A River Runs Through It

Long ago, when I was a young man,

my father said to me, "Norman, you like to write stories."

And I said, "Yes, I do."

Then he said, "Someday, when you're ready,

"you might tell our family story.

"Only then will you understand what happened and why."

In our family there was no clear line

between religion and fly-fishing.

We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in Missoula, Montana,

where Indians still appeared out of the wilderness

to walk the honky-tonks and brothels of Front Street.

My father was a Presbyterian minister

and a fly-fisherman.

And though it is true that one day a week

was given over wholly to religion,

even then he told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen.

And we were left to assume, as my younger brother, Paul, and I did,

that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee

were fly-fishermen

and that John, the favourite,

was a dry fly-fisherman.

The poor without Christ

are of all men the most miserable.

But the poor with Christ

are princes and kings of the earth.

In the afternoon, we would walk with him

while he unwound between services.

He almost always chose a path along the Big Blackfoot,

which we considered our family river.

And it was there he felt his soul restored

and his imagination stirred.

Long ago, rain fell on mud and became rock.

Half a billion years ago.

But even before that, beneath the rocks,

are the words of God.

Listen.

And if Paul and I listened very carefully all our lives,

we might hear those words.

Even so, Paul and I probably received

as many hours of instruction in fly-fishing

as we did in all other spiritual matters.

As a Presbyterian, my father believed

that man by nature was a damned mess

and that only by picking up God's rhythms

were we able to regain power and beauty.

Ten and two.

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.

Norman.

So, my brother and I learned to cast Presbyterian style.

On a metronome.

He began each session with the same instruction.

Casting is an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm

between 10:00 and 2:00.

If he had had his way,

nobody who did not know how to catch a fish

would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching it.

So it was with my formal education, as well.

Each weekday, while my father worked on his Sunday sermon,

I attended the school of the Reverend Maclean.

He taught nothing but reading and writing

and, being a Scot, believed that the art of writing lay in thrift.

Half as long.

So while my friends spent their days at Missoula Elementary,

I stayed home and learned to write the American language.

Again. Half as long.

Good. Now throw it away.

Norman! Norman!

Wait for your brother!

However, there was a balance to my father's system.

Every afternoon, I was set free,

untutored and untouched till supper,

to learn on my own the natural side of God's order.

And there could be no better place to learn than the Montana of my youth.

It was a world with dew still on it,

more touched by wonder and possibility

than any I have since known.

God damn it, open up the door!

Hey, what the hell is going on?

Hey, where are you guys going?

Chicken!

Come on, move out of the way.

But it was a tough world, too.

Even as children, we understood that and admired it.

And, of course, we had to test it.

I knew I was tough, because I had been bloodied in battle.

Get him, get him!

Give him a shiner!

Don't be a sissy!

Come on!

Yeah, come on! Let's see some blood here!

Go on!

Lots of blood.

Paul was different.

His toughness came from some secret place inside of him.

He simply knew he was tougher than anyone alive.

Grace will not be said until that bowl is clean.

Man has been eating God's oats for 1,000 years.

It's not the place of an 8-year-old boy to change that tradition.

Grace.

Oh, God,

who art rich in forgiveness,

grant that we may hold fast

the good things we receive from thee

and as often as we've fallen to sin

be lifted by repentance through thy grace. Amen.

Norm, what do you want to be when you grow up?

Minister, I guess.

Or a professional boxer.

You think you could beat Jack Johnson?

I don't know.

I think you could.

I'd lay a bet on it.

What are you going to be?

Professional fly-fisherman.

There's no such thing.

There isn't?

No.

Hmm.

I guess a boxer.

Not a minister?

In 1917, World War I came to Missoula,

taking with it every able-bodied lumberjack,

leaving the woods to old men and boys.

So at 16 I did my duty

and started working for the U.S. Forest Service.

It was a life of timber and toil

with men as tough as their axe handles

and more mountains in all directions

than I would ever see again.

Being too young to join me,

Paul took a job as lifeguard at the municipal swimming pool

so that during the day he could look over the girls

and in the evenings he could pursue his other purpose in life.

Fishing.

# Be thou my vision

# Oh, Lord of my heart

# Naught be all else to me

# Save that thou art

# Thou my best thought

# By day or by night

# Waking or sleeping

# Thy presence my light #

Whoo!

Preacher, come on.

Preacher! Come on, Preacher!

Shut up.

Did I ever tell you guys what a forest fire sounds like

coming down a mountain at 60 miles an hour?

Oh, shut up! Again with the forest fires!

I've got a great idea.

I know how we can go down in history.

How's that?

We borrow old man Seifert's rowboat,

and we shoot the chutes.

You can't shoot the chutes, Pauly.

- You can try. - You can die trying.

They'd bury you with full honours.

Tell him, Norm.

Well, we would be the kings of Missoula.

Yeah, kings. And we'd be famous.

And all of you would get your photographs in the paper.

I'm doing it.

- I am. - You'll die.

No.

Let's do it. Come on.

- I'm with you. Let's do it!

Let's go!

What? - All right.

Whoo! Yeah!

All right.

# Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream #

Let's go!

I got the oars.

Whose idea was this, anyway?

Where we going, Pauly?

This way!

Don't work too hard, Chub.

# Row your boat #

Goddamn rowboat! I need a woman!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Okay, we'll put in upstream.

Okay.

Flip it.

Okay, hop in.

Come on, we can all fit.

I don't think so.

No, I...

Hey.

All right.

Just me, Norm and Chub.