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within five feet of my target. Northern pike don't seem to care about precision. I ignore my instinct and send the big bug out into open water beyond where we are wading, and as the clunky fly nears the weed line, the surface erupts and I am fast to a good northern. These fish fight hard and jump, and will strike a badly placed mouse or frog with great vigor. What else can a fisherman ask for? Preston knows of a broad stream, another unnamed tributary to the lake, where we find northerns in abundance, some of them huge. Sam and I abandon the boat and wade the shore of a small cove where the water is calm and the setting freighted with promise. I try where a small stream spills into the cove, and coming up empty, hand the rod to Sam. Sending an Olympic-class cast out beyond the mouth of the stream, he brings the bug charging back, using a hand-over-hand retrieve with the fly rod clamped between his knees. When this elicits an explosive strike, he looks at me over his shoulder, grinning. The cove ultimately forms a small pool, ringed with reeds, and when I plop the mouse dead in the middle, the water underneath it boils ominously and the shoulders of an enormous pike rise above the surface. I hear Sam whisper, "Holy mackerel," or something to that effect. At the first twitch of the bug, the fish smashes it and the battle is joined. I wish I could write that I landed this glorious beast, expect from an operation like this. Now it's time to turn my attention to the marvelous pike fishing to be found at Lake Clark. A northern pike strikes a big popper twitching on the surface, not because he is hungry, but because he hates the bug. There is nothing subtle about the take, and the resultant reflexive flailing of the rod (like wiping a spider off your cheek) helps set the hook. There are big pike in the front yard of Stonewood Lodge. Young David Webster is patiently pushing the little boat while I send a deer-hair mouse into the lake's flooded shoreline, dancing it back through the reeds and brush, my senses as taut as the string of a drawn bow. Over the past few days my double-haul has rediscovered itself, and I find that on occasion I am able to place the mouse precisely for our fish. Before long, another hatch comes off, and it's deliciously frantic again. These are very good grayling, many exceeding 20 inches, and they don't give up easily, using the current to great advantage. Preston announces a shore lunch and the group gathers for food and refreshment. I, however, unable to tear myself from the stream, skip lunch, afraid the fairy tale will end. It doesn't. When, finally, Preston calls retreat, we gather at the boats, and a quick count indicates we have caught and released more than a 150 grayling among the eight of us, some having never cast a fly in his life. Our last few days will be spent at the lodge, with Hudson, Stacy, and the staff, all of whom are cheerful and accommodating as you would 124 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S Preston Cavner, owner of Stonewood Expeditions, holds one of the 150 grayling caught by eight anglers. Right: Leonardi with a 20-pound king salmon fresh from the Nushagak River. Below: The lodge staff loads gear in Cavner's Cessna 182 for the author's sidetrip into King Salmon Camp. Opposite: Guide David Webster nets a Lake Clark pike.