I’m what you call an idea man. Trouble is many of my ideas are no good.

“Take this road,” I said.

Kraig hooked a left outside of Yakutat, Alaska, and after a couple of miles, the gravel gave way to mud. Soon, Hiyo Silver, one of our rented vans, was mired to the rear bumper in bad real estate. Steve Ries and I walked 2 1/2 miles out to catch a ride with a nice lady in a Ford Escort. Steve made conversation up front and left me to the backseat where I played dinosaurs with the 6 year old.

We rode back with Hank, in a flatbed 4×4. He hooked up to Silver with 50 feet of chain and yarded us out.

Next day, 25 miles out of town, I eased our blue rented Ford van, Babe, to a stop at a wide spot in the road. Babe had a DOT warning light, rust in all the quarter panels, no armrests, no carpet and a handheld rearview mirror. At 15 mph, her rear axle sounded like a mother-in-law with a hacksaw. At 35 mph, a back wheel shimmied and the front end dived left at every pothole. At rest, she sighed and creaked like an arthritic cow.

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 refugium. 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.

Back at Glacier Bear Lodge, we checked in with Bob, Kraig, Steve and Jonathan fresh off the 28-foot Aerofish with nearly a dozen silvers and ling cod.

The next morning we fished the tide pools of the Situk River and left Steve Ries to scout a section of stream two miles up from the mouth. In four hours, he caught 62 pink salmon. With a stringer of five pinks on a rope at his waist, he was careful to watch his back trail. Forty yards upstream, a black bear walked out. When he saw the fisherman, he padded toward him.

The two predators faced off. “His nostrils kept flexing. He knew I had fish,” Steve said later. “I wasn’t going to let him have them.” He shouted and the bear circled. Steve backed into the water, over the top of his waders. The bear plunged in. Steve had a nine-foot Lamiglas rod. As soon as the bear was in reach, Steve gave him a whack across the nose. And the bear went looking for his own salmon.

We decided to fish a different spot that evening. One of my good ideas.