Words by Judith O’Keefe
Photos courtesy of Burkheimer Rods

I love casting a fly rod.

That used to be all I’d have to say.  It was generally assumed I was referring to my single hand rod, and I was.  I learned to fly fish on the Deschutes River, casting a sink-tip fly line as far as I could, hoping to entice a steelhead to the fly.  Six months later, just months into my initiation, I was comfortable with larger rods and longer casts.  Why would I want to learn to cast a double-hand rod?  I’m not what some would refer to as a “gear-freak.”  I don’t need a lot of stuff.  In fact for me, less is usually more.  I’m not one to follow the latest craze either, so I really didn’t see any reason to put down the trusty nine and a half foot, 7 weight.

“Here was a stretch of eighty-three days without catching a fish.  I know quite well it cannot be beaten.  Here is a record that will stand.”  — Zane Grey.

I have not beaten Mr. Grey’s record, and as far as I know, it still stands, but a few years back I was in a steelhead slump.  The frustration set in and the more I tried, the worse it got.  Was it the wrong fly, the wrong fly color?  Was I fishing too deep, not deep enough?  And that back-cast seemed to hang up in the weeds more often than not!  I needed a new strategy, an attitude adjustment and a double-handed rod, or as they are commonly called, a spey rod.

Some of my closest friends are spey casters.  A few even hold national and world records. Some people never learn to cast a single-hand rod, they just use that double-hand rod in every situation.  Not I.  I don’t aspire to break any records and most of the time, my single-hand rod will do the job nicely.  But when it comes to many larger steelhead streams, my spey rod and I are going to become fast friends.

This past fall I was fortunate to fish with the owner of the C. F. Burkheimer Rod Company, Kerry Burkheirmer and his son, Carl.  Not only was I impressed with the way those guys could cast, I was equally impressed by the rods they were casting.  And I was quick to accept Kerry’s invitation to take a tour of the rod shop and take a spey casting lesson on the beautiful Washougal River.  A few months later, I drove past the fallow wheat fields of northeastern Oregon, crossed the mighty Columbia River into Washington state and eventually found my way west to the town of Washougal and the C. F. Burkheirmer rod shop on Main Street.  All Burkheimer rods are designed and built “in a little shop, in a little town, along the banks of a very big river.”  That afternoon made a believer out of me. Each of their five rod builders brings that old world, craftsman frame-of-mind, into that shop every day.  I’ve handled my share of fly rods and toured more than one factory, and I have to say that their attention to detail and finish quality, border on the obsessive.  They say they strive to make only the most exceptional fly rods, and I have to agree, they are truly outstanding.

I am now the proud owner of not only a CF 8128-4 (12 foot 8 inch #8) Classic double-hand rod, but also a CF 795-4 (9 foot 6 inch #5) ST, single-hand as well.  I’ve had a few lessons, and I need to get in some serious practice time, so as soon as my pond thaws, you’ll know where to find me.  Then it’s North Umpqua River, here I come.

Louis Cahill is an advertising photographer with over thirty years experience, and about as many holding a fly rod,  Louis has spent his life looking through the lens.  He’s not interested in what everyone else sees.  Find more of Louis’ incredible photography and writing at Gink and Gasoline.

“I thought you might like these,” my brother Tom holds out an old yellowed envelope. “I found them going through some of Pete’s things.”

William Starling Cahill, who preferred to be called Pete, was my Grandfather and the man who taught me to fly fish. He’s been gone for many years now but from time to time little gems that he left behind will turn up. My brother now lives in Pete’s old house which puts him in a good position to uncover relics.

I open the envelope and into my hand spill two feathers, dark down one edge and bright yellow along the other. “Ooooohh,” I exclaim and catch Tom’s eye, “Unobtainium.”

Yellowhammer is what we call them here in the south. The Yellow Shafted Flicker, a delicate little woodpecker who’s hammering used to echo off the hills of the Southern Appalachians. He’s almost completely silent now, shotgunned to the brink of extinction.  Just having those two little feathers now could land me in jail. The Yellowhammer is heavily protected, now that it’s pretty much too late.

Yellowhammer is what we call the fly too. The one that’s tied from those feathers. It’s a wild, buggy looking thing. You wouldn’t expect a trout to eat it, but they do, like there’s no tomorrow. It’s a pattern as old as the little abandoned country church I pass on the gravel mountain road that leads to the stream I don’t tell anyone about. It’s as old as the graves there in the church yard and just as forgotten, but I still fish it.

It’s the perfect fly to catch Southern Appalachian Brook Trout. The Brookie, or Speck as they used to call them, is our only native trout. Forced south from New England by the ice age long before there was an England, new or old. When the ice retreated, like lots of folks who visit the south, the brookies stayed. They evolved, adapted to their new home and, like the Scotts and Irishmen who came to these mountains, they ended up just a little different from their northern cousins.

They are as scarce as the yellowhammer now, but with none of the protection. The old folks tell stories about catching them sixteen inches long in the same streams where today an eight inch fish is something to brag about. Come to think of it, the old man who told me that story is gone now too.

Go to one of those fancy sushi places in town and have a look around the saltwater aquarium. You won’t find a fish that compares to them. Persimmon orange and hemlock green, the gold of autumn grain, blood red spots with halos as blue as October skies.  Black mouths and on every fin a crisp white edge from Gods own pallet knife. They are gem stones lost in the stream. They are swimming jewelry.

If you want to see them you have to go like a penitent, on hands and knees through briars and rhododendron. You have to clean spider webs from your ears and dirt from under your nails. You have to climb and hike and crawl to them. You have to climb the waterfalls that the rainbows and browns can’t pass. You have to hike farther than the bait fisherman will go, with their bread bags ready to stuff full of trout. You have to crawl through the thicket at the end of the trail. That’s where they live. That’s the only place left for them.

If you’re willing to make that trip, get that far from town, that far back up in the woods, that far from your TV, and your PC, and your SUV, that far into Appalachia, you might find them. While your there you might see a yellowhammer. You might see me too, and you might see Pete. At least, that’s where I find him.

While fly fishing on one of the West’s most famous steelhead streams, outdoor enthusiast Judith O’Keefe is reminded what makes this particular pastime so special.

Photos courtesy of Kelly James.

This past October, a group of eight anglers met at a cozy lodge in the Blue Mountains of Southeast Washington, just outside the tiny town of Anatone.  Besides wheat production, Anatone – named after a native Nez Perce woman – is not really on anybody’s radar screen, with one exception, those interested in fishing for steelhead. This town sits perched on the banks of one of the most famous steelhead streams in the Northwest, the Grande Ronde River.

This annual gathering meant that the usual cast of characters would come together with high hopes for a few excitement filled days of fly fishing for steelhead.   Those of you familiar with the sport know that one or two fish landed a day is considered good fishing.  Often, an angler can swing flies for days and never touch a fish.  There are many reasons that account for such fishless days.  It could be a lack of fish in the river, river conditions or simply operator error.  And then there’s the luck factor.  In my view, all fly fishing success is part skill and part luck.   With steelhead, you clearly want Lady Luck on your side.

I’ve put in my share of time on the water, and I know how it goes.  Identify the run – wade, cast, wade, cast, wade, cast, and if the fish are there and the fish gods are smiling, you might be in for one of the greatest experiences life has to offer, via a fly rod.  So with great expectations, the eight of us, divided into four drift boats, set out early each morning.  Our guides were exceptional, our equipment was top of line and our favorite flies were all neatly arranged in our boxes.   A couple of the anglers even had some exceptionally smooth single-malt in their flasks and suggested they would be willing to share when we all met together mid-afternoon.  Success guaranteed, right?   Now remember, we’re talking steelhead.  In three days, there was just one fish landed, and the credit goes to the most tenacious of the group, Harry.  It was a beautiful hen and boy was Harry proud, happy, and satisfied; as he had every right to be.   Harry had worked hard for that fish . . . wade, cast, wade, cast, wade, cast.

Now you’d think I would have driven away from that river feeling disappointed, even unlucky. On the contrary, this trip will go down as a favorite, and not because I caught or didn’t catch a fish.  On that beautiful fall day, as I drove along the back roads towards home I understood why this trip was so special.   Some anglers fish because they enjoy the solitude; me, I like the camaraderie and shared passion found in a group of friends “on a mission.”  Second, the scenery was extraordinary.  And last but not least, I knew once again, the joy and peace found in the simple act of immersing oneself in a river and casting a fly rod.

Perhaps if I’d caught a fish or two, my trip would have been over shadowed by the victory.   Bragging rights demand that the story must be relived – again, and again; the cast, the hook-up, the jump, that long downstream run and how in the end, I so skillfully landed that beauty.  Oh, and the “hero shot” to be emailed out to all those interested and some who are not.  Amazingly, I avoided all of that hullabaloo and as a result, gained a greater appreciation for nature and friendship.  And the burning question is: If given the chance, would I trade places with Harry?  I’ll let you ponder that one for yourself.

Growing up in a family of hunters & fishermen has lead Kristen Monroe of OutdoorNews.com to have passion for the outdoors. When she was young she loved waking up at the crack of dawn to go fishing with her older brother and dad. Although she was only allowed to fish for bluegills as a young girl she couldn’t wait until she was old enough to cast for her first bass. Now she and her husband are looking forward to taking their own children fishing and sharing passion for the outdoors with them.

Standing at the edge of a stream on a sunny fall day is breathtaking in Wisconsin. Early October salmon begin staging in the Sheboygan Harbor and the spawning run begins up the river.  Mike Wehmeier from Wolf Pack Adventures led our group of anglers to a long stretch of river that was loaded with gigantic spawning salmon.  What an ironic sight, watching the lifeless zombie salmon at the end of their life cycle and observing the females spread their eggs. After a Chinook spawns, it usually dies within two weeks.  I stepped into the river to test my waders and felt the pressure from the water surround my leg.  Oh good, no leaks just a brisk chill from the river.  Wading in the stream is fun to begin with.  Just add a fly rod to the mix on a beautiful fall day and another awesome outdoor memory is created.

I persistently dangled my line in the same spot over an hour trying to gain interest from an energetic king salmon.  There lay a group of seven salmon, surly one of them would bite.  To fight a healthy thirty pound king salmon with a fly rod would certainly be exciting.  Every once in a while I would catch a glimpse of a brown or a steelhead making its way up the river.  I switched between pink spawn sacks and assorted flies putting forth my best effort to entice them.  I tried everything, landing the fly so it had enough time to sink into the strike zone and drift down stream perfectly in front of their eyes.   I began roll casting like a mad woman trying to engage one of the spunky silver fish to bite while evading the zombie fish.  It’s illegal to catch one by a snag and defiantly not something to be proud of.

Since the fish have low appetites this time of year getting the salmon to strike is not easy.  The key to success- agitate them.  Sight fishing for kings is as frustrating as it is fun. It’s maddening because they are right there, practically close enough to grab.  Yet, most would not respond to my taunts.  Finally, after many casts over a two day stretch I fought a king right into the Frabill net.  It’s important to let monster fish run when they need to.   I made the mistake of reeling to fast the day before and saw my line snap.  Yes, I was the one who told the story of the thirty pound fish that got away around the dinner table.  Lesson learned; always let a big fish run when it wants to, no matter how anxious you are.

Visit www.wolfpackadventures.com for fishing and hunting adventures in Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

Brian McGeehan leads annual hosted trips to Patagonia and is the owner and outfitter of Montana Angler Fly Fishing in Bozeman, MT.  He has been guiding fly fishing trips in Montana and Colorado for 18 seasons.  Montana Angler offers trips to both Chile and Argentina and works with a variety of lodges in South America.

When you have a conversation with an avid angler that has travelled the globe in search of wild trout a few locations quickly surface: Montana, Alaska, Kamchatka, New Zealand and Patagonia.  Each destination has its own allure and I have had the good fortune of visiting all of them and make my home in Montana as a fly fishing guide and outfitter.  Of the locations listed above Montana has some of the most diverse fishing conditions on the planet with a density of big float rivers, technical spring creeks, tailwaters, trophy stillwaters and productive small streams that is hard to match.  Montana is also relatively easy to get to for North American Anglers so we also see our fair share of visiting fisherman on public waters.  Of the international destinations that I have visited, Patagonia is the region that offers the unique blend of different waters similar to the Northern Rockies with far fewer anglers.  On my trips to Argentina and Chile I often feel that I am stepping back in time and experiencing what Montana was like 50 or 75 years ago.  My favorite region to target on trips to Patagonia is the central region which receives less fishing pressure than the more famous northern area where fly fishing in Argentina was first developed.

Where is Patagonia?
Patagonia simply refers to the Southern Andes and overlaps both Chile and Western Argentina.  We can loosely break up Patagonia into three distinct sections: North, Central and South.  Northern Patagonia is home to the most famous South American trout rivers including the Chimehuin, Collan Cura, Alumine, Malleo, Limay and Traful.  In the North the vast majority of the fishing is on private estancias.  Some of the rivers can also be accessed by bridges on float trips.  This region of Patagonia sees more anglers than any other but is still magnificent with some of the world’s classic trout rivers.  Southern Patagonia is most famous for its sea run brown trout in Tierra del Fuego and the Santa Cruz province.  Rivers like the Rio Grande must be fished by booking a week at one of the lodges on the estancias that have access to the legendary fishery where the average trout weighs twelve pounds.  Fishing in the South generally means that you will be fishing a single river on the entire trip in very windy conditions for some of the biggest brown trout in the world.  The topic of this post is Central Patagonia which provides a great variety of classic trout fishing.  This is my personal favorite portion of Patagonia to fish because of the variety that it offers and the lack of pressure.

Getting to Central Patagonia

One of the reasons that Central Patagonia receives less anglers than in the North is because it is a bit harder to get to.  Most anglers fishing in the North fly into Bariloche which receives about 8 flights a day from Buenos Aires.  The fishing in the central part of Patagonia is anywhere from 3-8 hours from Bariloche by vehicle so it is best to fly into Esquel which only receives one flight a day on just 4 days of the week.  If you are targeting the Argentine side of Patagonia and the Futaleufu region of Chile you fly into Buenos Aires.  Generally you leave the US on an evening flight and arrive the next morning.  Because the airport for domestic flights to Esquel is on the other side of Buenos Aires it is best to spend one night in the capital city and then leave for Esquel the next day.  There are a few good outfitters and lodges within an hour and a half of Esquel as well as some independent guides.

Lodges, Independent Guides and DIY
I have had some friends visit Argentina and do all of their fishing on their own and they had a great trip with mixed success on the fishing side of the equation.  While there are some fisheries that you can access from bridges a lot of the best fishing is on private estancias or big rivers that are floated.  If you are up for an adventure and don’t mind burning some days on wild goose chases that don’t pan out then this can be a fun option since Patagonia is easy to travel around with a rental car and relatively safe.  There are also independent guides based in Esquel that can take you onto some of the public waters and National Park waters if they have the correct permits.  On the Chilean side lodges are the main option and DIY is very difficult.  Lodges on both sides of the border are a great option since most have access to private estancias that they lease and have permission on but of course they are the most expensive option.  In general on my trips I am hosting a group of anglers and we always stay at lodges.

The Rivers and Lakes
The landscape varies dramatically in Central Patagonia depending on how close to the Pacific Ocean you are.  In general on the Chilean side it is very wet with rugged fjiords and resembles coastal Washington in climate.  The rivers on the Chilean side get big fast due to the amount of moisture in the region.  In Chile it takes much more effort to travel from one river system to the next because of the rugged topography so you will generally focus on just a handful of river systems when fishing out of the few lodges in Central Patagonia on the Chilean side.  On the Argentine side the landscape varies from timbered Montana like scenery to very dry scenery like that near central Wyoming.  Travelling from river to river in Argentina is much easier since the topography is more open east of the Andes.  The fisheries offer incredible variety ranging from huge rivers like the Futeleufu/Yelcho system in Chile to small and intimate spring creeks in Argentina.  My favorite aspect of a Central Patagonia trip is that you can see a wide variety of rivers, streams and lakes and often fish a different river, stream or lake each day.  I also enjoy the option of combining both Chile and Argentina on the same trip.  The Futaleufu River system is just inside of the Chilean border and one of our favorite partners is the Futa Lodge which is run by my friend Brian McKnight.  Futa is easily accessed from Esquel, Argentina and it is really nice to spend a few days in Chile fishing the Futaleufu River, the Yelcho and Lago Yelcho and then head back into Argentina for the great diversity that is offered there.  The perk of fishing on the Chilean side is that there is so little pressure even on the big rivers.  The advantage on the Argentine side is that it is much easier to go from river to river and see a wide diversity.  If you are fishing the smaller estancia waters in Argentina you can also expect very limited pressure.

On Patagonia trips I rarely find the need to nymph fish since the dry fly and streamer fishing is so good.  Much of the fishing is sight casting to rainbows in the 19-20” range.  Some of the browns go much larger and they often succumb to streamer fishing.  There are some lakes in both Chile and Argentina that hold some massive fish that easily go over ten pounds such as those in the Rio Pico region of Argentina or Lago Yelcho in Chile.

Tackle
We use the same equipment in Patagonia that we use in Montana.  I normally bring a 5,6 and 7 weight rod with me along with floating lines.  On my seven weight I also have a 200 grain sink tip for streamer fishing on the bigger rivers like the Futaleufu.  Leaders in the 7.5-9’ range are perfect and you never need to fish anything lighter than 4x even in clear waters and often 1x and 0x is preferred for streamer fishing to hang onto large fish.  Fly patterns depend on the fishery, but a good selection of beetles, attractor foam dry flies and some smaller dries like adams in 16s and 20s should be good along with a lot of big streamers in blacks, whites and olive seems to do the trick.

When to go
The seasons in South America are opposite of those in North America so the Patagonian spring starts in October which is the equivalent of April and April is similar to October north of the equator.  January, February and March are peak months for travelling anglers.  Although rivers can get high in the early season from melting snows, they often remain clear due to the many lake systems that filter out the sediment.  The fishing can be great at any point in the season but if you are going to some waters that see more pressure than others that are public it is nice to go earlier in the summer like December or January before the fish see more flies.  Many of the fisheries see very little pressure so they can fish great all summer and into the fall.  I have been in both January and March and had great fishing.

   

During the summer I worked part-time at a local fly shop, The Fly Fisher’s Place. This shop, like many counterparts all over the country, is open for business, but they aren’t there just to sell flies and book guide trips. These shops provide not only a place to buy fishing tackle and get the latest information about what is happening on the local waters but, more importantly, to provide a place to learn something new, swap ideas, share stories and brag a little about one’s latest catch. Most days are relatively the same, with the usual stream of folks either coming in to get advice about where to go and what to use, or stopping by to tell a tale of where they’ve been and what they’ve caught. So unless you are retired, or one of the “20-something” employees fortunate enough to be able to spend the majority of their free time stalking fish, both of the above scenarios can generate frustration for the person standing behind the counter. Not yet retired, and having left the “20-something” category behind long ago, I fight that predictable and on-going itch caused by not getting in enough time to fish myself.

Crooked River Canyon

Last week was different. I was privy to an unusually refreshing story that was about much more than catching fish. Dick and Joanie Finley, a couple who looked to be in their late seventies, were part of the usual gaggle of customers lined up that Wednesday morning to meet their guide, have licenses checked, etc., and go off for a day of fishing in Central Oregon. These two stood out, not only because of their age, but because, as I could over hear, they had a couple of serious of concerns. Dick was uncomfortable in boats and wanted to be on a smaller stream, and Joanie’s bad back made it challenging, even dangerous, for her to wade. Not only was there this quandary as to where to go fishing, but they were brand new to the sport, having taken it up recently; the plastic sleeve still covering the cork grips on their newly purchased rods. As they went back and forth with our guide, Mac, trying to find a suitable and safe solution to their predicament, the other shop employee and I just looked at one another and shook our heads. Good luck, Mac. This had the potential to be one of those trips guides talk about for years.

As it turned out . . . it was, but for reasons other than what we’d assumed. When Mac came into the shop the next morning, I asked him how his day with the Finleys went, expecting to hear the worst. It seems, once on the stream, the Finleys opened up to Mac, as clients sometimes do. There is something about being in the outdoors, about being on the water that just clears away all the clutter and allows those things that are truly important and real to come to the surface. Mac learned that Dick had recently been diagnosed with a serious illness and Joanie struggled with chronic pain on a regular basis. After Dick’s diagnosis they decided they wanted to do something together . . . as Dick put it, “have one more adventure.” Being people who enjoyed the outdoors, fly fishing seemed like a reasonable choice, as it offered time in nature and did not require a great deal of strength or stamina. They had recently read up on the sport, purchased the needed equipment and were ready to give it a go. This day with Mac was their day to see if fly fishing could give them what they were looking for. Joanie described it as their “one last chance”.

Mac took them to the Crooked River, a beautiful high desert stream that winds though colorful, basalt rimrock and gives the outdoorsman the opportunity to experience the wild and untamed without having to travel too far from town. First, Mac took the time to work with each of them on their casting stroke. He then went on to share some particulars about the Crooked River watershed and where to find the native rainbows that lived within. They discussed insects, hatches, what the fish might be eating, and together they chose which flies to use based on the current hatch. Once on the water, it seemed Joanie in particular, had a hard time setting the hook, so as the day wore on, Mac offered to set it for her. She would cast, pass the rod to Mac, and if a fish took the fly, he would set the hook and hand the rod back to Joanie so she could have the experience of playing her fish and landing it. By sunset, both Finleys had hooked, fought and landed fish.

Rainbow Trout from Crooked River

A lot can be said about fly fishing guides. Whole books have been written by and about them. They are a different breed for sure, and like any other profession, some are much better than others. Sure, we might all judge a guide by how well she knows a stretch of water, how skillful he is behind the ores and, of course, how many fish they put us into. But I really stand up and take notice when I hear a story like the one Dick and Joanie must be telling their friends. So hats off to guides like Mac who are patient, who have the knowledge, ability and desire to teach the eager novice, not only how to catch a fish, but about what it takes to become accomplished in the art of fly fishing.

Dick and Joanie have booked a second trip with Mac. This time they want to try lake fishing from a boat. The adventure continues.

Tyler Sharp is a writer, photographer and filmmaker based in Austin, TX. He’s currently working to preserve the Chisholm Trail and pass Bill HR2849 which would designate the trail as a National Historic Trail. You can learn more about Tyler and the Chisholm Trail Project at www.tylersharp.com Continue Reading »

As this was my first time to join my father and his friends on their annual fly fishing trip, I fully intended to sit back, observe, and do what I could to “learn the ropes” of their routines and traditions.

Flying into Bozeman, Montana, we got a breathtaking preview of Paradise Valley from above. We excitedly packed all of our Filson luggage into the rental suburban, and began to go through the checklist of pre-fishing necessities. We had to pick up our boat, get fishing licenses, and consult with some local guides on which of the flies the fish found irresistible. But there were some parts of the preparation that we couldn’t do until the rest of the guys got there. I quickly learned that every part of this trip was a tradition to them, even the buying of supplies.

When the rest of the crew arrived, we promptly stocked up on snacks, chewing tobacco, banquet beer, and some rye whiskey for when the day was done.  They pretty much had our evenings planned out for us, with visits to their favorite restaurants, watering holes, and even paying house visits to locals they had befriended over the last 30 years. It was plain to see how much they all loved this trip, and how quickly they left their troubles behind.

We had a full 3 days of fishing the Yellowstone River, trying different areas each day. The conditions were near perfect, and the river was for the most part devoid of other boats. My brother and I floated mainly with the guide, which worked in our favor, as he usually put us on the best drift lines, and we landed the most fish overall. But I made a point to rotate boats, and ride with my Dad and his friends as well, so that I could document.

For them, fishing was just one small part of this trip. They are all excellent fishermen, but didn’t take it too seriously, and had more fun just being around each other than any fishing success could provide. They laughed constantly, told stories, and toasted to Zimmy, their fallen friend.

Over the course of the three days, I asked them all what it meant to be out on the river. Their answers were all the same; it was not only an escape from their daily lives and careers, but also a rare chance to be in the company of lifelong friends. And though one of their fishing buddies could no longer be with them, they all felt that being in the Big Sky Country brought them closer to him. Coming back every year was a way that they could honor him, and keep his memory alive.

This type of trip exists for many people; whether friends, brothers, father and son, or grandchildren, those of us who have been fishing with the ones we care about is an experience that is hard to put into words. It is a bond that transcends mere sport, and breaches the realms of the human spirit. Traditions like these must be kept alive, cherished, and documented wherever possible. I am grateful that my father and his friends feel the same way, and invited my brother and I to help keep the spirit of this trip alive, not just for them, but also for the rest of our families for generations to come.

Gary Lewis is the host of Adventure Journal and author of John Nosler – Going Ballistic, Black Bear Hunting, Hunting Oregon and other titles. This time he shares his insight on traveling to Yakutat, Alaska, for prehistoric pike.

The last time I was here it was with no gun, no GPS, no map and no DEET. Last year’s poor planning resulted in a three-hour slog through devil’s club, muskeg and black water.

This time I carried heat in an Alaska Sportsman holster and an aerial photo. Dad had his GPS unit. Photographer Sam Pyke was our witness should a bear eat us or a troop of prehistoric mosquitoes take us hostage.

Two brown bears had crossed the road on the way here. Now we were in their backyard.

Unchanged in 8,000 years, this valley, surrounded by humped-up mountains, bordered by trackless forest, was a geologic refugia. When glaciers covered the land, it remained free of ice, and a chain of still waters was preserved that holds pike biologically distinct in North America.

A trail led into the ooze through tall grass and hip-deep channels. We aimed toward a stand of trees north by northeast, then crossed a patch of skunk cabbage, over a bear trail and through a creek. Soon, a meadow was visible beyond the trees and then dark water with the mountain behind it.

Nothing moved on the surface. Lily pads ringed the lake and the banks were carpeted in moss and waist high grass. Our rods were rigged with floating lines, steel leaders and streamers. I pointed dad toward a channel that emptied into the lake with a patch of open water where no lily pads grew.

On the third cast, a fish boiled. After more than two dozen casts, dad connected. By the time I reached him, he had a pike to hand, a fish that measured 30 inches and sported the grizzly hackled streamer that had teased him out of the lilies.

Dad worked the streamer side-to-side to make the fly behave like a wayward frog. His next fish was a two-footer with razor teeth.

I cast my streamer into voids in the lilies and teased it from pad to pad. A pike streaked out and missed the fly. Moments later, another charged, its mouth gaping at the surface. I missed, but the electric current that passed between us almost stopped my heart.

On the downwind side, Dad cast a Gibbs spoon with a lazy zigzag retrieve and caught two more. I missed another. Dad handed me the spinning rod.

Concerned now, I waded in and fan-cast out from the weeds. I hooked and lost one. Down to last cast time. Twenty more ‘last casts’, the spoon stopped, the line knifed through the water, a wedge of tail broke the surface.

Through the maze of lily pads, I brought the beast to hand and admired my first pike, my quest fulfilled.

Note: Anytime you’re fishing in bear country, bring a survival kit to include the following.

1. A map

2. A compass

3. Waterproof matches or a lighter

4. Extra clothes or a space blanket

5. A knife

6. Mosquito repellent

7. A little food and water

8. A first aid kit

9. A shotgun, a revolver or bear spray

10. A flashlight with extra batteries