IN THE WILDS OF   Alaska

I WAS ABOUT 10 feet from shore when I cast my line. I watched as the lure at the end—a bright red piece of yarn—arched through the air and landed in the Kenai River with a barely audible plink over the roar of the rapids. The glacier-fed water rushed around my waders. July in Alaska was brisk, the chill creeping through my wool socks and heavy canvas jacket.

It had taken me six days to haul my camper from my house in Pennsylvania all the way tofisherman’s dream. I looked around and took it all in.