“Oh, would you look at this,” the man snapped. “I guess there’s no place for us residents to fish.” He turned to his companion and snorted, forgoing subtlety to let his displeasure really shine. “Wouldn’t it be nice if us residents could do a little fishing, too?”

Needless to say, there was some added emphasis ladled onto the word residents.

Before he’d decided to roll out the welcome mat, the man had elbowed his way into the sockeye queue formed up near the confluence of the Russian and Kenai rivers, which is almost always there, incidentally, day or night, first or second run. He was practically begging for a confrontation, but luckily, a magnanimous pair of anglers squeezed a little closer together and cleared about five feet of angling space for the new arrivals.

Having heard plenty of similar niceties exchanged before—on the Kenai, on Willow and Montana creeks and just about anywhere else a road and sockeye or king salmon happen to connect—I continued looking for chances at the photography I’d come to get. However, I did keep an amused eye turned towards the situation, and in the next half hour or so, as more and more sockeye came to more and more nets that didn’t happen to belong to our miffed resident, I watched his ire launch like the space shuttle. Though I never asked anyone for any identification, I think it’s safe to assume at least some of the folks fishing there that day were honest-to-goodness Alaskans.

Not that it mattered. He was out for fish and it was the other anglers—not the tight-lipped salmon, not the river’s swift-flowing current—that were impeding his quest for a cooler full of fillets.

Should it have mattered? No way; not if you ask me, anyway.

Alaska is a land of truly astounding splendor, of rugged, white-domed peaks yet to be scaled, of majestic old-growth forests and slender coastal streams that have hardly ever seen a man’s footprint, of high-mountain lakes still without a name. I can’t think of anywhere on the planet that wouldn’t waste away to nothing in the shadow of its natural magnitude, its diversity of life, or the sentence-stopping beauty of its terrain. Here, anglers are treated to crystal-clear streams that course through tundra flats of awe-inspiring vastness. Mammoth rivers of aqua green drain ice fields the size of Connecticut. And nearly all the waters of the state teem with fish—five species of Pacific salmon, rainbow and cutthroat trout, Arctic char, Dolly Varden, grayling, and pike, lakers and sheefish. On the banks, grizzly and black bears, Sitka blacktail deer, wolves, caribou, and moose roam across their ancient feeding grounds.

It’s a treat to behold, this state, a treat to encounter, and it should be a treat to share.

Last summer, while awaiting a flight back to Anchorage from King Salmon, I chatted with a Norwegian hiker returning from a weeklong trek through Katmai National Park and Preserve. Though our discussion covered a variety of topics, the one thing I distinctly recall is the bubbling sense of wonder and respect she held for our state. Admiration practically dripped from her every word, and eventually it was even enough to drown out the contempt I’d heard dished out by a sockeye angler just a few weeks before.

I must admit to the pride I felt as she went on about her adventure, but at the same time, I also know a little bit about where some of the state’s more disgruntled anglers are coming from. I enjoy seclusion when I fish, too. In fact, it’s often that which I seek, not huge, slab-sided trout or unseemly numbers of sockeye. And in the Last Frontier, it’s not hard to find. Hence, I’m actually perplexed when I hear complaints about Alaska’s waters being overrun by anglers—tourist and resident alike. All told, the state can boast of more undiscovered or at least unpublicized gems than just about anywhere else. It doesn’t always take a big pile of money to access that kind of solitude, either. Some of the state’s sport fish species are hardly targeted, leaving the small creeks or alpine lakes that host them nearly emptied of anglers all summer long. The stillwater fishing, especially, remains untapped.

And yet, emblematic of Alaska’s unique nature, even a heavily visited river like the upper Kenai can retain much of its wilderness quality, despite any crowds that might descend on a given day. Thinking about that nearly peerless river now, I remember a very different experience I had later the same year.

This time I was standing near the boat ramp at Sportsman’s Landing after having completed a daylong float. Up walked Curt Trout, the owner of Alaska Troutfitters and an upper Kenai regular for over two decades. He didn’t lord his tenure over me, though. Instead he pulled out his box of beads and passed out a few with the newest paint jobs.

Curious as to the reason for this spontaneous charity, I asked him why he’d want to help another angler, one who happened to be fishing with a competing guide service and who would inevitably drift those beads in front of the same fish he was trying to catch. With all the pressure Kenai rainbows can see, I knew having the hot bead could turn an average day into one of those once-in-a-lifetime angling occasions that have made the river famous.

“I’ve seen the number of anglers steadily increase over the years,” Curt answered, “but rather than get upset, I’m happy to share the river with others.” Like the sockeye angler from earlier in the season, I could see the time Curt had spent on the Kenai, the experiences he’d encountered on the magnificent river, had left him feeling possessive about the turquoise-to-emerald waters. But like any proud parent, Curt wanted to show off the object of his affection; he wanted everyone to understand, if not feel, some of the love he felt for the Kenai. “In fact,” he concluded, “I wish everyone could experience the feeling I get when I float down the river and take the time to just look around.”

As we talked, raft after raft reaching the takeout point, the bright summer sun giving way to the golden light of an endless evening, I realized he was exactly right. We should take pleasure in the fact that so many people come from so far away just to experience our state. Obviously, we should understand their interest. And if living here affords us an advantage, it’s not dibs on the best sockeye holes or the right to shove a Californian off our favorite gravel bar, but the fact that we get to see Alaska every day.