First things first: I really have no reason to fish the Kenai. In the best of traffic scenarios, it’s at least three hours from my home. And if for some reason I can’t travel at two in the morning, it’s more like four.

My wife once took a size 4 Teeny Nymph to the bridge of the nose while fishing there. The fly had been launched on its rocket mission by an angler who’d decided the best means for subduing a foul-tempered sockeye in crowded confines was to crank down on the drag and generally torque the rod until one of three things happened: the stressed-out stripping guides became high-velocity projectiles bound for the stratosphere, the rod exploded into a thousand shards of graphite, or the fish saw what kind of brute power it was up against and simply decided to swim to shore.

It was a given that the line wouldn’t break—I’ve landed dozens of kings on lighter tippet. Thus, being a Kenai veteran, I was already ducking when I heard the distinctive snap of the hook pulling free. Then I turned around and saw her parked on the gravel with a hot pink fly in her nose and a stunned expression on her face. At least the split-shot missed, I told her.

However, I can’t really blame a guy for getting on his fish. Another time down Kenai way, a childhood friend of mine hooked a small, bright king while fishing for reds near a public access point on the middle river. While chances of landing the fish weren’t outstanding, he stayed in the game long enough for the angler twenty feet downstream to helpfully reach out and snip his line.

Speaking of stunned reactions, I’m fairly certain we forgot to say thanks.

Additionally, while boating, floating, or wading the Kenai, I’ve had many of my lesser qualities pointed out in a rather loud fashion by total strangers; I’ve paused to change flies and watched while another angler stepped directly into the spot I’d vacated by three feet and for ten seconds, and I once spent most of my summer sitting at a Soldotna intersection waiting to make a left.

Why then am I back?

Every year it seems I begin by promising myself and anyone else concerned with my fuel bills that I’ll devote more of the upcoming season to the many lakes, rivers, and streams near home. Sometimes that lasts all the way into July; then I find myself back on the highway headed south, mesmerized by the turquoise hue to the river near its outlet at Kenai Lake, goaded into trophy dreams as I catch glimpses of the water rapidly coming into its classic shape. And forget about autumn, no matter what promises were made. With temperatures dropping, the forested banks changing from summer green to the myriad colors of their fall bouquet, and most of the season’s salmon fishermen gone home, I find it increasingly difficult to think of the Kenai as a long ways away.