I've Never Met an Idiot on the River

by Henry Winkler

  Fly-fishing is one of the biggest challenges I’ve taken on, which is why I’ve come to love it so much. The beauty of the sport and the surrounding landscape inspired my interest in nature photography. And both of these newfound hobbies have led me to great new experiences and to meeting some of the nicest and wisest people on the planet.

  I’ve made so many friends among the fly-fisher peoples of the world, including the gracious hosts, guides, and regular visitors at Firehole Ranch in Montana; the staff at Galloup’s Slide Inn Fly Shop, where I buy my fishing license each year; and all the other fly-fishing enthusiasts I meet on and around the rivers. Each and every person I’ve met through this sport seems to be grounded and sensible and, well, I’ve just never met an idiot on the river.

  Every river has an aura all its own, but most of those I’ve fished have a serenity that seems to wash over those who stand in the waters. This mellow feeling is shared by all of us. Fly-fishing is a sport, but it’s also a form of meditation that attracts men and women from every socioeconomic level. We are bonded by our shared passion.

  Fly-fishing has enriched Winkler World on many levels. I don’t claim to be a master of the sport, but it’s quite rewarding to do it well enough so that I have the pleasure of meeting many, and I mean many, fish face-to-face. When I first came to fly-fishing about fifteen years ago, I promptly fell in love with the physical, mental, and spiritual aspects of it, especially the sheer bliss of floating down the river immersed in nature’s gorgeous gifts. Every visit since then has only deepened my appreciation of the sport and the special places it takes me, in the world and also in my head and heart.

  I’m glad to share the pleasures I derive from fly-fishing with you in this book, as well as some of the lessons I’ve learned by venturing beyond what was comfortable and familiar to me. Yes, Happy Days don’t have to end in high school or college or wherever you are in your life. I encourage you to use up every moment, to explore every nook and cranny that interests you, and to be adventurous.

  Given my lack of street cred as an outdoorsman and the low levels of my pre- and post-Fonzie machismo, you might wonder how I came to try something as adventurous as fly-fishing. Well, I’m an actor, so naturally I blame my lawyer, Skip Brittenham III. He and his best friend, the late literary agent Leonard Hanzer, invited Stacey and me to join them on a fishing trip down the Smith River in Montana, circa 1993. We were excited by the idea, but intimidated, too. Skip and Leonard were serious and competitive fly-fishermen. They’d dipped their wading boots in the world’s best trout streams, tying their own flies as they went.

  Neither Stacey nor I had ever cast a line. The only trout we’d seen were those we’d ordered as entrées, usually with side salads. Fortunately, before Skip took two Hollywood greenhorns into the wilds of Montana, he gave us a few lessons in his Beverly Hills backyard. We practiced our first casts into the crystal-clear waters of his swimming pool. (No fish were injured in the making of this story.)

  One of the keys to catching fish, Skip told us, is to keep your line straight on the water so you don’t spook the fish before they leap up and grab the fly. You have to keep your line taut so that it runs parallel to the water surface, carrying the fly directly over the spot where you hope the fish will strike. This requires finesse and a feel for it that is learned only through practice. Skip told me hand-eye coordination was also a big factor. Whoops! Count me out, I thought.

  It seemed so impossible at first. I had difficulty timing the cast and setting the hook once the fish took the fly. Skip grew frustrated during our first practice sessions because I was leaving too much slack line on the water. That’s a bad thing because if the fish takes the fly, you can’t tighten your line fast enough to create the tension needed to hold the fish on the barbless hook. If you give the fish too much slack, the trout will spit the fly out of its mouth and take off for the underwater grocery store.

  This is where the traditional fly-fishermen greeting “tight lines” comes from. It also serves as a nice metaphor for my experience with this new challenge. Only after I took up the slack of my insecurities and tightened the lines of my self-confidence did I begin to get a knack for casting. I had to risk failing before I could get it right.

  When I speak to young people, one of the things I tell them is that the anticipatory fear of trying something is always far worse than actually doing it. That’s certainly true of acting, but I think it’s equally true of scuba diving, giving a speech, or interviewing for a job. Just about anything you set out to do in the cold, cruel world looks and sounds worse before you throw yourself out there and go for it.

  With fly-fishing, it wasn’t any different. When I was learning to cast, my old fears of failure crept up on me. I thought of all the reasons I couldn’t learn properly. But in practicing over and over, I discovered that casting was not as complicated as I’d envisioned, and that when I broke the cast down into steps, there was a simple elegance to the sport. I discovered that fly casting could be learned, like dancing. You repeat the steps over and over until the movements are embedded in your muscle memory. You can learn the steps in a half hour and then perfect them for the rest of your life. With enough practice casting, I became so proficient that the herds of moose in the bushes quit snickering.

  I’m still learning and working on being the best fly caster I can be. There’s no kidding around when I describe my technique as U-G-L-Y. Nor am I being falsely modest. I don’t have the precision or the economy of movement you see with the most graceful fly-fishing artistes. My wrist bends. My timing is off. And my line does not flutter like an elegant waterfowl as it lands on the water.

  When you cast, you are supposed to bring the rod to a straight-up twelve o’clock position, so the line can load up behind you. Then you flick the rod to the two o’clock position, so the line gently floats out and lands straight on the water. I’m probably at 12:30 and then somewhere around 4:15, but thankfully, trout can’t tell time. I know that because I keep catching them.

  For the longest time, dry fly-fishing, in which your fly remains on top of the water, was difficult for me, but I managed to become a reasonably good wet fly fisherman, or nympher, quickly enough. Nymph flies are modeled on the insect larvae that start their lives at the bottom of the river and eventually work their way up to the surface. For a long time, I was comfortable just nymphing, casting nymphs right below the surface. Every time someone tried to convince me to try a dry fly, my insecurity took over, so I stuck with the wet ones.

  Most beginners struggle with dry fly-fishing, and some never learn to do it because the fact is, you still can catch a lot of fish by nymphing. I discovered, though, that with a little courage and a lot of practice, dry fly-fishing could be mastered. And it’s worth the effort. There is no bigger thrill than having a gorgeous trout leap up and grab your fly atop the water. An electric charge runs up your line and pole and through your entire body. But you have to remain calm, set the hook, tighten your line, and play the fish without releasing it too early. It’s great fun!

  Rowan Nyman, a talented guide at Firehole Ranch who fishes 280 days a year and spends each winter tying two thousand flies, has worked with me over the last couple of years, teaching me how to dry fly-fish. He’s the reason I’ve progressed so far. Now about 90 percent of my fishing is with dry flies. And my self-esteem is almost up to my neck.

  I am an optimist by choice. I always believe my cup is half full, rather than half empty. But I’m also a realist, and I thought I was being realistic by doubting my ability to become a good dry fly-fisherman. Instead, I have become a very enthusiastic and not too shabby fisher-person.

  I’m a late bloomer when it comes to fly-fishing. But the feeling of growth and the sense of accomplishment that have come with this activity have helped me stretch and grow in other areas of my life. My increased self-confidence has helped me to be a better actor, a better husband, a better dad, and a better person.

  Because fly-fishing gave me such a boost, I worked up the cour
age to write the Hank Zipzer book series with my partner, Lin Oliver. Those books have been read by millions of kids around the world. With seventeen volumes to date, our series is designed to encourage children to develop their gifts and passions and never let anyone else’s labels or opinions limit their lives. You know I’ve been down that road, and I’d like to help as many kids as possible avoid it. One out of five children has some sort of learning difficulty and has to struggle like I did, but I tell them that they can achieve their dreams, just as I’ve done.

  People tell me that my work on the Royal Pains television series is some of the most relaxed acting I’ve ever done. I believe my comfort in my role on the show as Eddie Lawson has to do with the self-confidence I’ve gained out on the river. My only regret is that I didn’t pick up a rod and reel earlier in life. Think of all the other trout I could have pestered! And think of how relaxed I’d be as an actor; I could play comatose patients like nobody’s business!

  Relaxing wasn’t easy for me until I stepped off the plane and shook hands with Montana for the first time. The mountains and rivers of Big Sky Country are my easy chair. I’d read somewhere that the sound of rushing water at eighty decibels is the most soothing sound to mankind, and, yes, I have found that to be so true. My first time on the river, surrounded by snow-covered peaks and the big, blanketing blue sky, I felt as if my brain were afloat. Being on the river is almost a religious experience. It’s like being in church, only with mayflies instead of hymnals.

  My family was inspired to buy me a nice camera on that first meeting with Montana, and whenever I wasn’t fishing, I was photographing. (Okay, sometimes I did both at the same time.) This book, then, features a few of the gazillion photographs I’ve taken on my fishing trips. The publisher wanted to include some of my actual trout, too, but I am a catch-and-release fisher-guy, and besides, I’m told most bookstores lack a freezer section.

  Still, I hope you will enjoy this modest book. But mostly, I hope my stories will inspire you to tighten up your own lines of self-confidence, toss your doubts and fears to the wind, and do whatever it is that you’ve always wanted to do. You won’t regret it, I promise.

  Chapter 2

  The River Is a Washing Machine for My Brain

  Recorded in August 2010 at Firehole Ranch, Montana

  It’s 3:15 in the afternoon.

  Fishing is done.

  I feel every muscle in my upper body.

  What a wonderful day.

  Talk about contentment.

  I took the fly off my rod and put it on my hat with the rest of my collection.

  There are teenagers in river rafts going down the river.

  Boys and girls. I’d say they’re sixteen, seventeen years old.

  There’s a little boy about five years old sitting in the middle of one raft.

  They’re all connected.

  And the boys are showing off for the girls, as happens on this won derful planet.

  Diving backwards off the raft, doing somersaults into the river.

  Wow-ee.

  Just wow-ee. How joyous to be alive and on the river!

  My heart lives in New York, where I was born and raised.

  My body lives in Los Angeles, where I do much of my work.

  My soul lives in Montana, where I fish.

  I am most at peace on a river in Montana. I liken the experience to a washing machine for my brain. Being there is transforming. While under the Big Sky, I am only concerned with fishing and catching. If you allow your mind to wander anywhere else, you will neither catch nor land your trout.

  In Montana I am so focused on fishing that my mind is cleared of everything else. Catching trout is on my brain from the time I break out my rod and reel and start practicing my casts in the driveway at home until I leave Montana at the end of each trip.

  I’ve been known to choke up while departing Montana because I am so fond of Firehole Ranch, owner Lyndy Caine, and all the people we’ve connected with in that great place over the years. They include Bruno Georgeton, the master chef, and his wife, Kris, the master baker, who have been there for as long as Stacey and I have been going. We are so at home there that whenever it’s time to leave the ranch and end our vacation, gratitude overcomes me. I’m grateful for how spectacular it is, and I realize how fortunate I am to spend time in such an incredible place.

  When I return home from Montana, I’m always glad to be back among my children and our dogs, Charlotte and Linus. But I miss the river: the tranquility, the peace, the refurbishing of the soul that only happens there for me.

  Once I leave behind the rivers and mountains, something else happens: Every bit of Montana Zen drains out my toes and away from my body, to be replaced by thoughts of paying the mortgage, the leak in my shower, or the pile of scripts that need reading. Good-bye Paradise. Back to business.

  Here’s hoping you have a similar place you can’t wait to visit and never want to leave. If you don’t have your own Montana, I urge you to find one. For me, visiting Montana is like having a back adjustment. I feel all out of whack when I’m not there, and fragments of my life crack back into place once I arrive. It’s a great place to solve a problem and soothe hurt feelings.

  Not to sound like a tourist brochure, but Montana is not just a state; it’s another state of mind. I love the rugged surroundings, and thanks to the wonders of long underwear, flannel shirts, and fleece jackets, I’ve even made peace with the nippy chill of August mornings. I’ve also warmed to the challenge of fly casting, thanks to the sense of accomplishment I find in landing a beautiful trout. I especially savor the moment when I place the fish back in the water, thank it, and send it home again.

  I lose myself and all sense of responsibility in Montana. You realize in those majestic surroundings just how insignificant you really are. Yet, at the same time, you realize just how connected you are to every other person and thing.

  Looking at a box of artificial flies, for example, I silently thank the person who, hundreds of years ago, first figured out that the best way to catch fish was to create lures that resembled the nymphs and flies off a fish’s favorite menu—those tiny insects that are hatched in the water and then emerge from it, living on the surface and flying above it before returning to the water to mate and die.

  Since those first artificial flies were created, hundreds upon hundreds of variations have been crafted, giving us the Parachute Adams, Prince Nymph, Pheasant Tail, Hare’s Ear, Woolly Bugger, Copper John, Dahlberg Diver, and Royal Wulff. And now the world has the Winkler, my very own personal fly, which was created for me by Tommy Thompson of Chattanooga, Tennessee. I met the Thompson family while speaking at a university there. Tommy was a passionate and talented fly fisherman, and we connected immediately over our shared love of the sport. A few weeks after I returned home, a small box arrived in the mail. The box was filled with handcrafted white parachutes with wings—size 14 flies. I put them to the test at the very next fishing opportunity. They were highly successful. Sadly, Tommy passed away after a long and courageous battle with cancer. I keep his wonderful handmade Winkler flies in their box in his memory.

  Tommy was as avid about making flies as he was casting them, and he was not alone in his passion. I have heard that some fly makers scuba dive along the river bottoms of Montana just to see just what is living down there so they can bring their handcrafted flies closer to perfection. Through this passionate tradition, all the generations of fly-fishing aficionados are connected to each other and to these fly craftsmen, just as those who play piano concertos can trace the roots of their music to the first piano makers and composers of classical music.

  Fly-fishing has helped me reconnect to all that is around me by putting me back in touch with the natural world, which feeds my own natural instincts. Because of my work, I live part of the time in New York City and mostly in Los Angeles. To survive in large cities, sometimes you have to tune out all the noise and chaos around you. On the river, though, I tune in once again to all five sen
ses, as well as to my gut instincts. You have to pay attention to all that you hear, see, touch, taste, and smell in the wilderness, and you have to act on your intuition if you are going to catch any fish.

  This really hit home with me on a fly-fishing trip fifteen years ago. I was with my son Max, who was twelve years old at the time. We were in Montana, this time at a lodge owned by director and screenwriter David Ondaatje, who is, among other things, the nephew of Michael Ondaatje (the author of The English Patient) and the owner of the legendary R.L. Winston Rod Company in Twin Bridges, Montana.

  A blue-ribbon stream, the Beaverhead River, runs through David’s property. One evening Max and I went out for the night hatch. David, a wonderful fisher-person himself, served as our guide, which was a good thing because once the sun went down, I couldn’t see my own feet. “Listen for the fish,” David said. Since he is a native of Canada, I thought at first that he was giving me the sort of cryptic stage direction known only to Toronto thespians. Not knowing how else to respond, I did as I was told. I listened, and lo and behold, for the first time in my life, I heard the wondrous sound of fish slurping! They were night feeding on the last hatch of bugs for the day.

  “Cast your line out there where the fish are feeding!” David instructed.

  My son became my personal cheerleader and coach at that point:

  “C’mon, Dad, you can do it! This is great!”

  Since I always do EXACTLY what my directors, guides, and sons tell me, I cast blindly into the inky trench of the river, toward the fishy slurps. Instantly, something took the fly. I could feel it was a good-size fish, and it turned out to be an eighteen-inch trout. Ten seconds earlier, I had no idea this fish was even in the same zip code.