I was barely two months into a freelance writing career when an old friend, Ian Kirkwood, an Englishman living in Ireland, called with a question: "How would you like to come to Alaska with us and catch a king salmon on a fly rod?" The prospect of such an adventure would warm the blood of any fisherman worth his waders. But there was another element to the proposition. Ian, a yacht broker by trade, had decided rather than lashing ourselves to a woody land-bound lodge, we would charter a boat���not just any boat, but a hundred-foot luxury motoryacht with a first-class chef.We���d stay mobile and fly guides in to wherever we were. If the fishing were sparse or the scenery not to our liking, we could yank the anchor and move on.

A week at a mobile fishing lodge, set amidst some of America���s finest scenery and most fertile fishing grounds, with accommodations exceeding those of most any land-based operation, was too enticing to pass up. Being a lifelong boating enthusiast, as well as a lifelong fisherman, I was powerless to resist. Three months later I was on a plane to Juneau.

Our destination was Southeast Alaska���the narrow mainland finger of the state that extends roughly from Skagway in the north to Ketchikan in the south���and the vast archipelago of islands offshore between the mainland and the Gulf of Alaska. Its waters, both fresh and salt, are home to countless species of fish, including five breeds of salmon.

Some early investigation revealed that by the time we arrived, the kings would be gone from their traditional spawning grounds in the thousands of streams and rivers that flow into the sea. But the promise of chasing the many other sportfish species in the rivers and indulging in some saltwater action for halibut, held ample appeal.With some luck, we���d find a king or two fattening up in the near-shore waters.

The author holds the head of what became normal after several days of extreme fishing. The scenery overflowed with nature including bald eagles and seals.

Our ���lodge��� was Katania, a hundred-foot Burger motoryacht operated by CEO Expeditions. It came equipped with a captain, a mate, a stewardess and a four-star chef. One of the beauties of a private yacht charter is that the captain serves not only as skipper of the boat, but a master facilitator as well.We got the name of a guide from a fly shop in Juneau and Captain Eric Edscorn arranged to have him fly in by floatplane to meet us in a secluded cove. Andy Audap had been a guide in Alaska for a dozen years. Andy came armed with local salmon flies, extra rods and a .12 gauge pump shotgun loaded with deer slugs in case we found ourselves in a compromising position with Ursus arctos horribilis: Alaska���s ill-tempered coastal grizzly bear.

With countless pristine rivers flowing into the channels between the islands of Southeast, as the locals call it, finding one that had the promise of abundant fish probably wouldn���t have been hard for us to manage ourselves. The benefit of hiring a local guide is to save time and increase your chances of success.With a passion for fishing and hunting and a solid knowledge of Southeast Alaska���s geography, Andy proved an invaluable resource and good company to boot.

Our party of five included Sean Dunne, a Dublin banker; his wife Eleanor, an artist; Kirkwood; his wife Niki, a charter broker; and me. Ian, Niki and I are experienced, passionate fly casters. Ian and Nicki spend time most summers fishing for salmon in Scotland and Ireland. I���ve spent my life chasing trout on rivers from New England to New Zealand and lots of places in between. Sean was just learning to fish and Eleanor was content to sit on the banks expertly sketching and painting the scenery.

The first of several rivers Andy led us to was a short steam from where we met him. The yacht anchored off and our party went ashore in the inflatable. We hiked through tall grass and salmonberry bushes���a preferred brown bear delicacy���to a nearby stream no more than 20 feet across. There, along the bank under a streamside tree, was a dark patch that could easily have been interpreted as detritus on the bottom.That is, until we tossed a stone in on top of it and it broke apart at high speed with pink salmon heading in all directions. Our first day out netted more pounds of fly rod quarry than I���d hooked in years of chasing trout. Thankfully, the only sign of brown bears was a fresh footprint the size of a dinner plate.We returned to the inflatable repeating the warning chant, ���Hey bear; yo bear,��� as we moved through the salmonberry thickets.

To suggest that any righteous fisherman would tire of hauling in three-, four- or five-pound salmon amidst the backdrop of some of the most dramatic scenery on the planet is ludicrous, but on our second day in the streams, we began to chase the Dolly Varden char and cutthroat trout that lurk underneath the clouds of pink salmon that choked the streams. By the time we dropped Andy off for his flight home, we were sore from hauling in more fish than any of us had ever seen in one Zip Code.

The second half of our trip led us toward the islands along the Pacific coast.With Ian still craving a king salmon, we pulled into an odd little community called Elfin Cove, several miles from the open ocean and within full view of the masses of ice rivers that lend Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve its name. The park is home to the ironically named Fairweather Mountain, the highest peak in Southeast at 15,300 feet.

Elfin Cove caters to those chasing the giant flatfish called halibut. During our exploration of the little town, whose houses are connected by a wooden walkway along the harbor with no roads to the outside world, we encountered a halibut and king salmon guide.We booked him that afternoon to go halibut fishing and the next morning to hunt for kings, the largest of the salmon species. Our halibut efforts raised nothing greater than 16 pounds, but that is a big fish in anyone���s book.

Ian���s objective of landing a monster king produced a hitch.The next morning, the guide arrived at our anchored four-star floating lodge and Ian was sick, the victim of a food allergy. Sean and I reluctantly motored off into the Gulf of Alaska agreeing to catch the biggest king we could in Ian���s honor.

Like most salmon, kings move into the rivers to spawn where they become easier prey for fly casters.But we were a few weeks late for fly rod action.The guide rigged spinning gear and downriggers and we set about trolling along the rugged, rocky shores of Yakobi Island, part of the Tongass National Forest. After catching our share of smaller kings and coho, I hooked into a monster. Twenty minutes later and two trips around the boat, I landed Ian���s fish: a ���queen��� that weighed in at 42 pounds. When we arrived back at the yacht, the stricken Ian emerged from his stateroom long enough to cast a bearded smile on our efforts. Fiberglass mounts of the great silver fish occupy cherished spots on the walls of Sean���s, Ian���s and my offices.

The remainder of the trip was devoted to sightseeing and wildlife viewing. Twice we passed Point Adolphus on Chicagof Island in Icy Strait. The area holds the largest concentrations of humpback whales in Southeast Alaska. I���d seen whales a number of times up close in the Caribbean and New England,but I���d never seen them breaching. Each time we passed, Eric stopped the boat to allow us to soak in the countless whales were breaching all round us.

Our final day in the ���lodge��� saw us up a secluded passage called Endicott Arm where we witnessed a glacier calving. On the ride back out, with Eric threading Katania through the icebergs, we gathered in the hot tub on the foredeck with cocktails to soothe our sore backs and casting arms. With enough fish stories to last decades, we still vowed to return to catch those kings on a fly. Katania charters in Alaska for $29,000 per week plus expenses for up to eight guests. Contact: CEO Expeditions, (425) 460-4100; www.ceoexpeditions.com; or any charter broker.