Three days earlier, I'd stood in the detailing bay of Gene's Chrysler Center in Fairbanks, Alaska, where gear was mounded up beside two loaner Jeeps. With me were Scott Wood, a friend and fly-fishing retailer from North Carolina, and Montana-based photographer Dusan Smetana. It took us two hours to fit it all in: three guns, three bows, eight fly rods, 10 reels, a case of shells, three pairs of waders, cold-weather gear, rain gear, stoves, food for 14 days, dry bags, cameras, GPS units, binoculars, a satellite phone, a tow strap, and maps galore. On top of one Jeep we bungee-corded two spare tires on rims, 10 gallons of gas in bright red cans, stove gas, and a portage pack of tents and sleeping bags. "The Beverly Hillbillies go to Alaska," I said. "Yeah," Wood countered, "but name one thing you would have left behind." And he was right: We'd be fishing for Arctic grayling and Arctic char, gun and bow-hunting for spruce grouse and ptarmigan, driving, hiking, rafting, cooking, and camping. Together or apart, the two of us had hit the roads from Mexico to Canada, in pursuit of elk, ducks, grouse, trout, smallmouth bass, pike, walleyes, barracuda--you name it. But never had we gone after everything at once, and never to Alaska. "It's the ultimate fun-hog trip," crowed Wood, sounding slightly insane.