Fly Fisherman Exclusive: Lani Waller's Grasshopper Bridge

Lani Waller’s last great contribution to the fly-fishing world is an 11-chapter collection of essays he titled Grasshopper Bridge. He wrote the book from his home in San Miguel De Allende, Mexico, where he retired with his wife Judy in 2010. Due to his failing health later in life, the book was never published.

On October 18, 2018, Waller sent an email to his college friend Joy Rose in California: “For the record I want you to have and keep all of my poetry, my stories, etc. and maybe we can find a home for them as time goes by.” The two met at Chico State University in 1966.

To honor his wishes and his memory, we are offering Waller’s entire book, free for download (see below for how to open .epub files). We ask that when you are enjoying Grasshopper Bridge that you consider making a donation to the Babine River Foundation, which Waller founded and now carries on his stewardship of the Babine River.

Click here to make a donation to the Babine River Foundation.

Waller passed away in Mexico on August 11, 2024, at the age of 84. His experiences—whether steelhead fishing, surviving a tragic plane crash, or sharing his insights through his films and writings—transformed him into more than just an angler. He became a beacon for those seeking solace and connection in the wild. Lani’s love for fly fishing was about much more than catching fish—it was about reconnecting with something primal, timeless, and healing.

Each Wednesday for 10 weeks, we will be releasing a new chapter of Grasshopper Bridge right here on flyfisherman.com. Below is the front matter to get you started. Enjoy!

Please check back next Wednesday for a new chapter.

1. Chapter 1: Exuma Sound
2. Chapter 2: San Anselmo Creek

Grasshopper Bridge Author's Notes

The stories included here were inspired by real people and real events I encountered during some sixty years of travel, fishing, and “keeping my eyes and ears open.”

It has been interesting, to say the least. The events I witnessed represent a wide and divergent picture of the human spirit, our consciousness, our values and objectives, and our angling. When I think about it, I can easily see and feel the magic in our fishing and the world we live in.

Perhaps there is magic in most of us as well. I believe there is. And I believe it can be shared. As songwriter Bob Dylan once said, “You can be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

That sounds good to me. And as far as the normal parts of our angling endeavors and efforts are concerned, I changed nothing. I didn’t have to. I just left the line where it belongs. In the water.

– Lani Waller 
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico 

Introduction: The Measure of my Angling, Then and Now

I caught my first fish when I was 6 years old. It came out of a farm pond in southern Missouri, and I got it on a worm with a bamboo pole my father had taken out of the garden. NO reels. I didn’t know what a reel even was. In any event, it was love at first sight, and I was more than happy about the event. I was ecstatic. The fish was about six inches long, with a large head, whiskers, and a slimy body that I had a hard time holding in my hands. I decided to make it a permanent friend, so I put it in a bucket and took it. At that point, my father nodded his approval and dropped out of the picture. A few moments later, my mother gave me a large glass in which to keep my new friend.

When I asked my mother what my new friend would like to eat, she hesitated, looked down in the jar and said, “Well, Lani, it might like some bread.” So she went into the kitchen and came back with some. As she watched, I crumbled the bread and dropped it on the surface. My mother nodded in approval and went back into the kitchen.

I sat there for the next hour or so, watching how much my new friend would eat. An hour passed. Then another hour. The fish isn’t hungry, I told myself.

Around 6 o’clock, the fish still hadn’t eaten its first meal with me, but after another 30 minutes, I decided that maybe the fish didn’t like my bread but it might like some of my hamburger. So I saved some of the meat and put it in a napkin. After helping wash the dishes, it was my job to dry. I took the hamburger into my bedroom, sat on the edge of my bed, and began dropping bits of hamburger into his new home. A little later, around seven o’clock, I went into the living room to join my father in listening to a radio show called The Shadow Knows.

This episodic adventure was built around a man who could become invisible and go out into the world to save innocent victims from the bad guys. The show always opened with the same instruction, and it made me tingle when the announcer said in a deep and mysterious voice, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows... heh...heh...heh.”

The episodes were fascinating to me and, in a way, helped me shape a philosophy that included a genuine concern for “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” This kind of concern stayed with me as I got older and came to rest in my personal angling life. As most people know, fishermen are not supposed to tell outright lies, but we can stretch the truth a bit when it comes time to talk about the one that got away... the one that was released back into its watery home. It is hard for me to remember the times when I did stretch the truth, but I didn’t go too far. In other words, if the steelhead looked like it was forty-nine inches long with a twenty-four-inch girth, that was the truth.

And when it came to saltwater fishing, everyone knows that was where the monsters live. If I jumped a tarpon, or a sailfish, or a marlin, and if my line broke, or the hook pulled out, and they got away, I had to estimate their weight. It was a moral imperative. So, as it turned out, I lost five world record tarpon that averaged around 250 pounds. I also vividly remember my three world record sailfish that weighed approximately 200 pounds and five blue marlins that had to be 300 pounds. Now that I think about it, all of these fish definitely were new world records, but I might have fudged a bit on their weight. But not that much.

Years later, sometime in my 40s, I think it was, I decided to be more careful about my estimates, as I saw many eyebrows raise when I told my stories around the dinner table or wrote an article for an angling magazine. The editors I worked for included writers and anglers such as John Randolph of Fly Fisherman magazine, and others as well. Other editors were also polite but cautious. I have agreed to “Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

This brings me to last year on the world-famous Babine River. As most serious steelhead anglers are concerned, the Skeena system steelhead rivers such as the Babine, the Kispiox, and the Sus-Tut are indeed the rivers of giants. Eight of us had gathered for our annual trip. Water conditions were very good, but I never worry too much about high or dirty water on the Skeena system rivers. All you need to know is that a bright pink fly that is almost six inches long never fails. You just “throw it out there... let it swing around and boom.” You always know a monster when you feel one. Period.

In any event, the week this past year was very tough. I had my favorite rod, a SAGE 11-foot “switch rod,” with a SAGE reel, a RIO line with 40 or 40 different kinds of sinking tips (you never know what you might need, so my philosophy is simply to bring almost everything RIO makes). Simon Gawesworth is good to work with and he understands the need for fifty to sixty of his best lines. In any event, this is what happened to me on this world-class steelhead river and a facility to match this quality called Silver Hilton Steelhead Lodge. I made what had to be five hundred casts a day and never hooked a thing. It is true that I had a few “grabs” as they’re called, a couple of “tugs” but by the end of the week, I had not landed a single steelhead.

My roommate landed about six and others also had some success. I appreciated this undisputed fact (after three gin and tonics each evening at the dinner table), and they deserved their accomplishments. As I think about it now, maybe my leaders were too thick, or my RIO lines didn’t sink right. Who knows? I’ll tell you who knows: The Shadow knows.

I knew that fishing was really hunting. I had always known that. The only difference was that I never killed my catch. I released it. I loved that idea, but there were critical differences. Many fisheries have limits on how many you can catch and kill when you reach that limit you have to stop. I didn’t want to stop.

Many years ago, on a deer trip with my father, we spotted a deer standing in the forest about one hundred yards away. My father became excited and asked me if I could see the “big buck” standing in the shadows.

I looked at it and couldn’t see any horns. I answered back, “Dad, those are not horns, they are tree limbs. The deer is a doe, and we can’t shoot it. They are off-limits.”

“You are wrong,” he said. “Those are horns.”

I shook my head and said, “No, they are not horns. Don’t shoot it.”

He looked at me and said, “Didn’t you hear me? I said they are horns. I’m going to shoot it.” So he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot ran through me as if it was a spear, and my heart was pounding. I watched as the animal fell to the ground. “Let’s go,” my father said. “I got him.” I knew better, and in that singular moment, something died in me and I knew what it was.

Off we ran, up the hill, until we came to the deer laying on the forest floor. Even now, as I’m writing this, all these decades later, I can still see that animal and the look in his eyes as we approached. I will not forget, I cannot forget. The doe’s eyes were wild with fear and she was trying to get back on her feet. My heart was beating like the oceans pounding roar. My hands were shaking, and I could feel in that one transcendental moment, that I would never go hunting with my father again. I loved him, but I had my own values, ideas, and feelings.

Then, at the moment he recognized his mistake, I could see his shoulders slump. He couldn’t deal with it. He put his hand to his mouth and I could hear his breath resonating in the forest. His hands were shaking. So were mine. He looked me in the eye and his words cut through me like a sword. “Finish her off, son,” he said. And then he turned around and left me standing there with a deer looking at me.

I looked at her as my eyes filled with tears, as I placed the gun against her head and pulled the trigger. I turned around and started the walk back to the truck. My father said nothing more for a long time as we started driving back home. As I recall, we never mentioned that event again, but I was finished with hunting. I gave my gun to a friend and almost immediately bought another fishing rod and as many flies, leaders, and other items as I could afford. And, at that point, my angling changed. I still loved the “hunt” or chase, and I did indeed kill a fish now and then, but it seemed different. It is difficult for me to explain and I know that many will disagree with me, but there seemed to be a difference between a trout, or bass, and a four-legged animal like a deer or moose.

I thought about bow hunting, but I wasn’t strong enough to pull a bow powerful enough to kill an animal. So, that was that. My love of the chase, the hunt, still existed, and my writing for the various publications always included strong opinions about catch and release and our responsibilities on the waters I visited. I also fell in love with saltwater fly fishing and began traveling all over the world. I caught all the major species from tuna and dorado to blue marlin and sailfish.

I still do all of these, and at my age–80 years–I look back at my journey with appreciation and respect. It has been a remarkable one, with many “turns in the road,” including a fatal plane crash in British Columbia that took the lives of two of my friends and a young pilot. I alone escaped and that event changed my life in more ways than one. I fish now with great appreciation for my own existence and that of the other men and women I would have been lucky enough to meet and fish with.

My greatest concern now is our planet and environment. They are in great danger, but I’m confident that wisdom, reason, and careful appreciation will prevail, and our future will be secure, but we must stay the course. As one of my angling companions has remarked, “It isn’t nice to mess around with Mother Nature.” I happen to agree.

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Click here to download the complete book as an .epub file (we recommend using Adobe's free Digital Editions program or IOS's native Books app to read the epub file; download Digital Editions here. Click here to see other options).

Click here to make a donation to the Babine River Foundation in Waller's honor.

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