My son Gary Lewis is an outdoor writer in Bend. He invited me to go to Fairbanks with him on agrayling fishing expedition and we had a wonderful time. It was also a very exciting time as you’ll see from these excerpts of an article Gary wrote. Don Lewis.

Three weeks after ice-off we rode the Salcha [River], the wind in our faces and the rooster tail of a 200-horse outboard behind us. Along the shore, ragged stumps bore mute testimony to the power of the freeze. White-trunked birches leaned low over the water and elderly spruces clung with tenuous grip to the mossy banks.

We were hunting grayling, those silver-sided denizens of deepest Alaska, with their tall dorsal fins and propensity for popping dry flies. Since the time I was 12, I’d yearned to catch one and, although I’d been to Alaska four times, I’d yet to put one on the bank. Tonight Dad and I would get our chance. If we didn’t smack a log on the way upstream or get swept off the deck by a leaning birch.

Greg stood at the wheel, intent on the tea-colored water. Beside him, Dad watched for potential hazards. 33 miles to go in June’s perpetual daylight. We ate up the distance at almost 30 miles per hour. 30 miles upriver we found our way blocked by a logjam that spanned the entire stream. Greg stopped to look, then spun the boat in a tight loop and headed back down. There was a way around, up a narrow side channel. If we could find the passage, we’d make it upstream to the cabin.

It was a narrow channel with a shallow gravel bar that we had to hit at speed for the boat to clear. Then a left-hand turn around a logjam and a birch sweeper, leaning in from the left, past the logjam. A tricky maneuver, even for an experienced river runner. We stopped the boat and scouted, then climbed back aboard for the upstream run. With the sweeper there, it would be difficult coming back downstream. But there were fish to catch. We tied up on the north shore and unloaded our gear at the cabin. It was 11:30pm but the spring sky was as bright as afternoon.

We found the best action in eddies off the main river. Wherever a fallen log broke the current, you could get a grayling to rise along the seam. In clear, calm water we watched grayling that tracked and chased bugs above the surface two miles downstream we found better fishing until 3am, but now the motor was sputtering. It was a long limp back up to the cabin and an uncertain future as we contemplated the morning runin a narrow log-filled channel with little power. We went to sleep at 4am and awoke at 8am, ready to pack up and tackle the river.

On the way downstream, we stopped to fish a few likely spots, hitting others with dry flies as Greg powered through the rapids. Grayling rolled at our drifted offerings, often missing because of the speed of the current. Each fish and bend in the river brought a new thrill and surge of adrenaline. Greg kept the power on, driving around logjams, staying an arm’s length from sweepers and rolling deadfall.

We stopped for lunch on a sandbar. Dad waded in and with a long cast drifted a hopper pattern along a seam and brought a 14-inch grayling to the surface. Then we faced the river again. Greg was nervous. You could see the worry in his face and hear it in his voice. Navigating the Salcha is fraught with peril under the best conditions, but when you’re running downstream with an ailing engine, it’s white-knuckle time.

We had one treacherous corner to go before we hit the main river. Suddenly, there it was – the birch sweeper on the outside bend and the logjam dead center… If we were stranded up this creek, it was unlikely we'd be rescued soon. At midweek, there was little traffic on the river. Suddenly, there it was - the birch sweeper on the outside bend and the logjam dead center. We'd threaded the needle on the way upstream, but that was under full power.

A two-step maneuver would put us out of harm's way. Clear the sweeper, swing the wheel hard right and power around the logjam. Tricky under the best conditions, but almost impossible with the engine running at 10 percent. We cleared the sweeper and Greg punched the throttle, spinning the wheel right. The boat didn't respond and he dumped it into reverse, but the swift current drove the bow onto the logs with a sickening thump.

A submerged stump lifted the bow out of the water and a horizontal log held us there. Dad, who'd been standing in the back of the boat, leapt to the front and out onto the logs. Greg jumped out with the motor still running, in hopes of pushing the boat back in.

With the bow in the air, the back of the boat pulled under. To the right, the water was deep and swift. Downstream, there was a deeper hole, then the water shallowed on a gravel bar. To the left we had a way out, as long as the boat didn't swamp and roll over.