Late one warm summer morning about four years ago, I was lurching down what appeared to be the most unforgiving dirt road in Montana, hunkered down in first gear, blasting a John Prine tape and shamelessly belting out lyrics at the mindless, free-grazing cattle.

Blow up your T.V. Throw away your paper. Go to the country. Build you a home.

Earlier that morning, during one of my regular visits to Blue Ribbon Flies for a free cup of coffee and an exchange of goodwill with my friends Steve and Sara, I had been accused of being the piscatorial equivalent of a monogamist after I admitted to having courted the same hole on the Madison for the entire month of July. “Maybe you should think about broadening your horizons”, Steve told me as he reached under the counter and unfolded a tattered Interagency Travel Map for Southwest Montana. “Besides, planning a wedding would really cut into your fishing time.”

Whenever Steve takes out that map something out of the ordinary is sure to come up, and I paid close attention as we stood, huddled around the counter top, speaking in hushed tones about an obscure lake tucked away in the Beaverhead National Forest. Sara watched us with an expression of detached amusement for a few minutes and finally just shook her head. “There you two go again,” she said. “Always with the map.”

We grinned back at her.

The debriefing was quick and dirty. Expect good numbers of aggressive rainbows, scuds and damselfly nymphs by midday and callibaetis in the mornings and evenings when the wind cooperates. The one hitch: getting there meant navigating through a cat’s cradle of rough and tumble four wheel drive roads, and at the time I was driving an ’86 Camry with bald tires and no second gear. Getting stranded was a possibility.

Steve wrote out loose directions on the back of a brown paper shop bag, folded it in fourths, and handed it to me in an impressive display of solidarity. “Let us know how you do,” he said. “And don’t worry – the Madison will never suspect a thing.”

As much as I enjoy fishing moving water, every season I find myself more and more taken by the secluded backcountry and its virtually endless network of high lakes and beaver ponds. I’ve stumbled onto a few real prizes, a few fishless mud holes, and a lot in between. I love it because the more I get to know a sliver of its vastness, the more I realize how much I have to learn.

It’s only natural to get a little territorial about these spots, and for good reason; it wouldn’t take much to disrupt or even destroy their precarious equilibrium. The best high lake fishermen I know have seen too many of their old haunts poisoned by word of mouth, and they take careful precautions to keep their remaining secret spots secret. Accountability is a common benchmark out there, and the loose-lipped fisherman soon finds himself standing alone.

I got to the lake on a wing and a prayer, the paper bag and bright western sky to guide my way. This was western wilderness solitude at its best. The view was postcard perfect and I held my ground for a moment, sizing up my new surroundings, just happy to be there.

And yes, I caught some trout.

First thing the next morning I ducked back into the shop to see Steve and Sara.

“Well, how’d you make out?” Steve asked.

“Fine, fine.” I said. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The wedding’s off.”