Later, we’re in the boat, racing upstream through a thick ground fog. Suddenly, on a wide gravel riverbank 50 feet off our starboard side, I see the ghostly image of a grizzly bear standing nonchalantly, watching us pass by. I’m no judge of bear weight, but this bruin looked bigger than a PT Cruiser. Minutes later, another griz swims across the river in front of the boat. We’re in Katmai National Park, not far from McNeil River State Game Sanctuary—where nature photographers take those celebrated photos of scores of coastal brown bears catching leaping salmon at McNeil River Falls—so it’s no wonder we’re seeing the big critters, and will continue to see more of them throughout the day.

Another couple of miles upstream, Tim cuts the power and beaches the boat on another wide gravel bar. Time to go fishing. I set up my fly rod, tie on an orange-and-silver Karluk flash fly, test the reel’s drag, and wade knee deep into the river.

I quarter my second cast, as I did my first, downstream and begin stripping in line. After a half dozen strips, the line stops, and I instinctively set the hook. A ten-pound silver (coho) salmon has taken the fly and is dogging its way downstream on a 30-yard run. The fish porpoises three times, slashing at the surface, then runs again. It’s a slow, determined battle, but I finally beach the fresh-run salmon and return it to the Kamishak.

Every second, third, or fourth cast thereafter nets another ten- to 12-pounder. As I fight fish after fish, I look about me at my angling partners. At least one or two is always wrangling a coho. Besides our own little fishing party, a couple of bears are fishing the shallow water a hundred yards downstream from us. Another is sitting on the opposite bank, watching the river for an easy meal, and yet another griz is crossing the river 50 yards upstream. Perched in a spruce tree on the riverbank behind me, an adult bald eagle silently surveys the whole river-bear-people fishing scene. Only in Alaska.

By early afternoon, Tim has a small fire going on the gravel bar and is preparing a hot shore lunch, which will include one fresh salmon that we haven’t returned to the river.

Taking a post-lunch break, sitting on the gravel bar and leaning against a driftwood log, contentedly watching a brown bear that had usurped my fishing spot, I can’t help but wonder . . . does it get any better than this? The next moment, like a feathered omen, a knot of two dozen green-winged teal arrows upstream, five feet above the surface of the river, and flies out of sight around a bend in the Kamishak. Well, of course, I answer myself—tomorrow’s itinerary includes another date with Ted’s Parker, and a return trip to the duck pond.