High Country

A few weeks earlier we'd taken a trip to the Beaverhead River near Dillon, Montana. The spot I'd chosen was a popular one and before long there were fishermen lined up at uncomfortably close intervals over the entire 200-yard stretch of water. I squeezed into a good spot and had just hooked a nice rainbow when I heard an angry voice behind me.

"I'm gonna kick that damn dog," came the gruff proclamation, and I turned to see a heavyset man wading toward the bank, where Bear had his nose buried in the man's gear, searching for whatever it is dogs always search for in piles of human stuff. I intentionally broke off my fish (a painful high country.

choice, what with the cost of flies these days), and it had taken all my patience and every bit of diplomacy I could muster to avert streamside fisticuffs. In the end, I'd taken Bear back to the truck, and had sacrificed choice spots on the river several times throughout the day as I looked in on him and checked his water dish.

But up here in the mountains, far away from the noise of rumbling truck engines, drift boats being unloaded, and men cursing as they lose big fish, there are no annoyed fishermen to placate, nobody's personal space to invade. The lake belongs to us for the weekend.

As I set up camp and collect firewood, with Bear carrying off sticks almost as fast as I can gather them, I wonder why more people don't fish the high country. The fishing can be great, and the solitude unparalleled. And oh, the epiphanies. Like rock climbing and river rafting, high country fishing is one of those outdoor activites that actually fosters epiphanies, rare moments of lucidity where one catches a glimpse of totality, its meaning, and one's place within it. Yes. I see it. I feel it, you announce to everyone, and to no one. You're wired into the universe, feeling its pulse, flowing through its veins. And then, like a passing memory, it slips away, leaving only a vague and indescribable feeling, and a hope for its retum. So you keep fishing and you wait.

The weekend is long. Bear and I fish at a leisurely pace, keeping a few fat cutthroats for dinner: browned over an open fire, hand-peeled off the bones, and shoved into the mouth in huge portions. I wipe my face on my sleeve and lay by the fire, gazing at the stars. I vow to learn more constellations before my next trip, and I drift off, thinking of a day when I'll be able to recall an epiphany, and communicate it to the angry man who kicks a curious dog.