A river runs through it

My dad hates that movie. Hates it. More than I think you should hate a movie that’s objectively beautiful, starring a baby Brad Pitt when he still seemed sweet and a little dumb, before he abused Angelina. But mention that movie to my dad and you’ll get a solid ten minute rant on “that’s not fly fishing. Flipping his line all over the damn river. Scaring the fish. What was that? It’s just silly. It’s not fly fishing, I’ll tell you that much.”

My dad’s an obsessive fly fisher. His method is, according to a river runs through it, the Presbyterian method. That’s how he taught me. A few years ago, he took me to Idaho and taught me how to fish. By taught I mean that he showed me how to cast, said okay let’s just get our lines wet for an hour or so and I followed him into the river. Six hours later, I was so fucking thirsty, I was willing to risk a week of diarrhea and drank from the stream. Nothing I could do about being hungry. He was 50 yards downstream, tying on a new fly. Most of fly fishing is tying on a new fly. Or untangling your line. Or traipsing down a river to a new spot where they’re definitely biting. Or it is to me. I wasn’t the one with a backpack full of trout.

I did finally catch a fish on the last day. I also learned to pack sandwiches and water because when that man says an hour or so, he means until he can no longer see his fly on the surface. You have to bring snacks if you’re going fishing with my dad. Doesn’t occur to him to eat. I’d forgotten that on account of I hadn’t been around him much since I was seven. But you pull a beer and a sandwich out of your backpack, he’ll light up like Christmas morning.

He’s been calling a lot since I left Austin. He wanted me to find out if there was a Motown museum in Detroit. (There is. It’s amazing. You should go.) He wants to know how Woody’s doing. He wants to make jokes about my buying a Dodge. And mostly, he wants to check if I’ve been fishing.

I finally got to tell him yesterday that I had. Or casting anyway. I don’t do much fishing on a good river. I do a lot of casting and tying on a different fly. The rivers are blown out right now because of the snowmelt. But goddamnit I am in Montana and I did bring my rod. So I bought a five day license, parked at a reservoir and practiced casting.

I won’t catch shit. And I’d like to say it’s because it’s too early in the season. But let’s be honest here. I’m not my dad. After a couple hours, when Woody’s bored and wants to chase his ball, I’ll toss it into the reservoir and scare all the fish I wasn’t going to catch anyway. And I have sandwiches in the van.

Everyone’s telling me to go to Glacier and I’d love to. But Woody mostly has to stay in the van and that’s a long ass ride to somewhere he can’t enjoy. There are a couple pretty lakes up that way though. So as soon as I find a tire store in Missoula (it’s time) I think we’ll head up that direction to tie on flies. And have a sandwich.