An Eastern friend of mine once told me a story about going to an upscale fishing lodge here in Montana. One day he and his guide decided to take some time off from drifting the Big River and instead fished some beaver ponds that were absolutely chock-full of pan-sized brookies. Of course they kept a bunch and brought them back to the lodge, and the cook fried them up for dinner (well, along with some steaks).

When the cook put the platter full of brookies on the dinner table one of the other guests exploded. "You mean you actually KILLED TROUT?!"

“Montana seems to me to be what a small boy would think Texas is like from hearing Texans.”
John Steinbeck