You can't swing a dead cat around here without hitting a trophy trout stream. The Henry's Fork, the Teton, the Snake; this place is littered with them. While that's all fine and dandy, those rivers are a distant blip in the rear view mirror as I head south from Idaho Falls in search of carp. That's right, I'm ignoring world-class trout streams to target trash fish.
The irony is not lost on me. It's like walking past the hottest girl at the prom so you can dance with the fat one no one else noticed behind the dessert tray. In this case, however, the fatty is quadruple the size of her schoolmates and she'll rip a hundred yards of backing off your reel.