The northern pike is an interesting fish. One that is 24 inches long is considered a dink while 40-inchers are nice but not trophies.

The conical, sharply pointed teeth outlining their wide lower jaw along with the shorter shredding-style teeth which cover the roof of the pike’s mouth combine to make short work of anything that is unfortunate enough to get within striking distance.

Their coloration of mixed greens is a great aid since they spend much of their life waiting in ambush in shallow weedy areas. Pike, with a diet consisting mainly of other fish, quickly rise to the top of the food chain. Their high-set eyes and long angular face give them a perpetually angry look which matches well with their general attitude.

Zach Kinler, Kevin Badgley, Jeff Cantrell, and I were spending a few days fishing in Canada’s Quetico Provincial Park. We were on our way to a legendary lake known as “Tons of Pike.” We’d been told that the only fish that exist in this lake are the northern pike. They’ve been so successful that they’ve killed off everything else and survive now only by eating each other. Since we were on a neighboring lake, we decided to carry in our canoes and fishing gear in order to test the legend.

Once at the shoreline, we slid our boats into the unusually dark — almost black — water. Kevin and Zach were in the lead canoe, paddling along a narrow passageway leading to the main lake. Kevin paddled while Zach cast files made from eight-inch strips of rabbit hide which had been dyed bright chartreuse with a big brass cone for a head. The fly was a little heavy for the five-weight fly rod that he was using, but he was managing quite well. I’d taken the back seat in the other canoe, and Jeff was up front ready to cast.

Zach and Kevin went to the left while Jeff and I took the right bank. Once we cleared the passageway, the wind really opened up and began to howl. We swung around a sharp point and dropped into a small cove that was covered with emergent vegetation.

Jeff’s cast landed near the weed edge, and something grabbed it right away. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a fight. The fish cut the line cleanly and swam free. Jeff hurriedly attached another fly, and it also was lost in much the same way. I sat the paddle down and attempted to cast, but the wind was too much, and the boat quickly moved further back into the cove and onto the weeds. I stowed the rod and picked up the paddle once again, leaving the casting to Jeff.

We’d heard exclamations from Zach several times, but then we heard him shouting for some help. We emerged from the cove and saw him holding his fly rod with the line flowing freely through the air — no sign of the eight-inch rabbit hide fly that he’d been using earlier. We paddled over and found out that he’d already broken off six times and was soon going to run out of flies. His always understanding brother-in-law, Kevin, was laughing from the front of the boat.

I was prepared for this. I’d purchased an entire spool of steel leader for just this occasion. I handed Zach the roll of wire and a pair of fishing pliers that I’d brought along. The pliers belonged to my wife, and they had much better cutting jaws than mine. We all replaced our tippets with the wire, and we added the steel onto the last few feet of our spinning rods also.

Now that his nylon tippets had been replaced, Zach was landing fish after fish. It was phenomenal — the snapping, snarling, slimy beasts were everywhere. I’d brought along rubberized gloves to help my grip and to insulate me somewhat from the teeth, but they weren’t nearly thick enough. Everything on those fish was either sharp or slimy or both.

We’d moved to the leeward side of the lake where Kevin and I didn’t have to work at maintaining the boat position, and we also were catching. In the front of our boat Jeff happily unhooked and released one after another of the angry pike. One particular fish was so hopelessly entangled in the net that we just held them both in the water and let the pike thrash itself free.

At one point Kevin paddled near as I was releasing a fish and wondered aloud what the pike thought of my fingers as I dangled them in the water to wash off the slime. I promptly began using a towel to wipe my hands.

Another time, while bringing a 24-incher up to the boat, my line broke and the pike landed in the canoe. The little guy then got a good bite on the end of my boot. I was extremely glad that I hadn’t worn my sandals that morning. The fish finally settled down but became upset once again as I was holding it over the side while trying to work the lure free. It bounced off the side of the canoe and took off. I then looked down just in time to see my wife’s pliers sinking into the black water — I wasn’t going to grab for them.

Once we’d gotten the hang of setting the hook, we replaced the steel leaders with heavy monofilament, making casting much easier.

It was finally noon, and we pulled our canoes onto a shallow slab of granite for lunch. We had worked up quite an appetite. I applied ointment to the cuts on my hands, and we ate trail cakes and summer sausage while looking over our battered leaders. Even the remaining steel leaders were showing signs of abuse.

We all decided that we were ready to move on to another lake where we could return to catching smallmouth bass. The pike had been fun, but they were almost too easy to catch and releasing them was a lot of work.

We boarded the boats and paddled back to where we’d started early that morning. We were happy to have experienced this unusual spot but were eager to return to a place where the acrobatic smallmouth bass — with their minuscule teeth — swim.