The young moose looked at us curiously, then dipped his head back underwater and came up with another mouthful of moss, chewing as we drifted past.

Most fly-fishermen will tell you that one of the best things about the sport is where you do it, and some of the best fly-fishing is found where moose, elk, deer, mountain goats, eagles, and trout live.

On this particular day, we were fishing the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River in eastern Idaho, one of America’s most famous trout streams. The Henry’s Fork covers a stretch of roughly 50 miles, originating at the outlet of Henry’s Lake just south of the Montana border and under the Continental Divide. The river is home to rainbow, brown, and brook trout.

And as writer and trout fisherman Michael Furtman has written, “Among fish there are trout, and then there are everything else.”

We had spent the night before in Driggs, Idaho, at the Teton Valley Lodge (www.tetonvalleylodge.com), a rustic and charming lodge with a view of the Teton Mountains across the Teton River.

Driggs is just over the mountains from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, long considered the Mecca of North American fly-fishing, a combination of majestic wilderness scenery and world-class trout river. The lodge is owned and operated by the Berry family and has been in business since 1919. It can handle individuals, small parties, or corporate outings up to 36 people.

After a gourmet breakfast, three of us loaded up and headed for the river with our two guides, gear, lunches, and two pontoon boats, arriving about an hour later at the put-in point. The guides had told us earlier that a downhill hike was in the making and diplomatically asked if any of us had “any health issues.”

When we got out of the truck and peered down the mountainside at the river far below, a “health issue” suddenly seemed like a distinct possibility. The aptly named Cardiac Canyon was obviously a tough place to get into, and I had no idea how the guides were going to get the two boats down the slope and into the river.

Handing each of us a walking stick, one of the guides, Dallin Rawls, pointed at the rocky path leading to the river. “Start working your way down. It will take you about 30 minutes to get to the river,” he said. “When you hear us coming, get out of the way.”

We worked our way carefully down the steep and rocky path, arriving at the riverbank hot and out of breath, legs aching from the strain.

A few minutes later, far above us, we saw movement.

The two guides came cascading down the mountain, pushing and shoving and skidding the boats down the steep slope. After 10 minutes or so, both boats were resting on the water, and we were soon floating through some of the wildest and most beautiful country imaginable.

Both guides were great fishermen and outdoorsmen. Their first move after arriving at the river was to turn over rocks and look for indicators of what flies might be most effective on this day. They understood the intricacies of trout habitat, diets, and behavior, and were well versed in the river ecology and hydrology. On top of all that, they were experts with a fly rod, and gave advice kindly.

This was not my first time trout fishing or my first time with a fly rod, but fishing a white water stream from a pontoon boat crashing down an Idaho river is a far cry from lazily casting a fly on a serene mountain lake or wading a meandering Appalachian stream.

I am not experienced enough at trout fishing—heck, fly-fishing— to know all the nuances about dry flies and wet flies and nine-foot rods and seven-foot rods, and I am sure that the three of us tested the patience of the guides, although they never let on.

I tried not to take the fly rod back too far, although I often did, just as I usually swing my golf club too hard, refusing to believe that less is more. But, I am proud to say, I hooked myself only once.

Still, as noted, much of fly-fishing is where you do it, and the Henry’s Fork, named after a 19th-century trapper, deserves all the superlatives it receives. I had read a lot about the Henry’s Fork before I arrived and most of the writers said every fisherman should visit the river at least once. They were right.

The river is filled with feet-wetting rapids, pockets of swirling water, swift, rocky flats, and fast, boulder-filled runs that test a guide’s boatmanship. The sides of the canyon are covered in pines and home to osprey, marmot, bald eagles, and, of course, moose.

It would be easy to be intimidated by a world-class river like the Henry’s Fork. After all, Orvis named a line of wading shoes after the Henry’s Fork and Columbia Sportswear offers a Henry’s Fork fishing vest. Most of my reading had led me to believe that I could expect at least 20 hookups with acrobatic rainbows.

But as we floated down the river, casting flies to beautiful pools and riffles, occasionally catching a fish, but missing far more, the catching became less important than being there. The best fish I caught was an 18-inch rainbow that for the most part hooked itself a good three counts after the guide said, “There he is . . .” Still, it was a good rainbow from the Henry’s Fork.

Getting out of the Henry’s Fork was a lot less challenging than getting in. The trucks had been moved to a flat takeout point, and in a few minutes we were loaded and headed back to the Teton Valley Lodge.

Not long ago, I was flipping through the channels and came across the movie A River Runs Through It, based on the Norman Maclean novella about a fly-fishing preacher and his two sons who fished a western river called the Big Blackfoot.

The novella ends like this:

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

“I am haunted by waters.”

So are those of us who have fished the Henry’s Fork.

Photo Captions:
Photo 1: At water’s edge, a young moose is unfazed by the group’s presence as it searches for river grasses just below the water’s surface.
Photo 2: As another angler approaches from upstream, the group enjoys a relaxing lunch and takes in the beauty and isolation of the Henry’s Fork. 
Photo 3: A view from the Teton Valley Lodge in Driggs, Idaho, of the peaks of the Grand Teton range rising majestically across the Teton River valley.