranger, the Cook, and a Hole in the Sky125

\ Library JournalOne of the best-selling audiotapes ever, this title became hard to find recently, as it fell victim to a series of buyouts of various publishers. HighBridge is putting a new cover on this classic reading by Ivan Doig, Montana native and author of This House of Sky. Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.\ \ \ \ \ Alfred KazinAltogether beautiful in the power of its feelings....As beautiful as anything in Thoreau or Hemingway. -- Chicago Tribune Book World\ \ \ Roger SaleIt is an enchanted tale....I have read the story three times now and each time it seems fuller. -- The New York Review of Books\ \ \ \ \ Dale BurkOne of the most sensitive and beautiful writers I've ever read. \ — Dale Burk,Missoulian\ \ \ \ \ James R. FrakesMaclean's voice-acerbic, laconic, deadpan-rings out of a rich American tradition…I love its sound. \ — James R. Frakes,New York Times\ \ \ \ \ Barbara BannonThe title novella is the prize…Something unique and marvelous: a story that is at once an evocation of nature's miracles and realities and a probing of human mysteries. Wise, witty, wonderful, Maclean spins his tales, casts his flies, fishes the rivers and the woods for what he remembers from his youth in the Rockies. \ — Barbara Bannon,Publisher's Weekly\ \ \ \ \ Nation"[Maclean] would go to his grave secure in the knowledge that anyone who''d fished with a fly in the Rockies and read his novella on the how and why of it believed it to be the best such manual on the art ever written--a remarkable feat for a piece of prose that also stands as a masterwork in the art of tragic writing."\ — Philip Connors\ \ \ \ \ \ Nation\ - Philip Connors\ "[Maclean] would go to his grave secure in the knowledge that anyone who'd fished with a fly in the Rockies and read his novella on the how and why of it believed it to be the best such manual on the art ever written--a remarkable feat for a piece of prose that also stands as a masterwork in the art of tragic writing."\ \ \