AS THE SKY DARKENED AND SWELLS rocked beneath the strengthening wind, Napoleon led the charge.

My fishing partner, Bruce Holt, and I had arrived at the fly-in lodge in the late afternoon and wanted to fish a little before dinner. We’d landed a dozen or more pike—all hammer handles, none close to the sagging-bellied beasts you imagine when you come to Canada. Now, with daylight fading, Napoleon Denechezhe, our guide, wanted to try one more spot.

“Big fish there,” he said before jumping the boat on plane. His shades reflected whitecaps.

Napoleon killed the outboard when we reached a cluster of half- submerged boulders. Holt and I fired casts but could manage only a few reel cranks before the wind pushed the boat, and our lures, out of the zone. Napoleon repositioned us, and we cast again. This routine continued as we gradually circled the boulders. Ready to switch lures, I was rushing my retrieve when, midcrank, my reel handle halted so abruptly that it stunned my hand. The line tightened. The rod took a bow.

“Big fish,” Napoleon said.

A short fight later, a stout 30-inch northern pike—dark-green flanks studded with mismatched gold spots, apex-predator camouflage—glided into the net. It was the biggest, and last, fish of the day.

As Napoleon took us back to the lodge, I marveled at what those scrappy pike had done to our tackle. There were shredded soft baits, frayed wire leaders, and chipped paint on brand-new Dardevles. Monsters, I thought. I tried to imagine the damage the really big ones would cause.

I couldn’t wait to find out.

A SHORE THING 

Home for the next week was a small cabin at Gangler’s North Seal River Lodge (ganglers.com) in northern Manitoba. The agenda was simple: breakfast, fish, shore lunch, fish more, cocktails, dinner, bed. Repeat. If that’s not the ultimate fish camp, I don’t know what is.