It was a pretty, blue-sky day off Deep Creek and rumor had it the kings were running strong. I say rumor because we certainly hadn’t seen any. Not in our boat, not in any of the three dozen other crafts serenely working the trolling lanes and offshore migration points where one can usually expect to at least see a bent rod or two at this time of year.

Of course, we were using fly gear, which meant the cavalcade of boats passing ours lingered just long enough to gape with skepticism at our efforts. No comments drifted our way, but I’m sure distance—not any camaraderie between anglers—was the cause behind the quiet.

Or near-quiet, as the case may be, for I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the nasty, primordial howl that had been assaulting my ears for the past few minutes. At first, I thought the dual four-strokes pushing us along had simultaneously combusted. Nope; working like a charm. For the next terrifying two minutes, I figured it was the sound of some kind of prehistoric sea-creature trying to claw its way through the bottom of the boat, but after waiting a moment to let the theory play out, I happily noticed we were still afloat. Searching further for the source of the nuisance, I even looked to the sky, half-expecting to see a pterodactyl swooping down from the clouds, set upon strafing my head, talons outstretched, a steady, bloodcurdling screech escaping its open mouth. All clear.

Only then did I look towards the bow, where my friend Skip was bent over the side of the boat, leaving a trail of breakfast that might have stretched for a good hundred yards.

About that time the blue-and-white ALF pattern I was using accidentally bumped into the face of a fish, and even with such a monstrous distraction onboard, I managed to set the hook. Luckily for me, at the instant of the strike I didn’t raise any hullabaloo about it being a king—or if I did, no one could hear it over Skip’s groans.

Irish Lord. But hey, on the fly.

As casually as possible, I made sure every boat within sight got a good look at the bent rod, then we quickly set to work on landing and releasing the fish before anyone else could see what it was. Skip, ever the trooper, wiped his mouth and tried to contort his face back into something resembling normal human features. It worked long enough for him to get to the camera and snap off a few photos of what turned out to be the day’s only catch, a fantastic example of the kind of above-and-beyond behavior one can expect from both United States Marines and the regular fishing buddy.

Just so we’re clear, we should go over the qualifications for such a job (fishing buddy, not marine; they have a website for that). First, owning a boat is never a bad thing. If the motor actually starts on command, so much the better. Next, a fishing buddy should already possess all the gear he or she will need, and even more important, you should be reasonably certain they’ll bring some of it along every now and then. Having the time to fish is obviously a must; in Alaska, the two-on, two-off schedule of a Slope worker fits this bill nicely. Otherwise a nearly criminal disregard for responsibility can come in quite handy when the phone rings at midnight with news of a dawn departure from the boat ramp following close behind.

Some personal requirements for the job include a hearty enthusiasm for beer, late-night spirits, and chicken-fried steak. It’s also nice, though probably not entirely necessary, if you’re fishing buddy doesn’t always catch more fish than you. However, it’s certainly a firing offense if he does and then persists in lording it over you for weeks on end.

There are more, each set necessarily tailored to the predilections of the angler at hand, but these are a few of the basics. After a while, and if you fish a lot, the requirements can become intensely complicated, which is probably why I have few friends I’ll voluntarily spend time on the water with. There’s generally too much at stake—anyone who’s ever been forced to drag an in-law onto the river and had a day ruined because of it can probably attest to that.

For me, a joy in the experience is the final qualification. Here, my friend Skip excels.

Surely there will be days when you don’t catch any fish, or not the right kind of fish, or no big fish. Big deal. That’s part of the bargain, and if it was easy, I doubt many of us would still be fishing.

It’s going to rain, too. Your fingers and toes will go numb. Two days later it might be too hot to breathe. One of your party may throw up. It should still be fun. The other thing I’ve learned from Skip, and now depend on, is his willingness to fish for anything, his acceptance of all Alaska’s sport fish as worthy adversaries. While it may sound easy enough, this isn’t a trait that’s widely spread.

Of course, nearly everyone I know has heard or even repeated the proverbial “Variety is the spice of life,” but no one knows the line comes from an 18th century poem by Englishman William Cowper, which doesn’t matter in the slightest. What matters is that almost none of them apply the maxim to their fishing either, leading directly to our scenes of excess in Ninilchik on Memorial Day and on the Russian River during the sockeye return and at the Willow-Susitna confluence when the kings are in and so on down the line. I tend to look upon such festivals of flesh with the kind of horror usually reserved for NASCAR and the NBA, golf tournaments and the dentist’s chair.

And I’m not entirely alone. As several of the articles in this issue explain, there are a wealth of opportunities out there for anglers looking to get away from the crowds but still enjoy the kind of angling success Alaska is famous for. Sometimes it may seem like a secret, but there really are five species of Pacific salmon returning to the state. Give chums or pinks a try; you might be surprised by the quality of the experience. Or venture onto one of southcentral Alaska’s myriad lakes, diagnose a hatch, and chase trout that have no interest in a painted bead. Walk upstream, float, search a small tributary—just get away, where you can get into something new.

For my part, I know the sockeye returns are now picking up steam on the Kenai Peninsula, the kings are in the Susitna system in good numbers, and the Willow Creek rainbows are just starting to draw a crowd. All of them are excellent options that draw anglers from across the globe.

I think I’ll call Skip so we can debate the pros and cons of each. In the end, we’ll probably go looking for grayling.