Wandering is one of those areas where anglers excel. It may be a stroll of ten feet—from, say, riffle to tailout—or a month-long drive across ten states, from Texas to Montana and trout all along the way. Here, there, around the bend, to the headwaters and back again: it becomes a matter of nature, just the way things get done, and because the act itself requires nothing more than a willingness to shift blame—the run is late, the water low, crowds too thick, fish too few—the more experience one has the easier it gets to reason another move.

About sixteen casts into July on the Alagnak River and I understand.

I’d come for the kings. Thought of little else, actually, stringing ten-weights and stuffing my fly box with weighted, four-inch monstrosities colored like a night in Times Square. From the lodge it was straight downriver to the tidal water, where one could reacquaint with the joys of casting Type VI sinking lines. Those first few throws were filled with anticipation, remembering the kings of the year before, big and bright, thick in number, prone to snotty takes and steamroller runs. The next were about technique, settling into a rhythm and getting the drift just right. Then mimicry, each cast a mindless repetition of the one that preceded it, until the fishing felt vaguely mechanical, and certainly fruitless. I fished for hours beyond that—cast, mend, drift and retrieve; wash, rinse and repeat.

At some point, however, I began to think about the action upstream—what action, I wasn’t sure, but just that there was bound to be some. Into the boat, then, and around four bends. A line change, to handle the lighter flows, a fly swap, five minutes for coffee and a smoke. Drilled. The new fly makes it just feet into an initial swing. I land the fish and cast again. Nine more times for five more fish. I swap patterns now, feeling playful. A pink-and-white Hareball Leech slaps down, starts to sink. Crushed it.

These are chum salmon and typically not the target of my dreams. But they’re mint of side and sheen, definitely spunky on the end of the line and eager to eat. It’s not long before my arms tire and my shoulder aches. Soon it feels like the leech is working too well and so I change flies again, going to a Davis Spanker that does indeed spank them. I try chartreuse, something in midnight blue, black—each to comparable effect. At that point I stop to eat: fillet of fresh chum, grilled over a small fire of driftwood and willows on the gravel left exposed after the high spring flows. A young bear ambles along the bank on the far side of the river, and as I watch him search the pools for a meal of his own, I get it into my head to try something dry.

The fish I’ve been on are pushing across a large flat, where the current moves lazily and about four feet deep. There’s a crowd of them making the surface water nervous; they fin and roll, turn up facing this way and that. I’ve never caught chums up top, but then again, I’ve never tried.

I tie on one of the two Pink Pollywogs I happen to have in my backup box. The cast is quartering and I let the fly drag as it swings, creating just the right V of a wake. The first follow is so long I think the fish actually sees me before deciding to veer off. Subsequent casts bring similar results, fish rising like submarines to track the fly but in the end declining to eat. About a dozen tries into it I get a takedown. It feels like the best fish of the day, probably because it was just difficult enough to catch.

I know I’m supposed to be here in search of the kings, but I also know that wandering is one of the things that makes fishing great.